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

Millennial Day

It waits
           in the distance,

It's time
           soon to come,

Every wrong
           will be made right,

Truth
           will grace each tongue.

It's coming
           seldom pondered.

So few
           embrace the thought,

Or regard
           prophetic warning.

Distracted
           deceived and lost.

Copyright 2013 by Layne S. Porter

What Was - Is Not

What is,

Is not necessarily

What will be.

 

Even though

We know

This day of loss

Will come;

We will not

Prepare.

 

Privation

Will fall on us

Unawares,

Like an unexpected

Thief in the night.

 

Relieving us

Of what was,

Regardless our denial

And our refusal.

 

In spite

Of tenacity,

Our fingers will

Slowly be pried away,

And we will let go

Against our will.

 

Our loss,

Difficult to bear,

We grieve.

 

Acceptance

Does not lessen

The lingering needs

Still yearning

Satisfaction.

 

An empty

Void remains,

When what was,

Is not.

 

Copyright 2013 by Layne S. Porter

 

 

 

 

Disposable Resource

Not a warning
Not at all,
When escorted
Out the door.

Cold!
And lifeless!
No one looked his way.
Like garbage-being thrown away!

Not valued anymore,
Feeling empty to the core.
Escorted justly-right outside
He was simply-cast aside!

No recompense
Can he claim!
Discarded resource
Is his name!

Copyright 2013 by Layne S. Porter

Sons of America

(Words to the song "Sons of America" found on the "Voice of the Patriots" album.)

All across this nation, in the smallest town,
Marble stones and crosses mark where patriots are found,
In a field on holy ground.

These are the sons of America who died for you and me.
They come from the towns across this land, from sea to shining sea.
They fought and died that we could all be free.

Can we afford to be content
And live in ignorance
Their memory lost in time?

And who will take the chance
To resurrect the past
In honor of their sacrifice?

Oooooo, their sacrifice, for you and me.

Every single monument honors every man
Who gave his life a sacrifice in honor of this land.
He bled and died that we could all be free.

Can we afford to be content
And live in ignorance
Their memory lost in time?

And who will take the chance
To resurrect the past
In honor of their sacrifice?

Oooooo, their sacrifice, for you and me.
These are the sons of America, who died for you and me.

Stand Up For These Rights

(Words to the song "Stand Up For These Rights" on "Voice of the Patriots" album.)

On an aging faded document in the halls of history
Speaks the voice of Providence that made our fathers free
Calling from the foggy mists of history,
Calling to the children of the patriots made free. 

Can you hear that voice calling you?
Can you hear the patriot cry?
Can you hear the voice of Providence?
Patriot! Stand up for these rights!

Providence has spoken that all should be free,
Governments were born to bring these rights to you and me
So every man can live in peace and happiness,
So every man, everywhere can live in liberty.

Can you hear that voice calling you?
Can you hear the patriot cry?
Can you hear the voice of Providence?
Patriot! Stand up for these rights!

That aging faded document in the halls of history
Is fading from the memory of the children who live free.
Men risked their lives and fames and fortunes,
They bled and died so we could all be free!

Can you hear that voice calling you?
Can you hear the patriot cry?
Can you hear the voice of Providence?
Patriot! Stand up for these rights!

A Graceful Unassuming Woman

A graceful unassuming woman of dignity and grace,

Unruffled by the cares of life, content to hold her place.

She shares a tender smile with everyone she meets,

Never an unkindly thought stains the words she speaks.

 

Her grace is slightly hidden and yet, is plainly seen,

Everyone can feel it, but few can really see.

She touches many people because she just is there,

Like the fragrance of a flower drifting on the air.

 

If she were free to speak to you who listen here,

She would say: "Life is good.  You have no need to fear!"

And we would all believe her, she always speaks the truth,

Filled with hope and courage to the aged and the youth.

 

Copyright 2009 by Layne S. Porter

The Dusty Jerusalem Road

On a sojourn to Jerusalem
          So many years ago.
He ran beside his parents
          On that long and dusty road.

