Porter Poems | Examples

Anything Goes

Perhaps he's crackers
to embrace glitz
(to paraphrase Irving Berlin)
'Putin on the Ritz'
tho'
'Sometimes something is better than nothing'
went the writing on the wall
yet
'Too much of nothing'
(wrote the Zimmerman)
is really no good at all
and
'Everything comes to those who wait'
an optimist put in prose
but
Cole Porter said it best
when he wrote, 'Anything Goes'

ELEANOR H PORTER

Today’s blessing is inspired by Eleanor H. Porter
A novelist I find enlightening and wise
And every now and then I like to stop and wish
we all would see the world through Mrs. Porter’s eyes.

It’s not that when we seek out the good in the world
to all the bad we are blind…
It’s just…when we’re hunting for the good things
we sort of forget the other kind.

Emagi Porter Auschwitz

Peter Porter 'ANNOTATIONS of AUSCHwITZ


     R B       M A           R E
   A      E I       C H    F      I
               T         T
||                                      ||
||                                      ||

Whatever Happened To Porter Wagoner

Remember the fellow with the slicked-back hair
Cowboy suits with lots of fringe?
Thought he and Dolly made quite the pair,
His nasal voice made us cringe.

Yes, he gave the “little lady” a chance to sing
On his weekly television show
We thought he and Dolly were having a fling,
But it was Carl who made her glow.

Years have brought Dolly fortune and fame
Her mentor slipped into obscurity,
Most people don’t even remember his name
But her songs bought her security.


SECOND PLACE WINNER
"Anything You Want" Poetry Contest
sponsored by Chantelle Anne Cooke
written July 30, 2021

Security and Robert Porter

Security and Robert Porter

If found to exist was an impurity,
Or something hidden in obscurity
Never neat,
Or incomplete;
Clearance not granted for security.

If successful check was never found;
Having to do with their background;
Heard clink,
Of missing link;
To receive clearance were not bound.

Jim Horn

Elton Porter 1907-1924

Elton Porter

1907-1924

(An Ode to Luella and John)

My best friend John Molina, and I

Spent many a carefree afternoon on bareback,

Astride the furious gallups

Of our sure-footed steeds;

Barefooted in summer and bundled up in winter;

We rode and ranged over the northern foothills,

Ablaze with mustard blooms in spring,

In search of squirrels and sunsets.

We roamed and roved like Crusaders,

Over those imposing heights,

Awash in winter mud and debris,

Seeking the Holy Chalace of freedom,

But still rich in grace,

Rich in impetuous youth.

And we both talked at length,

About Luella, the girl we most admired;

Certainly not for her obvious beauty, no.

Certainly not for her alluring bashful ways, no.

But instead, for her sublime singing voice.

Ah, I remember it well!

That day in this cemetery long ago,

She sang “All Or Nothing At All” by the front gate there,

And lo, the Muses all gathered in spirit roundabout,

Gathered to christen our surging hearts to the gods,

With a soft embrace,

And a simple kiss.

Porter In the Street

He wake up early in the morning
Never rest till evening
Because he never promise tomorrow 
As his chance were narrow
Putting on his torn clothes
And mended his only shoes 
Sometimes no breakfast
He have to move fast 
With his wheelbarrow 
Taking people's luggage to their destination, if he is allow
To make ends meal 
Is the deal 
Walking down the street
In the heat 
Delivering goods like an arrow 
Any goods he follow
Living in wallow 
Walking down the hollow 
Nobody bothers 
If his brothers 
Walking at hill 
In order pay his bill 
The landload threating him 
Nobody lend him 
Money to pay rent 
But he is always gent

Porter, Or Stout

stout or
porter
porter
or stout
I’ll weep
 myself to
 to  sleep
if I have 
to be  without
my heart is as heavy
as my burdens are old
and neither find solace
in that lager served cold
I  need  something  bitter
not a pilsner, too yellow
reserve that lighter brew
for a that  happier fellow
I  hope   you   don’t  think
my words  are  too terse
for  airing  my druthers
with a rhyme and verse
but  I tell you  this  man
I will have to make bail
if you  fill up  my glass
with an India Pale Ale
a  beer  dark and thick
with  velvety  bubbles
is  the only thing  that
will stifle my troubles
so be fast on the draw
but slow with the pour
if I wanted  more  head
I would get me a whore
and if I haven’t  been  clear
let me  leave you  no doubt
if you are serving me beer
I’ll take a porter, or stout


