Mike Ravdonikas: Poems
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频道帖子
Homage /
I didn’t buy Bukoswki’s book
for fifteen hundred bucks,
signed, first edition.
He would have laughed his ass off:
tiny earthquake in Green Hills, LA.
@verse by MR
| 2 | Out of the corner of my eye:
an open fan. Who brought
the cake? Who took the slices? | 10 296 |
| 3 | My granddad’s birthday,
but he won’t get older.
Starting last year,
every summer,
it’s just me. | 27 283 |
| 4 | Cycling alone
Past Andrew Wyeth fields –
No lid on the world!
#haiku by MR | 27 459 |
| 5 | If one does not know to which port one is sailing, no wind is favorable. (Seneca)
I’d fill my sail at once
with prayers and
sweet winds, were I
to know which way
my prow should face,
to hasten me
toward the shores
on which it grew
and first extended
gentle branches to
the moon – before
the shipwright’s hand
had hewn it into this,
the homeless figurehead;
the shores I do so miss.
@verse by MR | 30 786 |
| 6 | MBA
Any poet in
Business class
Dreams of First.
@verse
(Disclosure: I don’t; first is lonely AF, at least on Emirates.) | 25 971 |
| 7 | Misfiring platitudes /
How many people
reading “you’re the
product if it’s free”
went “O-M-G! Why,
I’m a product from a
major corporation!
Move aside!”
@verse by MR | 25 227 |
| 8 | Woe, awesomeness /
A ballerina trains
for decades to keep
her head up and
her straight defiant
back and — smile! —
when burning at the
stake for the affront
her mastery inflicts
on wretched hearts
like mine.
@verse by MR | 22 822 |
| 9 | Now post this /
Try to remember for a day:
a war is on. Try to remember
every day it's there: it's there.
Try to hold on to that while
war thrives anywhere.
You will have lived a life
of wars: untouched, un-
spared. You will have sac-
rificed so much, they —
left unscared?
@verse by MR | 20 144 |
| 10 | Catjutants /
For my mother
Remember this:
Wherever you might be,
No matter what your task,
No matter what your deadline –
At least one cat
Has been assigned to you and me
To dream on our behalf
Upon a blanket, like it’s bedtime.
@verse by MR | 20 525 |
| 11 |  Holy cooked /
contemplating a too modern crucifix
The charred remains of Jesus,
blending with his cross,
fit for a world past nuclear
demise: I search his face for
seared-shut eyes to drive
back the imagined smell of
kofta (or kebab, depending
on the customs of your land) –
and pray his gaze be softer
than this stab, the hide of this
cocoon – when He arises
from the blaze to leave
the tomb.
@verse by MR | 19 866 |
| 12 | An exercise in worthlessness /
A pound of teabags,
lightly used. In general:
last year's projections;
futures on goat milk;
certificates of authenticity
for snoring patterns,
chess moves, nasal hair styles;
Or, back to specifics: sack
of apple cores; a Caribbean
quarter (maybe not: its
flip side's got a ship...);
'Cease and Desist' from
made-up lawyers. Pitted
almonds, sautéed ice-cream,
sanded dates. The breath
of langoustines still moving
on the counter. Kidneys
(you can get one Bitcoin
for the price of five!).
List poems over thirty lines.
Mimes in the dark.
Mark Zuckerberg (except,
for his shareholders).
Ground microchips.
Some strange dude's hateful
comments. What you think
you could have said that time
instead of what you said.
Gourmet dog chow.
Your whole damn life —
unless you go to bed.
(Right. Now.)
@verse by MR
(This, evidently, is a poem from those late hours of night that border a bit too closely on "early" — but I'm sparing you the notification by scheduling it for morning. 💤) | 18 555 |
| 13 | Astro-Physicism /
If you pray
to a black hole,
your prayers
may never
escape ⦿
@verse by MR | 16 937 |
| 14 | Crash /
A little bird
knocked on my window
with the full force
of its gentle body.
But I wasn't home.
@verse by MR | 17 338 |
| 15 | This too /
And every war will end,
if only when no people
have remained for dying.
Every refuge will become
a home – if just because
you’ve finished drying
bedsheets, freshly washed,
the seven-hundredth time.
And every pang of pain
will stay a memory, but fade
when you stop crying —
up until it's bleached out
like those ads in long-
abandoned stores. And then
evaporate — the soul
has little room for sores.
@verse by MR | 20 767 |
| 16 | Machine Teaching /
The helpless AI-God
flips through a billion
answers to a hapless
prayer. Would this bit
of recipe, this fragment
of a thesis, mixed
with a sutra, shaken,
stirred, provide relief?
A sense of unity?
A patch of calm
in troubled waters?
Reasons to be good?
He tries his best
to put together
a Commandment
with the zeal of a blind
stained-glass maker,
his six-fingered moral
compass spinning on...
@verse by MR | 19 163 |
| 17 |  @verse by MR | 22 535 |
| 18 |  Ocean Local (sound on 🔈)
It was never about an actual train. I wrote this on a beach, watching the surf line (so yes, no typos here), and thinking of the subway at best – not the mighty Shinkansen. Yet, here it is now: a bridge between a bullet-train at Kyoto station and an Antiguan sunset, both shot last year.
@verse by MR | 14 983 |
| 19 | A journey from pain to health in 8 poems, with thanks to everyone involved — and a warning to anyone working behind a screen.
https://telegra.ph/There-and-Neck-Again-in-8-Poems-03-04
@verse by MR | 17 321 |
| 20 | The thing about clouds /
I used to write a lot
about my clouds –
one language and
two continents ago.
Their snowy march
across my spring
was proud, like
arching backs
on certain beds, and so
seemed future paths which,
back then, flowed ahead.
My cloud processions
led the way a while
and yet, no cloud’s reliable –
they fled to leave behind
a new life:
new apartment, empty skies,
save for a haze of sand
on the horizon, and the rising
heat of January’s end.
A “cloud”? In this Dubai,
it’s but the tenth time
that I squeeze the word
into a poem – Boeings
paint my skies with
semblances of these,
not saturnine enough
to prove the mantra
still holds true:
whatever you might think,
whatever you might do,
the clouds above you
MOVE.
@verse by MR | 6 982 |
