The Poet

The Poet

Sunday, August 13, 2017

Sometimes It Ain't Pretty; August 13, 2017 by Ronald S Porter ©2017

Hello Peoples,

It feels good to be posting another edition of this poetry page. This time around I am doing something a little different. I am posting poetry that I usually would keep to myself. I don't usually share this for three reasons.

Reason the first - It's a bit darker than my usual work. It deals with negative aspects of my inner workings. It also presents some of the apocalyptic imagery that flows through my brain.

Reason the second - Ordinarily, for the sake of clear communication, I write poems in very concrete terms. I try to avoid vague imagery and esoteric symbolism. That is a personal rule for the poetry I write to share. For what I keep to myself, i allow my mind and pen to run wild. So, in this episode, you will get a peek at my rambling brain.

Reason the last - Most of these poems incorporate rhyme. In this ultra cool, deeply intellectual, post-post-post modern age of emotive "free style" and hip-hop expressionism, I know rhyme is sneered down upon. But hey, I like it cause it makes it easy to remember, it sets a nice musical rhythm and, I'm Black dammit! You may not know it but, rhyming is as deeply rooted in African-American culture as is a syncopated rhythm and a strong bass line.

So check it out and, hopefully, enjoy!
Humbly, Ron Porter

Give Me by Ronald S Porter ©2017

Give me a soft, warm, silken thigh;
and a trace of mischief in her eye.
Give me heated passion and a tender sigh.
Give me heaven before I die!

Dying Light, A Tanka by Ronald S Porter ©2017

For a new world to be born
At the world’s demise we wait
At the world’s demise
In the dying of the light
We have tasted joy.

Forest Night, An Idyllic Poem by Ronald S Porter ©2017

twilight’s shadows extend like grasping hands
in the deep woods, night preys on the day
nocturnal eyes flash into wakefulness
silent silhouettes slink, arrayed in brown and grey
hunters run like ghosts over vale and hill
and make no sound until they make the kill
fatal fangs and rending claws abound
tearing talons and hooked beaks fall from the sky
in darkness weak are separated from strong
the weak die; the strong sound a victory cry.

The Valley Of The Shadow (revised) by Ronald S Porter ©2017

The valley of the shadow of death
is oft lit by the glow of neon signs
and, populated by decaying souls
struggling to hold the rot at bay.
The shadow false upon needle and spoon
where squalor squats in reeking rooms
Where children gaze from empty eyes,
like those of prison camp survivors who
inhale and exhale despair in every breath.
Down in the valley, we all
stand in the shadow of death.

R.S.V.P. by Ronald S Porter ©2017

cryptic apocalyptic visions flip
elliptically across my brain
neurotic exotic erotic robotic mimes
stand in line and kick in time
How do they bear the strain?
Blazing cities collapse in ruin
rumors of war are all brewing
doom and gloomers, in fits of humor
warn of tumors and shed their bloomers
it’s almost the day of reckoning
of melting mountains and burning air
be there of be there be sure to style your hair
wear gowns and tuxes and a boutonniere
Armageddon will be a formal affair.

Love Song For Lunatics by Ronald S Porter ©2017

sweet decay
beauty so vile
lambs innocent
slashed for sacrifice
profane angels
sing above the madness
weeping ice sickle tears
everything hurts
and all is numb
I fear...
screaming silence
Like Dorothy
back from Oz
the world, the world
has lost all color
awaken to
the kiss of death
come and lie
here in my arms
find hateful affection
and I will
kill you
with my love

It’s Mostly Greek To Me by Ronald S Porter ©2017

Adolescent creamy peanut butter dreams
neath the butterscotch colored sky;
just because it’s not vanilla
does not mean it’s chocolate
gossamer wings offer no protection
angels get raped and killed around here
fairies are torn apart and eaten
When Medusa danced for dinner
her tresses angrily hissing
Heracles stamped Aegean shit from his feet
bellowing for more meat and wine
Cinnamon twisted storm clouds rise
sunrise roars in gold and rose
Hades hands out pomegranates
While Discord distributes apple pies.