He walked with them to Jerusalem
          To celebrate a feast,
To honor and remember
          When they walked with Moses free.

They came unto the feasting
          With a sacrifice in hand
The purpose of their journey
          As along the road He ran.

When the feasting there was ended
          Back on that dusty road
The boy was not among them,
          His whereabouts unknown.

Rushing back to Jerusalem,
          Searching there in vain.
Finally to the temple,
          A place to sooth their pain.

In a place so unexpected;
          But, should not have been.
He reasoned with the doctors,
          Of the law that He had given.

What did He remember then?
          What did he really know?
He was only a boy of twelve
          On that dusty Jerusalem road.

Copyright 2012 by Layne S. Porter

Father's Bible

Father's calloused, hardened hands

Wore each page from front to back.

He'd gently lift it from the shelf

Read to us, and to himself.

 

Father honored sacred things.

He worked at living faithfully.

We always knew that he was true,

To what he taught and what he knew.

 

When father passed away from us,

There were tears, but no one fussed.

Many came from miles away

To honor him his final day.

 

From his bible father drew

Wisdom that had seen him through.

Raised a light to show the way,

That we who follow, would not stray.

 

We never knew when we were young

Father's work was never done

But, now our children walk behind

We walk his path, with him in mind.

 

Copyright 2001 by Layne S. Porter

 



The Playground Bully

The bully on the playground stands firmly in his place,

Staring down his victim, glaring in his face.

His sneering, angry, quivering lips reveal a muddled ache,

Pocked by scarred emotion, no sign of poise or grace.

At first it's just the anger, ragged and intense,

Then suddenly the pain erupts consuming every sense!

 

What makes a playground bully that impels him to disgorge

The suffering of his tortured soul, complete without remorse?

Was he once a victim of another tortured soul,

Or was he just misunderstood by someone mean and cold?

Was he once a child, for whom no one had a use,

Or could it be he suffered the horror of abuse?

 

What ere the cause or reason for the anger and the pain,

We must find an open heart that he may be reclaimed!

For if this sorry creature continues on his rage

A stream of playground bullies will partly be our blame!

For most the playground bullies rise from planted seeds;

Planted, fertilized and watered by playground bully deeds.

 

Copyright 2009 by Layne S. Porter

The Treasure Trove

Up in the attic a treasure trove

Of things forgotten, musty old,

Things that Grandma hid away

For unknown needs of future days.

 

Inside an old wooden trunk,

Mid stacks and stacks of seeming junk,

Hours quickly passing by,

My eyes can't bear to leave this sight.

 

Old dresses made of calico,

Every stitch, by hand was sewn,

A family bible, family names,

I'd seen on headstones on their graves.

 

Letters, more than just a few

From friends and family I never knew.

Then in the bottom of the chest

A yellow faded wedding dress.

 

Neatly folded tucked away,

A symbol of that sacred day

When vows were spoken tenderly,

Of love that set two lovers free.

 

Memories flooded through my mind

Traveling back to by-gone times.

Shedding pensive thoughtful tears,

I felt Grandma very near.

 

Copyright 2001 by Layne S. Porter

Mama's Nap

     There is nothing more exhausting than a tired afternoon,

When no matter what she does, she drags from room to room.

     Her head just wants a pillow, her legs feel sort of loose,

Her eyelids sink together, her feet can hardly move.

 

She fights the urge to crash and sleep for just a little bit,

Plodding right on through her day, wishing she could quit.

Pressing on just half awake until she can't go on.

She slumps into an easy chair, the tiredness has won!

 

Her eyelids close so quickly, her head tilts to one side,

Her shoes slip off her feet, she barely feels alive.

Then somewhere in her reverie and slumber of her dreams,

She hears a distant voice; "Mama! Mama Please!"

 

It's only been five minutes, but five is all she gets.

She rises from her stupor, though her energy is spent.

"Mother's work is never done" is really no cliché.

No end to work is not enough; it means little rest or play!

 

But, Mama never yells or screams, she never scolds or whines.

She simply rises from her sleep and somehow keeps a smile.

