When You Awaken, A Dizain by Ron Porter ©2012

When you awaken and find me gone,
What words, I wonder, will you say?
Will you feel better or worse alone?
maybe i could have waited another day;
Perhaps found the right words to say.

Why buy more time to waste?
I miss that little mark on your face.
I presented my ticket; I'm in the air.
Where I'm headed- a brand new place;
Somewhere where you won't be there.

No More Bake Sales, A New Beatnik Rant by Ron Porter ©2012

Jello molded, cookie-cutter, suburban, midnight fantasy
warmed the malformed, uninformed, non-conformist travesty
Bothe difference and the sameness of you and me
is we don't have a family
like the ones you see
in the mind-slime, portrayed on prime-time, network T.V.

And the politicians scream to the sky
Everybody's gonna get a piece of the pie
Remember, Marie Antoinette said Let them eat cake
I'm a little weary of this whole Bakery motif
I will not got to the bake sale
or the bullshit on a bagel banquet
at ten thousand dollars a plate
Push the party line-Promote the agenda
tender agendas, agenda benders, spin the agenda
lay down your liberties, quietly surrender

Always remember
A House Negro is still a house negro even
when him lib up in de White House
Right massa Soros? (wink-wink, nudge-nudge)
Oops, better be careful here
It's like the Neville Brothers sang
It's freedom of speech...
... as long as you don't say too much.

Don't say too much; stay out of touch; do not think
do not surmise
just sit and consume the lies from the big screen
High-Def, surround sound,LCD, lie machine
make sure the lawn stays green
bullshit keeps it fertilized
fertile minds in which to plant
seeds of complacency

The bigger the lie-the bigger the hook
they will swallow and
the bigger the hook the bigger the fish caught and cooked
Can you smell the grease cooking?

And, I mourn the living dead
born and bred
to wear the chains forged in their own heads
where the deceptive words are said
that Uncle Sugar, Big Daddy Government
will: buy your cell phone, stamp you some food
pay for your cable, supply all your needs
from cradle to grave
if you just stay a slave
working on the plantation in the mind
how can so many be so blind?

And the Judas Goat with Mickey Mouse ears
keeps on lying. Man, freedom is dying.
while the deluded keep on buying
the false hope of non-interest loans
and low mortgage rates for communities with gates
where everybody rides hybrid roller skates
and eminent domain owns all of the homes

Suburban nightmares, quite disturbing
and the Jello-molds shape how they think
while cookie cutters punch
out another drone like hive-mind bunch
and to those who understand what I'm stating
cleans your guns and be ready and waiting
when... the taxman... busts down your door!

The Last Shot by Ron Porter ©2012

O! She was the huntress and, the crone,
Virgin mother, avatar of the moon.
With a monogrammed golden lighter,
she cooked smack in her silver spoon,
riding that White Horse to extinction,
where the sightless lead the blind.
Peace and escape, sought in oblivion.
Warmth to the flesh; numb in the mind.

The morning they found her cold in her bed.
Not a needle in the arm but, a bullet in the head.
And nobody mourned for we all well knew
Before the night she left, she had long been dead.
Once she told me It's just like flying.
She'd nod and smile while she was crying.
The body was interred sometime early in June.
Virgin mother, Huntress, avatar of the moon.

Sappy Love Poem, A Decastitch by Ron Porter ©2012

No longer do I sit and reminisce
about love lost or, the long gone kiss.
Because today baby, I have you
and, all my blues have flown away.
Rememberences of what did not last
belong buried with the painful past.
No more remorse stains my heart;
sorrow and sadness hold no sway.
Exit now emptiness; vanish now void,
My life is filled with you today

Ash Wednesday by Ron Porter ©2012

bloodied angel, you
cut off you wings
and took me to hide
in a room
with a number on the door

give me a sermon
you requested, commanded
demanded, beseeched
and i paced the room and preached

are you trying to punish me?
you asked
blinking through tears
standing in your eyes

my only defense
explanation, dissertation
was if you ask me for truth
i 'll tell no lies

i played music for you
on my CD boombox
and you hid me
covered me, loved me, gave
me joy and sorrow so sweet

i don't want to share you
with the world
you said. i said
don't worry, the world doesn't want me
and we went out to eat.

we talked and smiled
for a while
in the crowd, then
we came back to hide

you gave up chocolate for Lenten
a small sacrifice
because, bloodied angel in black,
you'd already relinquished your wings.

First They came For ... by Ronald S Porter ©2012

Ghetto was the Polish word
imposed by certain Germans
on the scattered children of Israel
confined to be controlled
all intended for the slaughter
with the homosexual
and the Gypsy and
the Communist and the Slav

Now who shall wear The Yellow Star
who will be the Juden
here on this teeming shore
in century twenty-one
What peoples will be the Goat
upon which we lay our sin and shame
then drive into the wilderness
our wickedness to atone?

Already the wheels turn
the lies are set in motion
the T.V. set proclaims it good
that debt and joblessness
and loss of liberty grow
actions to shred
the founding documents
strengthen and proliferate
(it may already be too late)

I was promised Hope and Change
and as gas prices soar
I find that my only hope
is to find some change
to but a loaf of bread
when I walk to the store
they tell us that the change
me must embrace is
a system that never worked before

And, the new commissars,
tell us they know better
...where we should live
... what car we need buy
what foods we must eat
what News we must listen to
and which we should not;
dictate which opinions are acceptable
tell us what to think, and how.

What we watched with horror,
prevail in other lands
now embryonic here at home
and we must look into
the lying smile
and swallow lying words
while rhetoric and propaganda
conceals the sleight of hand
incremental undermining
of the foundation of this land
too blind to see the obvious
unfolding of the master plan

Wake up America! Awaken!
the enemy is at the door!
but this time the foes stand
inside the house here
on our Teeming Shore
Ask: who will be our Juden now?
who shall wear the Yellow Star?

Old Songs Titles (Tell A Story of Heartbreak) by Ron Porter ©2012

It's been a long time since Summertime Blues
I'm not quite ready from my Travelin' Shoes.
Meanwhile the object of my deep desire,
sits in The Smoke Of A Distant Fire.


Susie keeps saying My Boyfriend's Back;
The message for me is Hit The Road Jack
Gloria, Peggy Sue and All The Young Dudes
Take A Walk On The Wild Side with bad attitudes.


I sit alone feeling like a Fool On The Hill;
and swallow life down like a Bitter Little Pill.
I look around but, I can't find a friend
Nothing left but to Cast My Fate To The Wind.


The Wind Cries Mary to me; I just sit and sigh.
Deseted and hurt, I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry

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.