Drowning Man? by Ronald S Porter ©2017

Anguish and anger assault my soul
they make a gaping hole
acidic emotions corrode
and undermine
the borders of heart; the walls of mind
People say time will heal
all wounds-ease the pains I feel
So, I sit and wonder
if I can tread water that long
of if I will go under
The pull of the riptide is so strong
it seems t’will tear me asunder
Ere the maelstrom sucks me down
and I in corrosive emotion drown
or will the promised healing come
before my spirit fatigues
and madness take my mind?
I can only hope I stay afloat
and not run out of time.

Vague Images Of Destruction by Ronald S Porter ©2017

The time has come, the Balrog screamed
to speak of apocalyptic things
of cannibal feasts and horrendous beasties
of hidden rings and magic kings;
of sneaky hobbits and turkey gobbets
and flying snakes with wings.
Demons are dancing in the dawning;
Like a children’s choir, fiends sing in the night
I eat Post Toasties  with the ghostie
of Bela Legosi. No, that doesn’t seem right.
Something evil walks this way
in the shadows by the edge of running water.
The daughters of Lot burn incense, and incest,
in mountain caves just beyond
the smoldering crater that once was a city
now destroyed in the reckoning just begun.

Walk In the Rain by Ronald S Porter ©2017

far off thunder in the twilight
hobos dance in cotton fields
an old man on the porch
in a rocking chair plays guitar
Me and Old Blind Darby we
have walked a million miles of starlight
the wolf at the gate, eyes the henhouse-
the bulldog in the yard won’t let him in.
in the abandoned Baptist church
out on Beaumont road
Big Rhonda sips bootleg whiskey then
throws back her heads and laughs
Winding red dirt country roads
neath piney woods dripping rain
Journey down these back roads once
you’ll never see or be the same
And, the thunder is on the mountain now
the hobos caught the midnight train
Me and Old Blind Darby don’t say nothing
we just walk on, in the rain

Wasted Day Gone By by Ronald S Porter ©2017

we tried to keep our secrets
but everybody could tell
we were on our way to hell and
a long way from the wishing well

The Oracle Of Delphi belched
the whispered softly in my ear
the truth of my favorite hidden fear
( was anyone close around to hear?)
there was only you at the end of the pier

we went on down to chocolate town
where all the living have lost hope
looking to score a spoonful or more
for something-something to help us cope
at the grey house at the bottom of the slope
we sat til dawn there and pulled on rope

wired and tired we dragged back home
gold and rose was the morning sky
so high we fell asleep without a try
some might say we wasted the day gone by
I reply we may not have got a lot done
but at least we didn’t die

The Temple Of Amore’ by Ronald S Porter ©2017

No longer a pitiful penitent, me!
Nor do I again, with bare feet walk
upon shards of broken glass
that cut my flesh like broken glass,
to stand at the altar of Amore’s temple
and kiss the idle idol’s ass.

 Rather; with torch in hand, stand I
pondering of all my errors, the oddest-
that so much torment I caused myself
seeking the favor of this false goddess.

This lifeless likeness, hewn of stone,
though having no heart has caused my own

to hope; to hurt; to be haunted
by dreams of loving arms to hold me;
of warmth and affection I so wanted.

Previous promises, of love, proved as but a joke.
Each time I tried to have and hold
it was as futile as grasping smoke.

Yet, always to this temple I’d come
offering supplication and sacrifices anew.
No more, Amore do I enter the door
to pray and beg for romance and

and bring more ignore offerings to you
No broken heart to lay at your feet,
no glittering dreams to adorn your crown.

I’ve forsaken belief and, found relief,
for I come not as a devotee this time
but; to loot this temple and, burn it down!

Sunday, June 11, 2017

Nightfall; June 8, 2017 by Ronald s Porter ©2017

Hello Followers and Friends,

First let me say; I'd love to post more often. My original plan was to publish new poetry every two weeks. I could do so if I chose to. However, I don't want this to be a vanity site. I don't do this to gratify my ego by showing off my poetry. Yes, I like to show my work to people but; I want more to expose people to a variety of quality poetry. this is the reason for the Guest Poet Page.

In the past there were numerous poets posting on Face Book. I was part of an online community of poets on Face Book. Now, many of those people, for their own personal reasons, have severely cut their output or, ceased posting poetry at all. So, it now takes me longer to get enough good work from other poets for a new page. If you are a poet or, know poets, please submit or, have them submit poetry for posting. said poetry can be sent to me at I welcome on the help I can get.

