Ragtime Poems - Poems about Ragtime

I am highly entertained though I see through the window what lies there: yes, dark cloud hovers above our street like a piece of rag. But we admire contraries. I am entertained because I hear rag - all about pineapple, reflection, stoptime, a paragon, a maple leaf. You would never predict your treasure, how so many of us listen to it today, your music downloaded...

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Back to the beat Even as the strumming sweat Can’t wait to investigate What we deem we procrastinate Melody fine, blowing my mind What beat is time Time to watch the beat Ever sweet Tha’ rat a rat rat tat come on man off of that Gimmie some sugar sweet and flow, flour do, ra, mi fa so la de Wing tips on the wool...

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I’m living dead, I’m a bad nation As bad as you like to percieve The easiest for condemnation En masse, so maybe I’m not me Because I’m always undistinguished I am a crowd you ignore All personalities relinquished It doesn’t matter now what for I cannot see a film director That could have done a sequel to Forman’s Ragtime, like a reflector Under the name...

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Let's get up and make a stand It’s time to appease the First World Man He’s got his looks and he’s got his books It’s time to hang the rich from hooks It’s ragtime for nobility A dirty call-to-arms Get back to true civility And the world of timeless charms The Kings must bow their dying heads The peasants must take back their bread Get...

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I can't help tapping my feet to that rhythm and off-beat, bright piano sounds so sweet, brings bounciness to my mind when I hear that old ragtime. Joplin sure can entertain, takes maple leaves, something plain, becomes magic to the brain. Bowman's 12th Street is sublime, play more of the old ragtime. Whether used for 'olden days,' way back in the nineties gay, I think it has...

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Warrior Musical, analytical, religious, artistic. Son of soldiers. Lover of Nelly, ragtime pianos, and rhythm guitars. Who reels angst, inspiration, and regrets. Who fears retirement, isolation, and mediocrity. Who would like to see Scandinavia, wealth, and grandchildren. Resident of the Monterey Peninsula. Poet...

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The crowd went wild. And she swirled like spring molasses She danced and danced and danced And caressed the air with a honey-brown hand. The crowd drank gin, got drunk on the blues And she drank in the night in one long swallow Sassy-slow saxophone bathed the room. And they listened with hunger and tapping feet Ragtime dancing languid with heat and spangled...

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