Porto is Portugal's second largest city and by no means glitzy,
It is fascinating and vibrant and can be described as being ritzy,
The city is seductively pleasing with a truly magical atmosphere,
The multifarious reasons for its popularity are not hard to decipher

Proclaimed by UNESCO as a World Heritage City for its cultural value,
Porto's strategic location in the northwest, is geographically on cue,
In 2017, it was unsurprisingly chosen as the Best European Destination,
Locals calling it "Cidade Invicta" (unvanquished city) befits the annotation

Replete with historic churches, bustling markets and exquisite cuisine,
Buzzing nightlife and flourishing artisanship add spice to what is seen,
A mix of gothic, baroque and modernist styles define Porto's architecture,
Iconic stately bridges and winding cobbled streets, bear the city's signature

Ribeira is the most picturesque neighborhood and a tourist haven,
The mix of narrow streets with rows of colorful houses is a given,
Exterior housing facades display painted tin-glazed artistic ceramic tilework ,
Which is a Portuguese specialty seen in most architectural masterworks

Duoro River crossed by six magnificent bridges, flows through the city center,
It splits Porto into a northern and southern part, serving as the city's epicenter,
Ponte Dom Luis I is an arch bridge connecting the Duoro River's two shores,
Lower level for road traffic & upper level for metro, cause less commuting woes

Sao Bento, Porto's main railway station located in the city center, is a showpiece,
Typical blue and white wall tiles adorning the massive atrium are a masterpiece,
More than 20,000 tiles were used to create spectacular Portuguese history mosaics,
Depicting battles, weddings, scenes of popular life, that are by no means prosaic

Livraria Lello is a delightful bookshop rendered famous by Harry Potter author Rowling,
The store's beautiful interior is home to thousands of books available for browsing,
The sinuous wooden staircase, ceiling piping and stained-glass skylight add a glow,
Rowling reportedly visited the bookstore frequently, while teaching English in Porto

The Gothic Monument Church of Saint Francis is hailed for its Baroque inner decor,
"Golden Church" is a breathtaking testament to the artistic and religious fervor,
It's lavish opulent interior features intricate wood carvings coated with gold dust,
To see the gilded ornate woodwork of walls, aisles, pillars chapels; a visit is a must

The breathtaking spectacle of light and shadow in the Church leaves one spellbound,
Stretches of gilded swath mesmerizingly shimmer and gleam, on looking around,
Descending to the underground catacombs, one can see Franciscan monks buried,
An ossuary packed with hordes of bones beneath a glass floor, leaves visitors frenzied

Porto is famous for it's Port wine, quite possibly Portugal's most liked beverage,
It is considered a dessert wine and contains additional alcohol - a rare privilege!
Called "fortified wine", it tastes sweeter as a major part of the fruit sugar is retained,
The city has numerous wine cellars with guided tours, where the process is explained

The hustle and bustle of Lisbon may be the missing element while visiting Porto,
Riverside cafes, street art, picturesque locales, give the city it's vaunted mojo,
It is probably the city's compactness that gives the feeling of being so crowded,
At the end of the visit, it is only the pleasant memories that remain embedded

I'm meant to hold your hand--
the way it curls over mine with
such a tenderness that's enough
to make me smile and leak tears
onto the bundled scarf.

The wind sweeps them away,
I blink up at you and know
the warmth your smile pours--
liquid amber honey that
holds me steady in your gaze,
and yet--
this is a new place.

We have been here for days,
Rushing around on trains
and buses
and cabs
and subways
to all the places humanity treasures--
and I want to experience every moment
with You.

The culture in new places
always feels like a theoretical
until it's experienced...like an outline,
a sketch, a diagram even--
but diagrams don't reflect
the life in your eyes when
you quietly whisper a pun
while the tour guide is guiding
and I have to cover my mouth
or risk the ire of a librarian stare
from whomever might be offended
by a little burst of joy being born.

It started raining on the cobblestone
as we were walking to brunch,
but you brought an umbrella and
sheltered us from being soaked as
some less fortunates skittered through
the streets like animals seeking shelter...
but we are in no rush;
We enjoy the rain, the sound, the smell,
as it melts the scene that should be
painted in watercolor.

I don't imagine I would--
Or even that I could
forget all the little things.
I collect them like seashells or
shiny little rocks, and I
put them in my pockets and they
lift me up as if they weren't little
rocks at all but balloons
not letting my feet
ever touch the ground
floating forever
in this love we've found.