Secondly; Speaking of help: please help me spread the word. I could use google but, then you'd see ads all over the page. I don't want anything distracting from the writing here. so, if you like what you find here, I invite you to become a follower. I also invite you to recommend this page to other poets and writers you know.

Lastly; Okay, I call this episode of the page "Nightfall". I feel my own poetry here is a bit "dark" in mood. I wrote on the theme of  approaching devastation. This devastation can be existential, mental or emotional or even societal. What I was trying to convey was a foreboding of the approach of decline. You can be the judge of whether I succeeded. Please leave comments as feedback. You must be a follower to comment (I think). I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it.

Humbly, Ron Porter

Thursday, June 8, 2017

Give Me One Reason-The Remix by Ron Porter ©2017

You say love should be safe harbor
Your words and eyes implore me stay.
Almost convinced, I am, by the sound
Give me one reason to stay here and
I'll give you three why I must go away

Still Moment A tanka by Ronald S Porter ©2017

Still is the moment
Quick; the world outside flies by
Chaos fills the land
Earth boils with madness
Pause a moment in stillness
And, in that moment, live!

Of Silent Screams, A tanka by Ronald S Porter ©2017

I can hear the sound
Of silent screams filled with fear
Sunrise is a rose
It blossoms in eastern skies
Silent screaming voices die

Ashes by Ronald S Porter ©2017

burning desire consumes
a man like me
the heat of passion
ever sets my heart aflame
oh how I have burned!
from the blaze i have learned
after the fire is gone
ashes alone remain
and ashes are dead and cold

Toys by Ronald S Porter ©2017

Truly a broken heart is nothing
more than a promise  someone did not keep
lost love and deep regret are just
words true when first they were spoken
made lies by change and time
It is not strange that we weep
at times for what once brought great joy
Love is a spoiled child; we are its toys
left broken; neglected, when unattended
played with roughly as soon as mended.

Hunted / Haunted by Ronald S Porter ©2017

Shadows stalk me through the shadows ;
darkness pursues me in the dark.
Haunted; driven, I fight no demons;
The angels fill me with sufficient fear.
I do not fret that the end is near.
My concern is that the beginning is here.

Down the long, lonesome road of life,
I trudge onward to escape my terror
Each time I think I've gotten away,
I catch a glimpse or me in a mirror
And, recognize my error

Is There Some Hidden Meaning? by Ronald S Porter ©2017

In the desolation of isolation, I look 
into the caverns of my empty soul.
And, listen for echoes in the cold
chambers of my cold empty heart.

Renegade brigades of faithless friends,
march with ranks of deranged strangers,
to take the city and overthrow
the reign of the past and never king.

From slave quarters let freedom ring
I look deep into my own mind;
endeavor to explain colors to the blind
and to teach deaf mutes to sing.

Party Likes It's.... by Ronald S Porter ©2017

I was dancing with the devil 
to the Tennessee waltz
in the full moon's sallow light
War and Death played dominoes
at a table by the door
Pestilence hacked and coughed 
in the corner while, Famine ate
canapes and gazed into the night 
Beyond the big bay window as
the world burns in hellish light

the stars fall from the sky
the moon is dripping blood
the Earth screams in agony
the dance is ended, I drift
to the bar and lean in between
Siva the Destroyer and Dark Kali
Hey Kali, I ask The Eater Of Worlds
what's the bartender's name?
She just says It's such a wonderful
party,we're all glad you came.

Dystopian Paradise by Ron Porter ©2017

Darkness sates the noonday hour
midnight madness fills the day
the sidewalks all are bleeding
the buildings weep torrential tears
all the fears of sickened minds
walk the street like window shoppers

acrid acid rain slashes down
soldiers fight on the edge of town
housewives perfect vacuum cleaner lives
in times to catch a favorite show
on the Lifetime Movie Channel
while hubby is a zombie marching in
the army of nine to five walking dead 

the kiddies all sit in robot class
consuming indoctrination needed
to grow up to be cannon fodder or
cogs in the machine that turns
to manufacture daytime dark
all the world is a powder keg and
some one, somewhere just dropped a spark

Deeply Hidden Metaphoric Meanings by Ronald S Porter ©2017

There are frogs out in the streets tonight
hamburger falls, raw, from a cloudless sky
and; there's a girl I want to tell all my secrets
but she would never understand;
We speak in different alphabets and 

speak the tongues of unknown lands

The sidewalks are lined with central casting;
they look like they just stepped out of novels.
Stale french fries carpet the path
that leads from freedom and injury.
I'm nobody's child seeking everyone's friend.
It is almost time for the riots to begin.

