Wake

It was beneath the stars we met

and we lay down in the field.

The sky was a glass curtain black

and the grass it was our shield.

And the wind was just a whisper,

and her breathing gaped and slowed

in the summer evening darkness

and the headlights on the far off road.

I stroked my hand along her face

and her eyes lit up inside.

And we were like two children then,

and we had no shame to hide.

But the hour was impatient too

like children awaiting fate,

that we should be so small that night

and sleep ‘fore it grew late.

The beacon blinked our gasps

as waves crashed to the shore.

In the glow of our moonlit grasps

this boy set out to explore.

BACK

--Porter Daryl's Poems

Sleep

Sleep now you, beneath the stars

to the lullaby of beating waves.

Sleep now, with your friend so close

and know the love that saves.

And if you wake with him

in a grassy field

then be with him.

Sleep now, for the journey’s run

and disappeared without a trace.

Sleep, for your dreams be seen in sun

once you make your resting place.

And if you wake to rain

then let it rain

and run on home.

NEXT

--Porter Daryl's Poems

Finally Made Undone

On the hotel couch arm rests my shoulder.

Though it’s cold I know it should be colder

as I wonder if she shows—

The wind is cold, I think she knows,

and on the pavement a Saturday chill blows

outside where the city lights glow.

Then waiting near the window rain

a young man lost has found who was in pain.

So at last she could be mine

laying there sunny in her prime,

weeping to the songs and sleeping on the line

between right and wrong this time.

Though it couldn’t happen to me...

I really think it did!

Though 19 going on 12

something happened to this kid

that made him stand up on her uneven ground—

made him rearrange his rage

and finally be made found.

Her longing words leave me bereft.

Light is wasting outside yet we haven’t left,

and my reasoning is fired

when my scorching fears are mired and

I’m waiting now like when my years were shyer

for hers to make her “tired.”

But with no traces there to sound a warning,

this curbside night was taken up in the morning.

And certainly it’s the case,

I’ll never forget her eager face

or let my old fists pick up their hateful pace

or let old fears take their place.

Though my impatience was rewarded

and our act was long awaited—

Though this kid’s dream of suicide

was all that he had slated—

The rest I traded in for her gift left not repaid

that she gave me in that shade of waking

when I was being saved.

Now my happiness knows a fatal dream,

for rocking the cradle I’ve fallen out the seams

with a head over my heels

that’s pushin’ me past meals,

that was given when my body had its wheels

and when her breath steals!

Now we're waking with the sun

after setting off that bomb—

Though healed we're never done

for we're addicted now and calm

with the peace of mind that only comes from

falling in a lover’s hold

and being made undone.

NEXT

--Porter Daryl's Poems

Bran

If I could do it all over, every sigh and tear,

I would do it again with you,

because you were the best thing this boy ever had

when he was shaking with his fear,

and even what I wrote you in those letters

when you were just as sad.

You wanted me to save you, to go find you

and take you to my arms,

but I let you slip, and bit by bit I let you get away

because you had your things to do.

But come back Bran, I'm no longer afraid,

and let's be like kids today.

(Still in love 
with (the idea of) you)

NEXT

--Porter Daryl's Poems

Fragments 2

It rained the whole time.

Here’s to wishing you were here?

My lonely postcard.

Teeth and lips and cheeks

Gracing bipolar mood swings.

Your smile unfed.

Teenage string fragments,

Juvenile hiding truth—

“Who will I become?”

Wasted acrylics,

tasteless nudes on the sofa—

Artist’s studio?

There and then taken,

Nighttime child in sandbox.

An abyss unknown.

On my two short sleeves,

A forget-me-not stapled.

An old bloodstained shirt.

Be stoner happy,

Surrendering to the void—

A wave on my rock.

Boys are promised “more”

when they kiss girls on the lips.

What if she kissed ME?

My sex drive is hell.

I Need it! Need it! NEED it!

Yet can’t get enough.

NEXT

--Porter Daryl's Poems

After Breakup (A Withdrawal Story)

I was sweating in the sands and my mouth was running dry—

God, how could she have forsaken me?

Heat was growing heavy on my sweaty squint and brow

before I found a last distraction by my lonely pinkened palm tree.

The desert sun above baked my footprints in the ground.

My journey sat behind me in my tracks.

But I did not turn for her for my mind was tuning out

so the dunes slowly covered up my trail going back.

In my weakness after traveling the hundred mile line

the promise of that shade could get me by—

Without the strength in me to break my pinkened palm’s hard hold

a bond grew out of bliss that was pleasure from on high.

