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Best Poems Written by Ron Porter

Below are the all-time best Ron Porter poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Rose Two

A lone rose on the snow 
petals crushed and trod upon. 
In her room, she weeps.

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No Prince Charming

The white horse has been put out to pasture
The shining armor rusts on the cellar floor
You take off your dress; say you’re a damsel in distress.
You’re a little late babe, I don’t slay dragons anymore.

Yeah I can still swing my sword as good as ever
But, the fighting and the knighting became such a bore
Every princess that I find keeps changing her fickle mind
So I quit the rescue business; slaying dragon's not my chore.

Many a young maiden I have saved in bygone days
Waged battles that left me bruised and battered and sore
To watch them slither like a lizard into the arms of another evil wizard
Seems the ogres, trolls and goblins won when I tallied the final score.

So save the pensive cries for help, they only fall upon deaf ears
The promises of rich and lush rewards, I don’t listen to like I did before
You may find this news alarming but, I ain’t no dang Prince Charming
Find some other sucker to save you ‘cause I don’t slay dragons anymore.

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Not Even

All the pain of missing you... 
Not a memory, when I am kissing you.

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Sing To Me, Some Blues

Sing me a old down-home song;
Sing to me some blues.
Syncopate the drums, sing loud and long.
Sing to me some blues.
Tell of people, from a homeland ripped,
Packed like sardines, cross the ocean shipped,
Remember to me bodies broken, bloodied and whipped.
Sing to me some blues.

Sing to me a cotton-field song;
Sing to me some blues.
Moan the story of a people done wrong.
Sing to me some blues!
Taken to the block, rubbed down with oil,
Sold like a beast to bear burdens and toil,
Tell how our blood watered King Cotton’s soil.
Sing to me some blues.

Sing me one of them old slave-timey songs;
Sing to me some blues.
The field hands’ chant and the pickers’ moan; 
Sing to me some blues.
How the children were sold while, mother’s did plead,
Of how we were raped and made to bleed,
When dying was just one way to get freed.
Sing to me some blues.

Sing me a work dawn to dark song.
Sing me a little blues.
Make that bass walk like a sharecropper, steady and strong.
Sing me some hardworking blues-
About how the ledger book replaced the chain;
About how the labor was all in vain;
The more debt paid, the more debt gained.
Sing to me some blues.

Sing to me, a freedom flight song.
Sing to me, some blues.
Tell of a cry for freedom so strong!
Sing to me, some blues.
Sing about no longer moving to the back seat.
Sing about sitting at the counter to eat.
Sing of bombs in the churches and dogs in the street.
Sing to me some blues.

Sing to me, my people’s song!
Sing to me some blues!
Sing of the struggle that still goes on
Sing to me, some blues.
Tell me the story of four hundred years,
Tell of the losses, the pain and the fears,
Sing loud of strength forged from suffering and tears.
Sing to me some blues….

Play yo harmonica, son….

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Bloody Muddy Monday (With Apologies To Rudyard Kipling & Alfred Tennyson)

Assailed upon all sides; trapped, like a rat without his cheese.
Though I wore quite fancy shoes, there were no socks upon my feet,
When I fought the heathens and, met defeat, at the Pillar Of Muhamete.
Through a wall of living flesh I hacked; my trusty hatchet, my only tool.
On a bloody muddy Monday morning, before the Temple of Kabul.

Great green spiders big as tanks, did we ride to meet enemy ranks,
And the sky was the hue of lemons, as we made war on the Plains of Singahlee.
When the cannons melted, I said "chuck it", then with a broomstick and a bucket,
Did I storm the castle of the Great Caliph. With a cabin boy creeping , at my knee.
With a lantern strapped to my head, I broached the tower gate to set the captives free!

When it seemed our lines would crack, I urged the regiment to the attack;
Our war wagons pulled by eight foot frogs, imported from the gates of hell.
When bullets ran low, we threw rocks; til at last we waved our members.
To show ourselves unafraid, we stipped to aprons our mums had made,
Then went raging down the hillsides, with a shrieking girlish yell.

One Bullock Pete he died that day; Big Dick Willie; hewed in twain in the fray.
But the blue balls boys of Bingham held the line! The blood flowed like cheap wine.
Smoke and screams filled the air, like cheap perfume in a whore's lair.
Amidst the fire and the smoke, I did a softshoe and told a joke.
And an old vaudeville routine nearly saved the day on that battlefield afar.
We ran like possums through the trees, In our boots and BVDs.
We may have lost the bloody battle, but we won the flipping war!

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Naked In the Rain

Let love strip us clear of all our old fears and pain
Let’s go dancing, you and I, naked in the rain

Darkness shines obsidian dreams, race to face the bright
Morning melts like butter bars left naked in the rain

Forsaken memories haunt the mind, spinning sounds
Flowing rivers of sight, freeze toes naked in the rain

I’ll kiss yours if you’ll kiss mine, my it’s warm and wet
Ashes from a camp fire steam naked in the rain

New worlds of adventure wait, walk with me awhile
Ron Porter invites, “Take my hand,” naked in the rain

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Wonder

Majestic seas, towering trees, soft summer rain, distant thunder
How sweet life is when I remember I live in a world of wonder

Thirty-six sheep gunned down, word is it was a mafia contract
Lambs and rams never pay their gambling debts so it’s no wonder

A big black Cadillac Escapade with big old shiny spinners
The owner can’t pay rent, owes three years child support, makes you wonder

Golden lasso, magic bracelet, big fine Amazon tits and ass
With all the pulchritude I’m not surprised her first name is Wonder

You’re looking real good and it’s getting late, lady let’s close this deal
Spread your thighs, says Ron Porter, and show me the magic and wonder

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Rose Three

Bomb-burst..-like a rose. 
Red blood, fire grows! My sister- 
e-mailed me today.

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Pretty Hair

Her eyes drip down scorn
Like pus from running sores
Every word edged and barbed
To rip and rend and tear
She lives to laugh at suffering
But oh she has such pretty hair

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Dawn

Dawn, born of night’s death,
Delivered red and glowing.
Old women do wash