Fourteen policemen approach from the south;
I had better get in the wind.
And, I run away from my yesterday
As a rabbit runs from hunting dogs.
What else can I do in a hamburger rain
When, the night streets are filled with frogs?

Girl With A Broken Shoe by Ronald S Porter ©2017

She looked like she had fallen
off the back of a Harley or, two
She moved like she had a lot
of experience working on a pole.
He was on his way
from one no-where to another.
He had that kind of well worn
face, stained with years of road dirt
you could see he was nobody's
"wannabe", but hope-to-god
stone to the bone.

She wanted somebody to tell her
it would be all right
He had the need for some one
to hold, to make it through the night.
But, he wasn't looking for a seat cover
just having a drink and passing through.

She showed him the broken spike
from her sequined high heel shoe.
He said "jump on, I'll ride you home"
It was a pay by the week, no hope motel
down on the sour side of town.

They went straight to bed
she gave good head
he did too and they went through
all the usual routines
with beer and conversation
in between.

She was molested by here father
(her mother had to know)
The first husband cheat on her,
the next two beat on her
She left the snow and cold hearts
for the Golden west and found
it freezes everywhere

His wife left after the kid died
the leukemia robbed him of his daughter
the grief stole the last of love
"I can't stay" she'd said "because
I see her every time I look at you.
That keeps it much too raw".
He follows seasonal work in
various trades, it pays the way
and kills the time.

They split up in the morning,
no goodbyes, after all
the gifts were gived
His heart secretly, silently cried
over the lives they had lived.

We hanged Our Harps On The Willows by Ronald S Porter ©2017

Broken hearts; broken windows;
Broken promises and broken dreams.
All together conspire, to inspire
The voices of the silent screams.

Empty stomachs; empty hallways;
Empty eyes cry in bitter streams.
They packed the jail, as families fail.
Our voices rise in silent screams.

Abandoned now, are hopes and houses
Poverty and ignorance, my ears assail.
Starving babies and, bereaved mothers
Fill the night with plaintive wails

Our captors bid us sing
Songs of our ravished homeland
On the shores of Babylon's streams.
In a strange land, all we can voice
Are the sounds of silent streams

Tuesday, April 18, 2017

Midnight Lady; A Poetry Exercise; April 18, 2017

 Hello friends and followers,
This is a very special post for me. There will be no guest poet's page this episode because, they are all here on the home page. Earlier this month I issued a challenge. It was answered and, answered in fine form. Said challenge is reprinted below. Please note that many of the poems, those marked with this symbol * were submitted without a title so, I created one, for purposes of this post only,  from words or phrases in the poem. Also; in some poems the poem formatted in such a way that even using the smallest print readable, the integrity of the original layout was lost. I posted them anyway because they were too good to leave out. Such poems are marked with the + symbol. Finally, there were many poetry forms used, from classic romantic to hip-hop. I was thinking "There's everything here except a Limerick"; I remedied that. Friends, sit back and enjoy!
Humbly Ron

Since April is (in the US at least) "Poetry Appreciation Month" I am offering an exercise for you all. Below is a poem I wrote a few months ago and it is posted below. The exercise I propose is as follows: take this poem, write an original poem on the theme and post it. Please use the Title as a line in the poem. try to (but not mandatory) incorporate the Image of "the dark lady"; magic/ occult/ spiritual reference and; the duality of human nature (both good and evil). I hope you have some fun with this and, I will post all submission on my poetry page this month, unless you ask that I do not. I hope you guys join me in this; you ARE my favorite writers. Use any style or form you choose. 

All Poems are the copyrighted intellectual property of the writers and protected under international and national copyright laws. Violate said rights and we WILL prosecute.

She wears midnight; she wears it well.
A veil of ebon shrouds her face,
lace trim outlines her jet black satin skirt.
Even the dirt at her feet sings praises
though hazes and mists rise from the ground;
Her footfall hushed- she passed unseen,
like fiend or wraith from a tale of horror.
Pale as alabaster; lovely as a night blooming flower
This is her hour, when all is dark and still;
She wanders where she covets; does what she will;
Weaves magic works - both charm and spell.
Heavenly hostess? Harbinger of hell?
None tongue can tell, obscured from sight,
neath dark new moon, she wears midnight.

