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For Ray Bradbury
  Aug 1920 – June 5, 2012

For ordinary folk, can none aspire
To forge their dreams into the living world?
Or can’t they bring their consciousness inspired
To pen a mighty thought – the mind unfurled?
Some writers make a life by spewing books
From little minds, the literary tripe
the tastes they leave,  as bland as haggis looks
And renders bloated brains with critic’s hype.
Yet, Ray did bear the tongue of light to burn
The lesser pens of men to smold’ring heap;
The greats remembered till the war has turned
In  perfect ‘membrance, quite the noble feat.
Though books ignite – four hundred fifty-one,
His words inflame , consuming as the sun.

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