Pat's Place

Original Poetry by Pat Porsch

Last Updated June 8, 1998

July, 1997 January, 1998 February, 1998 March, 1998 April, 1998 May, 1998

July, 1997

City View

Chimney stacks reaching high
Like rockets launching toward the sky.
Trucks and cars bustling below
Humans resembling ants following in tow.
White castle standing alone.
A might fortress of solid stone.
Billboards and neon signs
Bold and bright reflecting the times.
Water slide twisting, an artform on display
From one point, it's a small raceway.
Bulidings sihouetted
A panoramic postcard.
Orange sunset standing guard.
Old bridge unused
Rusted in tone and spirit.
Streamlined bridge taking control
Waters below, a smooth and steady flow.
City lights, different hues.
On top of the world, my therapeutic view.

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January, 1998

E-Mail My Valentine?

Love letters e-mailed?
Not for me my sweet
The old fashioned type can't be beat.
How can e-mail love
Replace fresh hearts and lace.
A dried rosebud sealed inside a steamy envelope
Where I can touch your handwriting and feel the passion.
I'll put them in my drawer for safekeeping
To revitalize the intimacy of secret words.
E-mail would be too absurd.
E-mail is faster but I'll wait the extra day
To have the mailman deliver a real letter
Is worth all the delay

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February, 1998

I Fly Alone

The March winds ruffle my feathers
But I hold tight
to the antenna high above
my feathered friends.
Making room for each other
on the fire escape
As the billowing smoke signals
for everyone to glide down the railing.
Oh what fun it is to fly alone.
As the clouds move
And I glide against the wind.
I don't always fly in unison
I dare to be me and free
As I fly alone.

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March, 1998

Flirting With Spring
Bare feet tingling through virgin grass
Daisy pinwheel spinning as morning dew descends from
each petal.
Sheloves me
She loves me not.
A dance under the water spout.
Hearts a pumping
Buds a popping
Daffodil heads nodding
Like morning sun-real show stoppers.
Cotton clothes and cotton candy.
Dandelions are so dandy.
Pucker up for lemonade.
Warm breezes, tender hearts
Fresh picked for lovefools
Singing the blues.
Spring- may I flirt with you.

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April, 1998

A Mother's Tribute

All the moms of yesterday-oh so long ago
Had gentle quiet faces and hair as white as snow
Middle aged at forty
At fifty donned lace caps.
At sixty clung to shoulder shawls
and loved their little naps.
Today there's all these modern moms
who handle all the problems of every
girl or boy.
So whether the mom of today is a bit
old fashioned or totally modern
her heart is twenty three.
For when she reaches into the cookie jar
to bring out a cookie for me
I know she's my mom when before I'm dismissed she always seals the
cookie with a great big hug and a kiss.

MOTHER'S DAY

IT'S MOTHERS DAY AGAIN
WONDERING WHAT KIND OF CARD TO SEND.
IT WON'T BE PERSONAL OR SENTIMENTAL
IT'LL BE GENERAL AS THAT'S HOW I SEE YOUR ROLE.
HAPPY CHILDHOOD MEMORIES DO NOT ABOUND.
I GUESS THERE WASN'T ENOUGH LOVE TO GO AROUND.
IT'S TRUE I HAD THE THREE BASICS
FOOD, CLOTHING, SHELTER
BUT KINDNESS, SUPPORT, AND LOVE WERE BUT A BLUR.
I LONGED FOR PRAISE AND POSITIVE THOUGHTS
BUT CRITICISM AND LOW SELF ESTEEM WERE ALL I GOT.
MOTHERS DAY IS BUT ONCE A YEAR
I'M SORRY I CAN'T SEND YOU A HALLMARK SMOTHERING WITH LOVE
BUT IT'LL JUST BE A BASIC CARD SIGNED BY ME AND THE LORD ABOVE.

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May, 1998

My dad
He was an alcoholic.
He had nothing to give.
I got nothing.

My neighbor has pink flamingos.
My neighbor has a dad.

He helps paint her house.
He built her a deck.
She says, "Dad, can I bring you some lemonade?"
They sit on the shiny deck sipping pink lemonade
next to those horrid pink flamingos I hate.

I wish I had a big cow to look over the fence to say,
"See, I got something bigger and better than your flaming flamingos!"

But as I look through the peephole in my fence
and see empty glasses of pink lemonade
and those damn pink flamingos, I realize
It's not those flamingos I hate.
it's not having a dad.

HIS SPECIAL PLACE
Mother is all that is noble and fine,
And all that is right and good.
She richly deserves every sonnet that's sung
To her glorious motherhood.
And when Mother receives some fresh acclaim
The whole wide world is glad,
But away down deep in every heart
There's a place that is just for Dad.

We may not shower him with praise
Nor mention his name in song.
Sometimes it seems we forget
the joy he spreads,
But it doesn't mean that we don't know
The wonderfiil role that he has had.
And way down deep in every heart
There's a place that is just for Dad.

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© 1997 envoy@willinet.net

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