Moth* by Scott Dean ©2017

moth drawn to neon
she wears midnight camouflage
to hide broken wings

Just So There'd Be A Limerick by Ron Porter

She wears midnight. Can you tell
if she comes from heaven or hell?
Deep night screams-
In noon day dreams.
Devils are merely angels that fell.

Beware* by Vasily Mikhailovich Doestovski ©2017

Laced with ghoulish grins,
the midnight she wears proudly.
Better beware for...

your pale heart she'll take leaving
you with gory gasping breaths.

Sunday, April 16, 2017

Albatross* by Ann Carruth Donoghue ©2017

She is my lifetimes eclipse
my albatross ..unseen apocalypse
drowning pool and concrete boots
the rabid bite that poison's soul
or seeks to rob me of my reason
she wears midnight..
leaves me naked and trembling
screaming at shadows....

Where Kali Dances*+ by Nura Tarmann ©2017

She will meet you in that place between heaven and hell
There where Kali dances and removes her veil

At the moment of ignition when the feeling starts to flow
You will subtly and yet surely become of those who are in the know

Knowing that there are certain powers rarely spoken, rarely seen
That make things as they appear be so opposite of what they seem

There is a hidden beauty in the unlikeliest of forms
A perfection of some balance breaking all the common norms

She wears midnight on her body as if dressed in purest gold
Touching with her magic both the young and wizened old.

Above The Fray* by Jenifer Divine ©2017

yet even in the middle of a sunny day, she wears midnight, above the fray,

out of sight, out of mind, out of line, and that's alright- she wears midnight,

colors bare, senses harkening, devil's lair, what is coming, never known,

never shown, still ungrown, silent running, she wears midnight, thoughts are

stunning, hiding cunning, riding something, to the wind, stir again, her only 

friend, her self, that never ends... she wears midnight

Wild Sable Of Sorrows* by Bret Whitmore ©2017

She wears midnight; from whence who knows?
Such an angel she was in her youth.
Her loss so profound; spiked thorns from a rose,
Few ears can sustain her sad truth.
Where once ageless love did beat in her breast
Neither time nor dread storm could assail.
But a demon just laughed at its own befouled jest--
Took her love, claimed her child, left travail.
Death would not take her, though sorely she tried
While long decades ran down like her tears.
E'en fortune escaped her as memories died
And her visage it turned with the years.
Now black is her shadowless shape on the ledge
Where she wails ‘neath the moon’s pallid light.
Wild sable of sorrows, she shrieks from the edge
None can save her while she wears midnight.

No Mercy* by Brandon Hogan ©2017

She was midnight
As the morning broke

As if the sun
Needed a peek

Of how she left the night
So weak

No mercy
For the meager


Even less
For the eager

Leaving in her wake
Many a believer

Sore eyes
Tendered egos

She stands alone
A charmer of demons
Angelic in tone

In tune
Synonymous with
A New Years kiss
Midnight skinny dipping
In June

She wears midnight well

Sun up
Sun down
Tis merely a matter
Of one's own limitations

She glides
Like a haze
Like a jellyfish sways
Remains a sought after

For the rest of my days.....

Midnight Woman+ by Margaret B Poole ©2017

She's a midnight woman, she wears midnight, it shows on
Her painted face.

Don't follow her into the dark
shadows, they are her domain.
If you perchance see her as
Midnight grows nigh, turn away
Flee for your life.

If she sees you the time to flee
Has passed. You will never again pass through daylights door, the Midnight woman will own your soul forever more.

Yes you must follow the midnight woman, you cannot
Escape the scent of her sway.
You must leave the daylight, pass through the shadows of midnight, enter the darkness
That is hers where you will
Dwell forever, inside the woman
Of midnight who captures souls
To enhance her midnight spells.

Your midnight woman is
Greedy, she smiles as you cease to be daylights child
To become a whore of the darkness where she dwells.

At First Glimpse by Wanda Rodriguez+ ©2017

At first glimpse she appears to be frail and sweet as the most beautiful rose. Whispering sweet nothings in your ear.

Dancing an exotic dance as she weaves and moves into your life,
you sway with her as the drums of death play, unknowingly being hypnotized by her swaying hips.