Michael F. Lewis
5/12/2013
Written at Main Street Brewery
Pleasanton, California

Maggie and Porter

Come meet two of my former patients;
A nursing home room they did share
Maggie was blind; Porter became her eyes
Finding, picking up, helping her

He was kind.  Her mind had slipped - or had it?
"Porter, I lost my comb," said to mate
Frail as he was, under the bed he went
Crawling for Maggie - deliberate

Day in and day out he would meet her needs;
She contrived to keep him near her hand,
Porter this and Porter that - it did seem 
Though they each understood the commands

The nurses would come to help as needed.
Then, on that moring when a stillness
Penetrated the room reverently
Quietly sitting slumped by her bed

No answer; no movement; just sitting there;
Porter dressed for his daily tasks,
He had fallen asleep when breathing ceased
He had given all that was asked

"Porter, Porter, help me," was softly heard
"Porter, Porter, please answer me,
 Porter, Porter, where are you?" asked again.
"Porter's gone.  He loved you, Maggie."

Wicked, Sinful By Ronald S Porter

! How I remember you

filled with youth, mischief and lust

We shared wicked, sinful days;

And, (Oh God!) those nights!

A Bit of Whimsy By Ronald S Porter

Here in the land of blind dogs and
screeching pigs, I lay me down to rest.
Where predators prowl and scavengers growl,
We snuggle like baby carrion fowl
in a squalid, rotting, rancid, reeking nest.

Where the death-stench and fat flies
fill greenish yellow bruised sad skies
and, necrophilia is a spectator sport;
We contendly feast on fresh slaughter beast
then wrapped in entrails, we dance and cavort.

Oh lovely stink! Oh delightful decay!
Where air is vile and water is gritty,
we make meery sport with mangled dead
while you cower, at night, in your bed
putting your hope in the walls of your city.

Out here we fantasize your horrified eyes
and agonized cries, as we watch neath the moon.
Lazy and fattened; would your flesh be sweet?
Oh how we could feast on your blood and meat.
We're planning to come visit your city real soon.

I'd wager, the children are quite tender.

Harvest Moon By Ron Porter

Indigo night with violent, violet edges;
deep blue mood and, the moon is a
silver sliver, a shark fin knifing the sky.
Riding on the wind they come with
icy eyes and certain cold steel death.
The stench of hell is on their breath.
And they have come to reap a harvest
that sows despair, confusion and fear.
Nor, will they moved by plea or tear.

Sweating Music, By Ronald S Porter

the music is sweating in the room
strings and reeds bump and grind
slow-dragging dancers entwine
oh the fruit is ripe upon the vine
and the wine of love and laughter
a mingled vintage- joy and tears
now are drunk down to the dregs
then another round is poured

urgency prowls the crowd's periphery
everybody waiting for... nobody knows
but we'll pitch a fit when it gets here
some might even shed some clothes

desire is straining in the room
lust sniffs around like an old hound
trying to catch the scent, 
purposed to pick up the trail
hunting money, hunting magic
hunting comfort, hunting tail
sweaty music sound still coming down

where are soft arms that hold tight
warm lips to lie that it's all right?
night turns like a page in a book
the guitar player throws out a hook
and sweating music command us look
for when the morning shall come

Quench This Fire, a Retourne By Ronald S Porter

Hold me like you'll never let go;
love me, each time, as if the first.
Shake me and quake me, slake my thirst
Quench this fire-My desire.

Love me each time, as if the first;
relearn my flesh, again, anew.
Discover new ways to excite me;
uncover passion's mystery.

Shake me and quake me; slake my thirst.
Give me nectar; let me drink deep-
'til I am filled and satisfied.
I promise I will fill you too.

Quench this fire-My desire;
leave me exhausted, limp, and drained.
Then renew urge, with tender tease.
'til urgency arouse once more!

Hold On To the Best, Forget the Rest By Ronald S Porter

Should auld acquaintance be forgiven?
Seek not dear darling, to be shriven.
With all the sweet torments of love
you once visited on my heart, the same
measure for meaure did I, on you, employ.
Call to mend; healing now the only joy.


The rapture, ripe, that we once shared,
I know (and my hope is that you do too)
with all we were, we truly cared.
The love we gave: me to you; you to me
I will always hold treasured, in memory.
Keep the best, forgive and forget
we'll take a cup of kindness yet...

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