Goodbyes were never meant to be a pause,
And I give none as I hand you the gauze,
Remove these tendrils desperately latching,
Leeching my light like a parasite
Para-social soul eating piranha
Gnashing and gnawing on my temperance
I’m no more a possession than you are artwork.

My bags are checked,
The skies bleed with oranges and pinks,
The clouds part to guide a pathway
Calling all gates.

My mind is full,
Not enough space,
Baggage not claimed
I lack the overhead.

My patience was tested,
Poked through my protective vest,
Warned that I would fly further than the Perseids,
A flash of light in the lumbering dark
And you would rather dance blindfolded,
So don’t ask for truths your teeth can’t chew
It’s painful, and I mean it down to the root.

Set me free,
And watch the dream
Dissolve into something beautiful
Hope again, despite crashing my plane
And endure another day.

I sit in my Edward Hopper moment, my half started keepacup of green tea cooling,  staring at the chess board floor while my mind slows, moving down the gears after A1-driven shenanigans and I mindfully let the beat of Magic Radio fade back into the 70s while some seldom used lobe recalls a blue mini van (replete with an A-Team overthetop stripe) on other journeys North.

I close my eyes and focus on the duties and joys of single granddadhood and try to ignore the give in the one-size-barely-fits-all plastic sitting beneath my oversized frame. My eyes refocus and I'm struck by a three-gen family arguing over Burger Kings, and I hate them for forcing me back to 1984 at RAF Scampton, forcing down a much-too-early, much-too-bleak breakfast ahead of a slow day taking stick from families of maddened miners.

I close my eyes again to breathe my regrets back into place, to sup and look ahead.

I've got a magic hat,
That'll take you back in time.
So we can go shoot pool,
In 1999.
Or back to the 80's,
We can dance, dance baby!
Do the robot all the way back,
To the 50's.
That's where I left my I-pod,
Hope they haven't found that. . .

Your curls have my fingers
So tight they won't let go

I could live here, hands on your head,
myself, your cargo.

Take me far away from here,
Around this great blueberry.

I'll ride high on your shoulders,
Or walk when you get wary.

At night, sleep, face up to the moon,
Your scalp set in my palms.

I'll tell you things about the stars,
my gentlemen in arms.

I haven't walked this road for a long time,
But I’ve been watching headlights in the night.
My thumb’s been out for almost fifteen years now,
hoping someone gives a ride

Boots worn thin on the shoulder of the highway,
Every step feels heavier over time
Wind hums low through the cracks in my jacket,
But I keep moving, just to ease my mind.

Feels like eternity on the road of life,
No map, no signs, just the rolling sky.
But if the stars still shine, I’ll be alright,
Keep on walking, keep my fire alive.

I’ve seen towns rise, I’ve seen ‘em fall,
Faces change but the stories stay the same.
Some folks run, some folks stand up tall,
Some just cry in the pouring rain.

Feels like eternity on the road of life,
No map, no signs, just the rolling sky.
But if the stars still shine, I’ll be alright,
Keep on walking, keep my fire alive

Maybe there's a car that’s bound to stop,
Or maybe I was meant to walk.
I haven't walked this road for a long time,
But I keep my eyes on the distant light.
My thumb’s still out, but my heart keeps beating,
And I know someday I’ll find my ride.

In a quest to find myself I set out in disguise
I trekked many a winding valley and mountainside
And it was a very many years before I found Myself; at last.
For I was wearing a very good disguise.

A journey from a city to a small town,
And I thought... I would go down,
(I was nervous, not too many adventurous  bones,
Not everyone, after all, is Indiana Jones..)
A rickety-rackety propeller plane ride,
Tossed and hurled me from side to side.

Amidst jets that sniggered and scoffed,
The propeller plane, nonchalantly, took off.
The gall of the small contraption,
Of their majestic magnitude, just a fraction.
A take off with a war  cry,
A noisy leap  into the sky.
And though perhaps lagging in the race,
He chugged at his own pace…
He rocked and he plunged,
He plunged and he lunged,
He  shuddered and he swayed…
Rather unsteady all the way.
Bullied oft, by  clouds of turbulence,
That looked menacingly dark and intense.
But all the while, in tune,  in sync,
With the wind beneath his wings...
And though I thought he would nose dive,
We landed and we arrived!

Interesting it was to see him share space,
In the hangar, in the sky, while defining his own place.