Her touch is the darkest of all voodoo's, you haven't the strength to move.
As you stand helplessly frozen she then shows her true form to you.

Fear pierces your heart that jolts your very soul as you stare into her black eyes of doom.

She wears midnight like a queen wears her majestic crown, her beauty you once saw, is now only destruction and chaos.

Tears well up and pour down your frozen face as you realize you're hopeless fate.

If only you could go back and turn the hands of time on that day of hurt and despair,
And choose truth and love, instead of lies and hate.

She Wore Midnight by Anthony Stevens ©2017

The priest droned on, with routine sadness.
Hurried clouds wept streams o'er colored glass.
Wrinkled and shrunken by time's cruel passing,
She was almost lost in the hard wood casing.

Distant thunder softly sounded, once, twice, thrice,
A fourth was louder, then repeat, even tones, nice.
Thunder? No! A hidden drumbeat. Rain like fabric moving
The priest offended while a mourner was half-smiling.

The half-sad husband tapped his fingers in drumbeat time.
His growling voice slowly rose in an ancient ryhme.
All present startled at the ringing sound of zills.
Short hairs rose on arms and necks. A draft chills.

All eyes wide at movement from between racks of dead blooms.
Smooth, youthful beauty, a whisp of silk, a girdle of coins,
Lithe muscles moving with erotic grace at the drum's soft beat.
Close thunderflash dismissed bright light. Left only candle's heat.

Glowing, smiling, dancing, writhing, she moved closer.
The old man, palsied hands drummed his knees, missed her.
She wore midnight as she knelt before him, he kissed her.
Harsh red emergency lights revealed a dead man, beside her bier.

Sunday, March 5, 2017

Are You My DADA ?; March 6, 2017 © by Ronald S Porter ©2017

Hello my Friends,

Let's get serious. This installment is dedicated to the "Dada" artistic movement that started in Europe after World War I. It is one of my favorite artistic eras and, to me the most fun of the twentieth century. Okay, so quickly, what is DADA?

"Dada was the first conceptual art movement where the focus of the artists was not on crafting aesthetically pleasing objects but on making works that often upended bourgeois sensibilities and that generated difficult questions about society, the role of the artist, and the purpose of art." Pretty cool huh. In addition Dada"...forced questions about artistic creativity and the very definition of art and its purpose in society".

Well that certainly appeals to me as, I am irreverent and rebellious by nature. Furthermore "Dada was designed to be ghost-like and short-lived. An intransigent and inconsequential mockery of the vain conceit that cultural monuments stood for something immortal, something ever-lasting". To me this means that DADA was a movement that sent the message "Stop taking yourself so seriously". To me the movement epitomized Shakespeare's insistence that all of the human experience is filled with "...sound and fury, signifying nothing".

 In keeping with that spirit I have published a selection of poems that reflect the Bard's words. Not all are pure DADA, some lean more toward surrealism but, all are little tales told by an idiot*. I hope 
you enjoy! And, hey don't look for any meaning; you won't find any.
Ronald S Porter

* Does not apply to poems by guest poets

Bears And Rain And Such by Ronald S Porter ©2017

I saw a bear wearing designer sheets;
he was sitting in a twelve step meeting.
Dude had great big grizzly paws; 
He could smash your skull with no effort.
A lot of nightmares live in my hat
and, my heart bleeds ancient tears
but, I don't snitch and, will pitch a bitch
if the media tries to exploit my fears.

My brother drove over to get a ride
because, he'd decided to bar-be-que.
He needed to go pick up some booze
and aluminum foil, in the rain.
Taxes go up quick as crack hos go down
and, music still soothes my breast.
I understand the bear; the rain and; tears
and, try to make sense of the rest.

In A Galaxy Long Away And Far Ago by Ronald S Porter ©2017

there is a metaphor at my door
selling girl scout cookies
i'm taking princess lay ya
out to a play.... ja!
then back to mein haus
for some milf and wookies
if things should fall apart
it will not break my heart
because i happen to knowa
that princess lay ya
(or so they say, uh)
is also called princess blow ya

Aimless Plot or Plotless Aim? by Ronald S Porter ©2017

day flung upon day filled
with inactivity dead time
killed a meaningless death
piled like perused pages
of a manuscript the book
no one will ever read
ONCE i believed i was
the author of the tail
i am not nor ever
paper, ink or pen
merely a device of the plot
undeveloped going nowhere

I'm Off The Cross-Have Some Firewood by Ronald S Porter ©2017

Memories come creeping,
Like lizards skittering
Down corridors of time
In my mind,
Bearing tears and fears,
and long dead pain
Like gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh.