The lust, the gasps, the smooth skin flashed upon my fingers

when the sadness had me on that heaven high,

it just left me sliding down by the old screen’s tangled cords so

I’d be hiding there forever from the angels brushing by.

With no friends or feeling left to grip a helpful thought around

my pace was going faster on each swell.

And as I came down tripping from my climaxes and highs

I realized in my loneliness how far I’d slipped and fell.

No future for a solo junky was bright enough for sun,

for the shade had made me pale by my tree.

Now my desire’s always firing—craving constantly,

yet I never saw how much it made a ruin out of me.

Now pleasure’s poison burns and drags my sadness out

and the shakes snake up a wild lightning.

The desert sun has singed my hair like fires on my skin

and my fantasies are a whirlwind mental—frightening.

Oh palm, how could you have forsaken me?

NEXT

--Porter Daryl's Poems

Oscillating Fan-Boy

Your oscillating fan who’s got you in his scan

blows your door closed the moment that he can

to go flipping your smooth hair across.

But before you turn my heat off—pouring out the seams…

get to know this mean boy with the skateboard from your road

who goes unreached by the love of any fan

when he’s coming over soon,

after sitting in heat at his breakfast noon.

For this broken-in boy’s been climbing on ladder rungs

and is shouting out to you from the roadside

and at the top of his lungs.

But your oscillating fan just looks the other way

sitting by your bedside and keeping me at bay,

but he’s just a hood see, who’s scoring on my loss.

So before you turn my heat off—and ride him in your jeans…

know this boy is clean even if seen throwing up on your green!

But I’m an outcast beyond your window screen,

and you’re this teen’s queen,

and my growth is like a detritus shroom   

thriving on the warmth and shade and vines

when I’m looking up at the window of your room

and waiting for your signs.

Still your oscillating fan who turns the other cheek

is just a loser, or someone rather meek,

a stupid moocher who’s making you get cross.

So before you turn my heat off—to be taunted by sunbeams…

just see the burning flame in this boy’s mouth of shut up steam!

I’ve got poems for you stuck up in my brains

that are making me insane,

and my empty head is running out of games.

So before turning on his blades just feel along my hair

and douse the dirty blonde soul gone up in flames

inside the hole in there.

‘Cause your oscillating fan who turns up in your room

is flat as fuck, and a bore with all his gloom,

getting on you like a patch of slick green moss.

So before you turn my heat off—to go cheering on his teams…

know this boy is sorry for all those old mistakes he made

when he didn’t have a clue, and now all he wants

is to be allowed back up in

that cool cool air of your room with you.

So now that I’ve been sweating on the rocks,

come meet me at your swing set sandbox

and about it we can talk.

But your oscillating fan who drowns out all my sound

keeps you locked in whenever I’m around,

when he’s not so much your lover as your boss.

So before you turn my heat off—to block out all my screams…

know my life is spent in heat and my world’s an un-mowed yard

that's lived without a fan's cool rays of wind

to make it hard these days.

True, if you were pleased you’d not lock your door

to jerks like me who made you war so long…

but if you weren’t doing something wrong

I’d be lying on your floor and

my heat we'd just ignore.

NEXT

--Porter Daryl's Poems

Running Out

Will he someday wake up from his teasing dream

and wait around until you kill his love

and shotgun his self-esteem?

No—for no matter when he’ll decide to grow

it’s still a fear he can’t wear thin with

sitting on his shoulders and telling him that

it was never real to begin with.

So why does he still try and put up with all your hassle

when going after your thoughts is like

trying to attack a castle?

You got it surrounded by a million bricks like armor

and round it on all sides by moat,

and getting to you is made even harder for

he has to pay to use your boat!

So why’s he bother with all that jazz when you’re so cozy

and he’s left miserable like you never were

as a child in her home debris?

Your pretty toys were always gotten free

from him when he was on bended knees

amidst the wasteland of your escapes and the

other outta-shape you squeeze!

Just have him get rimmed against the wall sideways

and stop and say you don’t know him

with his skin gone all ablaze

and a fang desire to pounce on him for sure,

and just ignore the real fire brimming

in his soul and the dark dyes in his irises or

the way his hair he’s trimming.

And before you know it he’ll get off his console,

his television, his guitar, and run outside

to show off his gaping hole,

and drive off with his new girl and car

so that you can see his new eyes

when he comes back at the break of day

reflecting off the wild sunrise.

But no matter how changed and bent out he’ll be,

he’ll still be your guy, deranged and truant

or running to break free—

and he’ll return to texting you still

and give you the old distended morning kiss

even if pretended—this time to kill—

for he’s got more now than this.

NEXT

--Porter Daryl's Poems