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