Mike Porter Jun 14

Come sing to me in notes of fire
and scald me with your sinful sound.
Just take my hand atop this pyre.

Step closer now, let lips conspire.
We'll strike a match while flames abound.
Come sing to me in notes of fire.

In shameless need midst outraged ire,
I care not how the voices pound.
Just take my hand atop this pyre.

So burn with me in our desire
and light the night for miles around.
Come sing to me in notes of fire.

I'll gladly scorch the world entire
to dance with you, so tightly wound.
Just take my hand atop this pyre.

You know by now what I require.
Ignite or let the sparks be drowned.
Come sing to me in notes of fire,
just take my hand atop this pyre.

A villanelle
Mike Porter May 8

There once was an elderly gent
whose fav'rite two words were "get bent".
"Get offa my lawn"
from dusk until dawn,
the neighborhood message he sent.

Cantankerous, surly old man
came up with a devious plan.
When the kids came to call,
turned the hose on them all,
then laughed to himself as they ran.

Their parents, it seems, missed the joke;
arrived in a state fit to choke.
When you're older than dirt,
thirty-five's still a squirt,
he doused 'em until their nerve broke.

A king on his patio throne
admiring the legend he's grown.
He smiles as they glower
and threatens to shower
the first who don't leave him alone.

Mike Porter Apr 25

The blank page beckons, smugly sure
that I'll concede and wander on
to seek that fey and feral well
beyond the dim where shadows swell
and madness breeds as visions spawn
in onyx pools of stark allure.

Addiction's goad or passion's quill,
who's hand upon the lacquered hilt?
What lackey drives amygdala
in service of this cabala
to leap the walls that fear has built
and thwart the laws of conscious will?

Once more I'll brave this dark terrain
and drink deranged ambrosia bought
with wagered sanity, in lieu
of coin, as revelations spew
this lingual ichor; deftly wrought
in reckless faith I'll bear the strain.

Mike Porter Apr 24

The balanced eggs of Easter time,
atop magician sticks of lime,
are guilty of a joyous crime.
They set chromatic paradigm
in shifted shades off purely prime;
as from the beds of winter grime
like brave balloons, they swifty climb.
A tale of spring in unvoiced rhyme,
these choral bells in silence chime
and bob in pastel pantomime.

In raiment made of sunny cheer
from cast off dreams of yesteryear.
Aflame as countless clusters sear
in gentle soul of summers dear.
Each pointed guard, a stainless spear,
the teeth of alabaster gear.
A prophet to the lover's ear,
"She loves me," calls first souvenir
"She loves me not," in answered fear.
As last is pulled, the answer clear.

So intricate, her charms accrue.
No naive lass, but lady true,
in ornate gown of vi'let blue.
A coy regard, she will eschew
and take maturity, in lieu
of pale and tasteless morning dew.
In complex pride, she stands anew,
though often aid, she'll misconstrue.
A vital vision to imbue
with ripened wile and rich purview.

In radiance, a queen unbent.
With cruelty, her grace is lent.
Her musk, a sacred secret scent
which fuels a need unfairly pent
by dreary world, it's magic spent.
A darkly shining argument
for eyes besieged by long lament
to rise beyond their discontent
and seek this fragrant monument
of beauty bound in grand extent.

The tulip smiles in freshened clime,
quixotic entity sublime.
As daisy's hour grows warmly near,
she beams in freedom without peer.
A shameless dame of passion's due,
the orchid poses for review.
A cage of thorns, in message sent,
protects the rose from ill intent.
No other sight could e'er outshine
these verdant paramours of mine.

Mike Porter Apr 23

Would that I could trail behind and
chase the serpent in the mist.
To see the same as glitt'ring eyes,
now carried far away.
Alas, my feet are bound to earth and
forsaken by the path.

A Sijo.
Mike Porter Mar 8

I can't get up out of my bed,
there's bombs going off in my head.
Drank a boatload of rum,
which it turns out was dumb,
and now I just wish I was dead.

Mike Porter Mar 7

Vivid and vibrant against the somber sky,
crimson heart aflame
as the edges darken
to deep violet embers,
an irrevocable token finds freedom
from it's tremulous prison ...

falling

... a final link between two souls;
the last, tangible connection
in this life.
An incomplete span of
memories shared
and dreams lost
hold the blazing bloom
against the stony silence
of the clouds,
scarlet screaming wordlessly
against the slate grey backdrop ...

falling

... emerald leaves rustle
while passing mottled earth,
whispering secrets
as lovers once did,
alone in the darkness.
The delicate rasp of edges,
played by the subtle wind of gravity
as jade travels,
so briefly,
within this russet world ...

falling

... coming roughly to rest
upon the polished, wooden field.
Dark and shadowed thorns,
nearly lost in the mahogany,
wait patiently
while the hues
of life and death
stand starkly at attention,
frozen in this moment.

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