She knows that this will somehow pass; too soon it will be gone.

The memory of these tired days will be the crown she's won!

 

Copyright 2001 by Layne S. Porter

 

 

My Mother

She

Smiled

At me,

 

And,

I knew

She loved me.

 

I took

Her finger,

 

And,

I felt

Strong.

 

She

Played

With me,

 

And,

I felt

Accepted.

 

And now,

Even though

She is gone,

 

I still see

The light of love

Glistening in her eyes!

 

The never ending

Beacon of my soul.

 

Copyright 1984 by Layne S. Porter

A New Day Rising

Black clouds rise

In the distance,

Columns that stir

And forebode.

 

Rumbles of thunder,

Lightening and storm,

Omen of fury,

Havoc is born.

 

Wrath of the maelstrom

Comes crashing,

Winds screaming,

Chaos explodes.

 

Gods of the darkness

Rage onward,

Through night

Till light of the morn.

 

Breaking of dawn

Brings a rainbow,

A new day is risen

And born.

 

Mayhem melts

Into sunshine,

Peace returns to this

Mountain abode.

 

Copyright 2003 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, no one cares 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

A Familiar Stranger

Familiar, yet a stranger
          This face I once had known.
His countenance, though different,
          The voice was still his own.

Shoulders stooped in weariness,
          Head bowed in despair,
Consumed in his dejection,
          He did not see me there.

"Tis hard to see the boy I knew,
          Fraught with worldly shame,
Deserted by his self esteem,
          His honor and good name.

My memory saw a different boy
          From many year before
When innocence and passion
          Breathed, and wanted more!

The man who sat before me,
          An echo of the past,
An empty shell of youthful dreams
          Squandered on his path.

Strewn across an endless waste
          Of self-indulgent lies,
Where all could see his folly,
          Except his own blue eyes.

                                                Copyright 2001 by Layne S. Porter

The Committed Man

He's not content
          To be content.
He seeks for more
          With real intent.

He must be first.
          He can't be last.
He knows that time
          Moves much too fast.

He calculates
          Before each day
That not one minute
          He will waste.

He plans his work,
          Then works his plan,
To get things done
          The best he can.

He knows he's not
          Quite understood,
Doing things
          He knows he should.

Most folks believe
          He's rather quaint,
But, in his mind
          Life is not a game.

And so he bends
          His solemn will
To win the prize
          With ardent zeal.

While others mock
          "He seeks acclaim.
He seeks for riches,
          Power and fame."

He pays no mind.
          He gives no heed.
It matters not
          What blind men think!

                                             Copyright 2012 by Layne S. Porter
    

The Masters

These are my masters, I chose them.
          We all have the privilege to choose.
But, whoever you choose to guide you
          Will control where you go, what you do.

You have a choice in the matter
          So, be sure your choosing is well.
The masters you choose will lead you
          To wherever they want you to dwell!

The only freedom we really enjoy,
          Is to choose who our masters will be.
But, after each choosing they take us
          Wherever they choose to lead.

Be careful my friend in your choosing,
          For your masters will master your mind.
They will ever so carefully mold you
          Till you become like the rest of their kind.

You'll be subject to all of their power
          Whatever that power might be.
So please, I beg you; Be Careful!
          Choose masters who set people free.

                                                                          Copyright 2000 by Layne S. Porter

The Old Wooden Post

Just an old wooden post,
          That's all that is left,
A lonesome reminder
          Of what was once just a fence.

A monument true
          To simpler times,
When fathers and sons,
          Worked side by side.

Now the old wooden post
          Struggles in pain,
To stand up proud
          Against the wind and the rain.

The wires are rusted.
          The staples are loose.
Temptation to fall,
          Still sternly refused.

For the old wooden post
          Witnessed the day
When he and the others
          Stood tall and straight.

Perfectly lined!
          Perfectly true!
They held their position!
          They let nothing through!

True to his purpose!
          True to his name!
The old wooden post
          Has not struggled in vain!