Imprinted visions of love,
Martyred on romance crosses,
point the way from angelic hosts,
Proclaiming  the birth of new love,
To anxious, angry, agony
Anchored on instruments of crucifixion,
Out on some lonely hill.

Well, take it all away!
I ain't nobody's savior;
That cup has passed away
I'm finally getting loved and, laid, again
And, no one can ever convince or force me
To wear a goddamned crown of thorns!

Pro Wrestling Vermin by Ronald S Porter ©2017

The rats and roaches have to much
time on their hands; they watch TV
Mostly Raw and Smackdown, they
have developed a fondness for WWE
Now, they practice all over the house-
figure fours, RKOs; what a sight to see!
I must it admit it makes me smile
to watch two roaches take down
an alley rat with a DDT.

Truest Of True Confessions by Ronald S Porter ©2017

Oh! I would to dance like Narziss
in the midst of the plague.
Or eat anchovies with prostitutes,
abed, abroad, in the Hague.
I am as confused as if in a meat
market, and I was a blind dog.
Why does Plague rhyme with Hague 
yet Prague pronounces like hog?
Such observations I find to be
for me very much didactic
Just to conform to the general norm
I believe it would be Prague-matic
To evade detection of the skew
in my way of view, I employ this tactic.
Thus I'll avoid being stopped
then questioned and, locked
in the attic of some insane asylum.

A Traditional Classic Love Poem by Ronald S Porter ©2017

We tried to build a lovers' dream out of
broken hope, escape and, fast food fantasy. 
But it seems the road always led too far
and, our automobile was old and battered.
We sang songs filled with promise still,
we missed some road signs along the way.
I will never hurt you you said as
you dragged jagged blades through my flesh
I will never desert you was my sacred pledge
while I tied on my get-away shoes and fled.
Broken angels with crippled wings
reaching out for each other as we pulled apart.
What a story we two could have been together
if we had only known when and where to start.

Tomorrow's Battles Fought Yesterday by Ronald S Porter ©2017

chased through dreams by robot humans
nazi soldiers from the Alley Cat bar
along the winding course weaving
through streets of long ago
dead ends and switchbacks at
kingdom hall playing hide and seek
among memories of forgotten places
the enemy close enough to see
and hear always just out of sight
past the ancient monument that
could be a temple plucked 
from egypt's archaic sands of just
ruins of deserted lodges of prince hall
at last, at last, i came to rest
in a valley of ghetto fences and doors
there my pursuing foes are found
trapped surrounded by the loyal poor
and we slaughtered them every one
just as dead as the two dispatched
that set off the mad pursuit

The Love We Never Shared by Ronald S Porter ©2017

You once said:
My dreams are like a TV in my head.
I said do they come with a remote?
You didn't think it was funny.
I laughed so hard I peed.
So you ran away to the circus
Low pay, high wire, 
single wide trailer home but, you got
all the popcorn and hot dogs you could eat.

They let you ride the elephants;
you were content.
I've never been contented; I don't allow it;
I think contentment is for cows.
And that is no bull.
You wrote and said you were coming back,
to seek reconciliation.
I said we never were conciliated to start-
How could we do it again?

You hitched a ride during off-season,
with twenty-three clowns, in a VW bug.
The car broke down in Rockford, Illinois.
I have some distant relatives there
So, I drove down to lend a hand,
because of the theory of relativity. 
I figured I'd murder an avian duet
As long as I had me one stone.

I found you at the side of the road
in a construction zone on Route 45;
They been repairing that strip of road
since back in nineteen fifty-sex.
You were painted in stage makeup,
Standing twenty-first in line.
I bought you a ticket to Omaha
I headed to Washington AC and DC
(For very current rock and roll)

I think about you now and then,
and never forget to remember,
Our romance will always be, in memory:
TV stations; bus stations; destinations;
all our reservations; and you, stranded
on US Highway forty-five,
in a tiny car full of clowns.
... Thank you; thank you vera much
Elvis has never been in this building
That motherfucker is dead.