The Poet

The Poet

Wednesday, November 24, 2010

Dat Great gettin Up Mo'nin: a salute to Paul Laurence Dunbar by Ron Porter

Oh! De preachuh in de pulpit
talkin bout dat day o Jubelee!
Says wes all gone get crowns
and fin'ly lay our burdens down.

Sech great words he declarin
dat great gettin-up mo'nin when
sweet Jesus come to take us
sudden, like a thief in de night.

Congregation all amen-ing
his baritone boomin bold
how we'll walk streets o gold
and put on fine new robes

Preachuh say the coluh o yo skin
er de size o yo back account
none of dat mattah any'mo
when we get to Jerden's sho

Preachuh say up in hebbin, be only peace
and justus no mo hatrid, no mo hurt
heah midst the halleluias, I be thinking
I could use a little hebbin ri'chere on Earth.

Saturday, September 18, 2010

The Bee Is In The Shoe (for my daughter) by Ronald S. Porter

When the leaves of sorrow start to fall-
and, you take down lovers' pictures from the wall
and the bathtub is full of strangers;
When nothing seems to ring true;
Its time to grab your hot cross buns
go upstairs, and clean your guns
because baby the race is almost run
and the bee is in the shoe.

If all your friends forget your address
and all priests come to your house, to confess
should every dime cost you a dollar
If the rednecks all start feeling blue;
Throw your principles in a sack
move real fast, out the back
nobody's going to cut you any slack
'cause the bee is in the shoe.

When surrealists come through your window panes
and your favorite songs all contain sad refrains
Then existentialists get stuck in your chimney flue
when monkeys dance in debauched revel
and pediatricians circumcise on the bevel
and you can't get straight using a level
you know the bee is in the shoe

when everybody is faking the funk
and you can't find your groove
the bee is in the shoe my friend
Then you know, you got to move!

The Last Days Of Troy

Rattlesnakes and scorpions and Happy-Meals are scattered across the path.
Random phantoms amble in tandem, upon sacred cow and golden calf.
Jester's perch in coconut trees; fire crossbow bolts at monkeys and laugh.
Defrocked flocks of screeching preachers run to shun the sun and holy wrath.

Figure skaters rub anal lube on their blades to add speed to slide and glide.
Chicken Little plays the fiddle and shouts
The earth is rising, run and hide!Backstabbing bitches in burlap britches, wait in ditches to grab the bride.
While Mustang Sally hitchhikes rides and cautions her cousins to take it in stride.
All the bookies, crooks and hookers are all arrayed in layers of leather and lace.
They say Orphane Annie and great-aunt fanny somehow vanished without a trace.

The Jack Of Hearts and some Jakarta tart pursue leopards who leap and race-
to pursue the shrouded crowds who cry aloud
how do we get out of this place?
The drummers are drumming, kazoos are humming; the parade has gone on past.
Kokomo Joe hoes a tough row and asks Edgar Alan Poe W
hy does time go so fast?Little Bo Peep slaughtered ten sheep and now prepares a roast mutton repast.
The walls are bleeding, the smart ones leaving; buddy, I don't plan to be the last!

Saturday, September 11, 2010

She Said, I Said

She said I love you.
I said No you don't.
She said I'll stay always
I said No you won't.

She said You have
no idea how much
I love you right now
I said, with sorrow,
And, you have no idea
how you will feel by
day after tomorrow.

She said It's all so right.
I said Just enjoy tonight.
She said It's you I adore.
I said I've heard that before.

She pursued; I resisted.
I said no, she persisted.
I knew better; she insisted-
So sincerely, I relented.
Pretty soon she repented.

She said It's over.
I said Goodbye.
She said Let's be friends.
I said Why?

No, she did not do me wrong
It's not her fault that we parted
No, I don't sing a lost-love song
I knew the end before we started.

I carried no anger when I left.
Nobody to blame, but myself.

Sunday, September 5, 2010

Let's Beat Billy With A Stick

Let's beat Billy with a stick, until
he's as bloody as a chunk of chum.
We'll kick and punch and stomp him-
and, stick a firecracker up his bum.
We''ll snap all of his finger bones-
while we whistle a happy tune.
It'll give us something to pass the time
on such a boring, rainy afternoon.

Sunday, August 29, 2010

Random Memories Of An Affair (A Decastitch)

Yes, there was smoldering heat

back in room two-twenty-eight.

Promise made, never to be kept.

We sexed and talked and slept.

The waitress who looked at us like

she wanted us both on her menu.

Hot dogs, chili, and desktop sex-

at your office when it was closed.

Funny; what I remember most

are Snickers bars and thigh-high hose.

Sunday, August 22, 2010

So Many

so many candlelit bedrooms
so many exotic perfumes
all that fussing; and the fights
late dark streets, alone at night
rainy mornings just before day
so many times, walking away

miles of smiles and pretty faces
all the lovers who left traces
lines on forehead, fading scars
hearts as distant as the stars
something inside, somehow dying
someone, somewhere, lies there crying

so many kisses, of love begotten
lingering images to be forgotten
road ahead-long and daunting
words once said, in my head, haunting
aching loneliness keeps on stalking
slow and tired, just keep walking

so many times, so many lovers
so many mornings... keep walking

Saturday, August 7, 2010

Remember Me In Winter

When autumn's mists are on the fields-
and, the harvest moon looms low the sky,
remember me as I was in the spring,
when the light of love lit your eye.

When the maple leaves wither and brown;
when chill North wind begins to blow;
remember my arms, around you warm,
when we lay in the aura of afterglow.