                                               Copyright 1998 by Layne S. Porter

My Yoke Is Easy

"Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek

and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls."  Matthew 11:29

 

My yoke is easy,

My burden is light,

I'll be there to sustain you,

Each day and night.

 

I'll be there by your side,

If you just simply try,

To be the best you can be.

 

If ye seek, ye shall find me,

I'm not far away.

If you just simply call me,

I'll come and I'll stay.

 

I'll bring peace to your mind,

Love to your heart,

And hope to lead the way.

 

Please!  Open your heart to me!

Please! Open your mind and see!

Please let me be your friend,

And I'll stand by your side till the end.

 

I'm waiting to hear you,

Call my name,

So I can sustain you,

Through sorrow and pain.

 

I'll light up the night,

Calm stormy seas,

And you will walk with me.

 

Copyright 1983 by Layne S. Porter

 



Arms And Lullabies

Once long ago, a faraway time, I cuddled in my mother's 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 feel 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's arms are gone.

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

They once were mine!  They once were mine!

 

Copyright 1997 by Layne S. Porter

 

 



Truth In A Lie

There

Is a truth

In a lie,

Which if learned

Will make

You wise.

 

For

Little lies

Are just a ruse

To keep

The hearer

From the truth.

 

A

Wily hoax,

A sham, Deceit!

To plant

False thoughts

For us to think.

 

What

This deception

Says to me,

I cannot trust

The words you speak.

 

For,

You try

To play me

As a fool,

I'll not

Consort with

Fools like you!

 

Copyright 2001 by Layne S. Porter

 

 



Two Women

(1st Woman from one side of the street)

So little time, so much to do
          I'm never done when day is through.
Too many demands tie me down
          I always run and fret about.

In earnestness I try my best,
          In the end I'm still depressed.
Nothing ever quite works out,
          My self-respect is still in doubt.

My neighbor on the other hand
          Seems to finish all she plans.
Always smiling, always fresh,
          She never even takes a rest.

I worry what she thinks of me,
          I'm not the best that I could be.
If I could just be more like her,
          I would not feel so insecure.

 (2nd Woman from the other side of the street)

It seems no matter how I try
          I can not make a simple pie.
The food I cook is such a bore,
          To share, I buy it from the store.

I try so very hard to learn,
          But, all I cook is raw or burned.
I would like to cook from scratch,
          But when I do it tastes like hash.

My neighbor on the other hand
          Never cooks a meal from cans.
She slices, dices, mixes, pours,
          A feast that all who eat adore.

I worry what she thinks of me,
          No one comes to eat with me.
If I could just be more like her,
          I would not feel so insecure.

And so the tale goes on and on,
          Both caught up in woebegones
For envy of the gift they sought,
          The gift they own is somehow lost.
  
                                                                       Copyright 2012 by Layne S. Porter

Baggage

He didn't use to notice
          This heavy little sack,
But lately he's become aware
          His tired aching back.

In many ways he is surprised
          The weight feels quite alive,
He never dreamed his evil deeds
          Could bend his once strong spine.

He finds himself encumberd
          With this heavy little bag,
Filled with sordid memories
          The deeds of which he bragged.

There were warning voices
          But, he mocked and would not hear,
Intent upon his quest of pain
          Which now draws ever near.

Yes! This bag is heavy!
          He filled it full you know!
The contents now escaping,
          His deeds becoming known.

He wants and needs so very much
          To shed this heavy load,
To free himself forever
          From the baggage of his soul.
                                                  
                                                      Copyright 2013 by Layne S Porter
 

Sweet Release

God proffers sweet relief
          For every pain or injury,
For every ache or sadness,
          He yearns to give relief.

His healing balm is offered
          To every hurting injured soul,
Liniment to soothe and mollify,
          To help the wounds to close.

Ointment offered freely
          To sooth the deepest grief,
Where only God and angels know
          How to bring relief.

This gift is freely offered
          From He who knows all pain,
To those who seek Him faithfully
          He tenders healing grace.

The Master's balm is offered
          When the faithful humbly speak
From their knees - in simple prayer,
          Seeking sweet release.

                                             Copyright 2013 by Layne S Porter