The Poet

The Poet

Sunday, November 29, 2015

My Wounded Psyche (the myth of love) ©2015 by Ronald S Porter

The Sirens' song has tortured my ears.
Harpies tried to claw out my eyes.
Like Echo, of old, I called out for love,
'til all i was was a whispered voice.
And, you bent at the water's edge
as your reflection fell in love with you.
More than twelve labors, I performed
and wandered long in odyssey.
When I looked on Love's face,
in candle light, 
that's when love was lost to me.

Didn't It rain, Children? ©2015 by Ronald S Porter

Billy Joe and Bobby Sue
and, blind men in the rain.
Oh my brain can't stand the strain
of processing immersible images
obscured by sheet like downpour
which look like dancing scarecrows
and shimmering ghosts
flaying frantic in the dim light
of glowering storm clouds
bunched and lumpy like bruises
in the sad sepia shaded day.
come now Noah, bring your ark.
Come now Noah, lets embark.
We will ride upon the flood,
until the day Billy and Bobbi Sue
wrestle in the mud,
while the blind men watch
a new sun rise up
and rainbows paint the sky.