The Poet

The Poet

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 blinddogporter@yahoo.com. 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

ATTENTION POETS:
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

Jealous
Of how she left the night
So weak

No mercy
For the meager

And

Even less
For the eager

Leaving in her wake
Many a believer

Sore eyes
And
Tendered egos

She stands alone
A charmer of demons
Angelic in tone

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

She wears midnight well

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

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

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.
Humbly,
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.


That's About The Size Of It by Ronald S Porter ©2017

Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dette
fired up another cigarette
then walked a country mile
down the king's high way.
said Tweedle Dee
it occurs to me
(as onwardly he plodded)
there is nothing left to do and say
when all is said and done
Tweedle Dette simply nodded.

Surrealistic Theory; Esoteric Reality by Ronald S Porter ©2016

Psychic bunny rabbit hit-men plane my demise;
So I'm eating chocolate peanut butter bars,
in a tree house just south of Kankakee.
Babes in toy-land; babes in arms, they are
all babes in the woods you see.
Lambs, among the wolves, run rampant;
The hens have invaded the fox-house now!
And, all your crying won't do no good,
somebody plays a violent violin , somehow.
Oh, the wily raccoons are subverting;
On the borders, soldiers are deserting;
While walking dead talking heads are spurting
lies that they themselves believe true.
All the temples they desecrate 
and, cures the red, the white and, blue.
All the proctors and priests pontificate,
While the democrats mentally masturbate.
And these things just prove it is true-
Procrastination is just like masturbation
The only one you fuck is you!

Friday, February 3, 2017

Cupid’s Arrows and Slavery’s Chains: February 3, 2017 By Ronald S Porter ©2017

Hello Poetry Lovers,

I’m glad to be back; I’m Glad you are here too. Well, it’s February and almost Saint Valentine Day. So; I put some love poems, of sorts, in this posting. Also, February is “Black History Month” in the USA (notice, we got the shortest month). Now I could say “So, I’m gonna get Black on yo ass”. However, i never “get” Black. I am always Black. Got that? Good. What I did do was include some poems relating to living as a Black person in this society. And I used two of my favorite themes of Black verbal expression.

Several of the poems are written in the Biblical Style of the Old Testament. That’s because Black preachers have done much to influence the poetic linguistic style of the  American Black community; the Black pulpit has always been a showcase of eloquent imagery and, magnificent rhetorical flourish. Also most of the major figures in the Civil Rights Movement of the 1950s and ‘60s were Black preachers, bishops and ministers. I also used a lot of rhyme. Rhyme has traditionally taken center stage in African American speech, from the neighborhood playground to the halls of Congress to the Presidential campaign trail. so to all the literary snobs who decry the use of rhyme, in poetry, as simplistic and primitive: kiss my ass I don’t tell white folks how to talk.

Okay, remember to check out the other three pages, especially the guest poets on page 2. Lets get to it. Enjoy.
Humbly, Ron porter

An Evil Wind Blows... A Dodoitsu by Ron Porter ©2017

I walk at night, dejected.
Love loss pain does fill my heart.
I just shit my pants; I thought
I only had to fart.

Why, Oh Why? Ronald S Porter ©2017

Oh! hot finger tips, hips and lips;
Cinnamon candy and, honey drips
Oh woman tell me- why, oh why
For what reason does this man find
the female so pleasing to the eye
Yet, so disconcerting to the mind?

Just A Little Bit Of Nothing by Ron Porter ©2017

No musical strains and, no dance floor,
Pains of long ago, linger at the door;
I walk in rains on the sandy lake shore.
Memory stains cling to my core;
My poor brain is weary and sore.
And, like thunder echos in the night-
In love’s reins, I hear anguish roar.

Just Don’t Cooperate Fool by Ronald S Porter ©2017

Racism is the root of my ills, I hear it said.
You say, the white man, keeps you down
All I can do is sigh and shake my head.
You got to learn to turn that thinking around.

Nobody strips my my dignity or my pride.
Listen close to everything I’m telling you.
I know that laws that are on my side;
Believe me I know just what i have to do.

You say a racism system holds you back.
Let me help you identify to your error.
If you want to see your oppressor, jack;
Take a good hard look into your mirror.

War was waged for my liberty in this land;
Too many fought, too hard and, too long
For me to ever not take a strong stand,and
I cover every inch of ground I stand upon.

I don’t care about bigots’ attitudes, you see;
Nor give a shit about hearts filled with hate.
The only way anybody can tread on me
Is if I lay down at their feet and cooperate.

“Was Gonnas” Don’t Get It by Ronald S Porter ©2017

Once I had me a Dracula moon, a
long black coat and, a faded red car
Wrapped up in magic and lightning,
Oh how we danced the fury frenzy.
I don’t remember the steps anymore
So, I retired from the dancing floor.

Past love all fell in smoldering ashes;
Angels versus demons- nobody won.
Once addicted to mania and mayhem,
Now, I’m hooked on nothing at all;
The game is over, the deal is done;
In the night I can hear the voices call.

The monkey sits on a rat, that rides a snake.
Fears and tears once flew like a blizzard
To change things now, would take a wizard;
I am only a man, I turn and just walk away.