When hours of darkness exceed those of light-
and, dry leaves in the stiff breeze give chase
remember our hours, midst blossoming flowers;
how I looked on you with smiling face.

When winter's cruel claws seize the earth-
and, all is suspended as if in frozen death
Remember we laughed, in the sun and heat,
And, know that I loved you with every breath.

Monday, April 12, 2010

Can A White Man Truly Sing The Blues

Sing me a old down-home song;
Sing to me some blues.
Syncopate the drums, sing loud and long.
Sing to me some blues.
Tell of people, from a homeland ripped,
Packed like sardines, cross the ocean shipped,
Remember to me bodies broken, bloodied and whipped.
Sing to me some blues.

Sing to me a cotton-field song;
Sing to me some blues.
Moan the story of a people done wrong.
Sing to me some blues!
Taken to the block, rubbed bow with oil,
Sold like a beast to bear burdens and toil,
Tell how our blood watered King Cotton’s soil.
Sing to me some blues.

Sing me one of them old slave-timey songs;
Sing to me some blues.
The field hands’ chant and the pickers’ moan;
Sing to me some blues.
How the children were sold while, mother’s did plead,
Of how we wee raped and made to bleed,
When dying was just one more way to get freed.
Sing to me some blues.

Sing me a work dawn to dark song.
Sing me a little blues.
Make that bass walk like a sharecropper, steady and strong.
Sing me some hardworking blues-
About how the ledger book replaced the chain;
About how the labor was all in vain;
The more debt paid, the more debt gained.
Sing to me some blues.

Sing to me, a freedom flight song.
Sing to me, some blues.
Tell of a cry for freedom so strong!
Sing to me, some blues.
Sing about no longer moving to the back seat.
Sing about sitting at the counter to eat.
Sing of bombs in the churches and dogs in the street.
Sing to me some blues.

Sing to me, my people’s song!
Sing to me some blues!
Sing of the struggle that still goes on
Sing to me, some blues.
Tell me the story of four hundred years,
Tell of the losses, the pain and the fears,
Sing loud of strength forged from suffering and tears.
Sing to me some blues….

Play yo harmonica, son….

Sunday, April 4, 2010

Bloody Muddy Monday

Assailed upon all sides; trapped, like a rat without his cheese.
Though I wore quite fancy shoes, there were no socks upon my feet,
When I fought the heathens and, met defeat, at the Pillar Of Muhamete.
Through a wall of living flesh I hacked; my trusty hatchet, my only tool.
On a bloody muddy Monday morning, before the Temple of Kabul.

Great green spiders big as tanks, did we ride to meet enemy ranks,
And the sky was the hue of lemons, as we made war on the Plains of Singahlee.
When the cannons melted, I said "fuckit", then with a broomstick and a bucket,
Did I storm the castle of the Great Caliph. With a cabin boy creeping , at my knee.
With a lantern strapped to my head, I broached the tower gate to set the captives free!

When it seemed our lines would crack, I urged the regiment to the attack;
Our war wagons pulled by eight foot frogs, imported from the gates of hell.
When bullets ran low, we threw rocks; til at last we waved our cocks.
To show ourselves unafraid, we stipped to aprons our mums had made,
Then went raging down the hillsides, with a shrieking girlish yell.

One Bullock Pete he died that day; Big Dick Willie; hewed in twain in the fray.
But the blue balls boys of Bingham held the line! The blood flowed like cheap wine.
Smoke and screams filled the air, like cheap perfume in a whore's lair.
Amidst the fire and the smoke, I did a softshoe and told a joke.
And an old vaudeville routine nearly saved the day on that battlefield afar.
We ran like possums through the trees, In our boots and BVDs.
We may have lost the bloody battle, but we won the fucking war!

Saturday, March 6, 2010

Warm Front From Behind

I remember the night
that we first met.
It was dark and cold;
windy and wet.

Had my collar clenched up-
tight 'round my neck.
It was late in the winter
and colder than heck

I was stepping down the street,
moving fast, fast , fast.
Shivering like a leaf,
and you walked past.

I swiveled my head;
for a quick glance at your ass
And unbottoned
three buttons on my coat.

Friday, January 29, 2010

No Film At Eleven (A rant for a society raised on TeeVee)

This is life!
There will be no brief interruption
For a word from our sponsors.
There will NOT be film at eleven.
You will not recieve updates-
As soon as there are new developments.
So pay attention!

This is life!
You will not recieve any damn thing back
If you are not completely satisfied;
No operators are standing by-
To take your fucking call.
In case of emergency,
You better be prepared to deal with it.
This is not a test,
Repeat...this is not a test!

This is life
There will not be a mail in rebate;
Unused portions are-
Your own tough luck;
None of this
Can be returned.
And, you can bet your bottom dollar
There are no kinds-
Of guarantees at all.
To be aware is to be alive.

This is life!
No reruns;
No syndication;
No box-set collections.
And, the first hundred callers don't get diddley!
Get busy living, 'cause we're all born dying.
There will be no film at eleven;
There will be no instant replays.
Accept no substitutes-
There are none.
This is not a test.
This is life!
... Which is already in progress

Blind Dog Dancing

There's a blind dog in tennis shoes,
On the corner, tap dancing in the rain.
He's got a seeing-eye rat on a string
Because cats have the wrong disposition,
And hamsters and gerbils just can't take the strain.
He don't jump for fast flung frisbees,
Tho he can locate them just by the sound
And, he don't bark much but he'll bite your ass.
No rolling over for this hound.
No "sit" or "stay" or playing dead;
He dances and spins and pisses on stoops
A blind dog wearing Converse Allstars
Don't jump though anybody's hoops