Each Stone

In Remembrance of the Builders of the Salt Lake Temple

 

Each stone tells a story

Of sacrifice and tears.

Each stone cut and fashioned

O'er forty long hard years.

 

Each stone hewn and chiseled

From a mountain granite slab,

Perfected by the builder's hands

So the builder's work would last.

 

Each stone is a watchman

That stands a silent proof

Of heaven's sweet distilling

When men but seek for truth.

 

All these stones together

One fitting monument

To the builders of the temple

Who understood just what it meant.

 

Copyright 1997 by Layne S. Porter

The Canker

It's mostly found in tender places

Where almost every movement raises

An irritating-itching pain

That drives your searching tongue insane.

 

It takes its time to heal and mend

And when it's better in the end,

We quick forget this pampered friend

Stroked and soothed by tongues caress.

 

But when the canker's in the heart

And the pain is really hard,

When tears and anger swell and start,

Will tongue still do its soothing part?

 

Or, will it stroke with caustic words

Spoken so they're fitly heard

With little thought as anger stirs,

While sweet forgiveness goes unheard?

 

Copyright 2003 by Layne S. Porter

The Care Center

In solitude of endless days

Long and lonesome nights,

They sit inside their lonely rooms

Clinging on to life.

 

With solitude their constant friend

They wear away the days,

Longing for familiar sounds

Attached to family names.

 

Those strangely silent voices

Too faraway to hear

Forget the pangs of loneliness

So prevalent in here.

 

Odd, how some detach themselves,

Seldom show their face.

This world where emptiness is king,

Avoided like the plague.

 

Perhaps it is an inner fear,

Afraid that they might be

Someday confined inside these walls

Where friends are seldom seen.

Copyright 2001 by Layne S. Porter

Pondering My Mind

Two weeks ago today; my last day,
          After twenty-five years I walked away.
Cleared out my locker, said my good-bye's,
          Walked out the door into the night.

The burden I carried, I left there inside,
          Next to the door as I stepped outside.
That onus (burden) I carried, year after year,
          Was heavy at times with anguish and fear.

I shouldered it well most of the time,
          Occasionally stumbled, stepped out of line.
But, time has a way of healing the wounds,
          The hurt and the injury, the scar and the bruise.

Nothing was perfect I have to admit,
          Despite the illusions, I never gave in.
I bowed to the task, the ending grew near,
          Day after day, year after year.

Despite what it wasn't, it was what it was,
          It grew into something I treasured and loved.
It taught me the goodness of sweet simple souls
          Who worked in the night, while the rest slept at home.

After only two weeks, I hardly believe,
          How different it looks, how different I see.
When I was immersed, bustling about
          I sometimes saw clearly, truth sometimes came out.

Now I sit here and wonder, I ponder my mind.
          Why is "what is real" so hard to define?
In fogs of confusion that muddy the scene
          Truth is distorted and hard to be seen.

                                   Copyright 2013 by Layne S. Porter

Unfolding Miracles

Sixty-four and one half years,
          That is how long I have lived.
It is only now I realize
          The gifts life intended to give.

Gifts that were mine for the taking.
          But, I could never quite see
My eyes would not keep their focus
          On promises waiting for me.

Right from my very beginning
          When I could only cry.
Miracles were unfolding
          In front of everyone's eyes.

But, few were aware of the grandeur
          Blossoming in their sight.
To some it was a natural thing.
          It happens from time to time.

Miracles rise all around us,
          But, most go unnoticed you see.
Distracted and bothered by other concerns
          Miracles pass quickly unseen.

So many children, and parents alike,
          Aimlessly drift on a shifting sea.
Content that waves should be their guide
          With no choice of destiny.

At birth a child is beginning.
          On choices the journey depends.
Decisions will govern the outcome.
          The reward received in the end.

                                                      Copyright 2013 by Layne S. Porter

Arms And Lullabies

Once long ago, a faraway time, I cuddled in my mothers arms.

The softness of her pillowed breasts cradled my wee head and I drifted

in serenity and peace, scarcely feeling any need to twitch or even cry.

 

Her gentle fingers caressed my wee small hands and stroked my tiny brow.

And even now I fell her breath lightly on my cheek and the scent of lost perfume

That teased my nose with subtle dreams of flowers and summer clouds

And leaves that danced and played in the gentle summer breeze.

 

Back and forth, squeak and roll, the rocker sang its song.

Keeping rhythm with the sound of mother's lullaby,

Her simple song she sang to me, just me!  Yes, to only me!

 

I nestled in her love while the world of pain and monster growls

slipped quietly away to places lost and secret, places closed and sealed.

 

Oh, if I, just one more time could snuggle in her arms and find that lost

serenity that once was mine.  Enfolded in her safeness as gentle arms

engulfed my tiny frame!  Just one more time! Just one more time!

 

But, this gray head is bending now and mother is now gone.

And so I yearn for mother's arms and lullabies that comforted my dreams.

They once were mine!  They once were mine!

 

Copyright by Layne S. Porter

Birthday Candles

See all the candles, the flickering flames

Together they speak from the top of the cake.

Each has a story it's needing to tell;

The years of a life, hidden and veiled.

 

It is not a secret trying to hide,

A mystery concealed in deception and lies.

It's all contradiction, simple and plain,

That illogical logic can not explain.

When it comes to the truth, few care to hear,

How to find joy, avoid heartache and fear.

 

Sternly resisting , at the peril of fame

They walk a lone path and endure a lone pain.

Now in the ebb of gray headed years,

Finally we listen, finally we hear.

 

Copyright 2002 by Layne S. Porter