The Poet

The Poet

Sunday, November 13, 2011

Urban Poetry? ©2011 By Ronald S. Porter

You want some "Urban Poetry?"
Okay, here, I'll give you some:

Asphalt, cement, a brick upside the head
old men with brown bottles, in alleys, propped
up sitting, against a garage door, dead
drunk. Not really dead; we don't kill
our old folks down here
at least not intentionally the way we do
everybody else. We revere them
they are relics of the past
from back when people here lived long
enough to collect a social security check.
From back when everything wasn't wrecked
and nobody had
a thirty-five year old grandmother and girls
didn't keep on getting pregnant
just to stay elegible for welfare checks.
Back then, so they say, Black people from
this very neighborhood, ri-chere owned
grocery stores and resturants and clubs
to provide for community needs; when old folks
and children and church folk got respect.

Right about now Po-Po rolls on by
they pull over and click on the loudspeaker
"Okay, there's twelve niggers on this corner.
You boys know the statistics, one in four, three
of you sons of bitches, get in the car."
J-Dogg, Leon and Rashantay mumble
"guess it must be my turn" and we all
trade handshakes and make
the four-one-seven L street sign.
They walk to the car without a stumble
I'll miss them dudes while they in the joint
see 'wm in about eighteen months time.
That's a long time for doing nothing, but
you just can't argue with statistics.
A brother has to be realistic.
All we can do is blaze a joint
pour out some beer in memory
and look around for some way out
of this fucking Urban Poetry.

Sunday, October 23, 2011

Blue Poetry: Improvision #1 by Ronald S. Porter ©2011

blue poetry
curls and rises like
smoke from a cigarette '
til the air is hazy
with fog-like emotion
and.. the ambiance
shifts perspective
on...right and wrong
on pleasure and pain
loss and gain...
nebulous concepts once
clear in the mind, appear
as if seen through gauze.
while i pause and reflect
on what's been wrecked
and what has survived
cause Blues is just a feeling
feelings change colors
like autumn leaves on a tree.
deep in Indigo emotion
i sit and write Blue poetry
and, wait
for my change to come.

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

The Prince and The Fool, a narrative by Ron Porter ‭© 2011

Underneath the planting moon the pretender
to the throne wanders through the garden.
Perplexed in intellect, vexed by questions of
sin and salvation, he ponders the price of pardon.
Measureing mercy by his own capacities he feels
the heat of hatred and heart starts to harden.
Meanwhile, in he shadows, the Jester in motley
hotly anticipates the sequence of events now starting.

Fear-filled, the false prince ponders and frets
over fearsome futures and fatality of fates.
His mind measures his pleasure by the extent
of his treasures, safely secured behind walls and gates.
Everywhere he sees offences, his pretense is
his only defense; threatening enemies he contemplates.
Silent in the trees,The Fool hangs by his knees;
remembers all that he sees as he watches and waits.

There are enemies everywhere, I must be aware!
such are the thoughts of he who ursurped the throne.
All i can't trust, I must send to the dust lest
a mortal thrust come from some foe unknown.
Yes! he says aloud I will wrap them in shrouds
'til every noble who knows not to fear me is gone.
In a space dark and narrow, The Joker nocks an arrow;
unnoticed and unknown, he has a plan of his own.

The supplanter smiles at his own wiles as he
leans on a stile and admires his signet ring.
out of the dark, the dart finds its mark it pierces
the pretender and he feels death's sting.
He droops down; sees his crown on the ground,
hears the laugh of the clown, then doesn't know anything.
From a cell cold and bare is delivered the rightful heir;
and The Jester, in motley, doth jape, jump and sing.

Sunday, May 8, 2011

In Yonder Wood (in the tradition of Paul L. Dunbar) by Ron Porter ‭© 2011

Dat gal done gone an lef me alone
went t'town wit huh red shoes on.
Hi' ole heels, dress on tight
Powda and paint, sum'in ain't right

They's som kine of problum I caint explain
I believes sum main done turnt her hed
stayin out late, rais'in sayin
gotta take a baf fo' she get in bed

Me, i tries to be ah good main
work ever day; try t' serve da lord
My woman wanna ride in Cadillacs
Alls I own is ah beat down Ford

Ever night she cum home sweatin
tho the weather been steady cool
I'll make a flea a wrestlin jacket
fo I let her make me a fool.

Bag packed, gwine to da railroad track
catch me a train to eny'where good
Wanna, fine dat woman I lef  behine
Dig down, deep, in yonder wood.

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

Inspired By M.Carl Holman's "Song" by Ron Porter © 2011

Resigned to my isolation,
stuck in stasis sure as death
Weary of my solitude
and pained to not be by myself.

I went out to find the crowd
for comfort and, for company.
In each face I saw, allowed,
reflections of the jail of me.

Sharp and cutting as a knife,
how it did cleave me to the bone
each was trapped in his own life.
Even together; all are alone.

I returned to my cell
full of dread and, distress.
Each man creates his own hell;
mine, my lingering loneliness.

Sunday, February 6, 2011

Like Flying by Ronald S. Porter

sometimes feels like flying
joyful eyes are crying
come and take a walk with me
down in green ravines

old wooden bridges span
crystal brooks that babble
murmuring neath the sun
come on, we will run

through wildflower scenarios
and panaramic vistas
that shape shift as we pass
future unknown,gone the past,

we stand here between
slanting slopes of green ravines

kiss me like you'll never
kiss again; hold it long
to make it last, press lips to mine
so if we never kiss again
til the end of my alloted time...

we will make a memory to last
to time of dying, something that
sometimes feels like flying.