Teri Smiled (A Salute to Leigh Hunt) by Ronald S Porter ©2012

Teri smiled ,when she first spied me,
like sunrise after a dark cold night.
Then was my chained heart set free
and, suddenly the world was right.
I may be tired, poor, and growing old;
life passes by in too short a while.
But I will cherish 'til stars grow cold
the first time I saw Teri smile.

Why Do I Remember...? by Ron Porter ©2012

Why do I remember you
with bright sunshine on your golden hair
when we spent our time in darkened
shadows like wolves hidden in a lair?


Why do I remember you smiling down
on me with that lust-flushed face when
we only had learned one position;
me on top and, on a mission?


How did these lying images come
to be planted inside my head,
even as I faithfully recall
everything we did and each word we said?


Could it be that the liar in me
is not just deceitful but, also pedantic,
insisting that first love must be romantic?


Mine was the imaginary never ending.
Yours I recall, was condescending.


So tell me why my mind presents
these false images, to this very day;
visuals of love young and sweet,
when I know full well, it was never that way.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 Why 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!

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.

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.

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.