INTO THE WILDERNESS
Into the wilderness blindly I go, dragging my ball and chain,
Dodging the bullets of grief and loss, freezing pellets of rain.
Into the lair of the jungle beast, foolhardy and freewheeling.
On my own sorrow I hungrily feast, stealthily I come stealing.
Tiptoeing like a frightened gnome and buried beneath the debris.
Covered in ashes and draped in my losses like a careless leaf in the breeze.
Once the sun shone so high in the heavens and smiled on my life
like a favorite child,
Only to carry me here to this moment, to leave me languishing here in the wild.
All my great wisdom and all of my love songs are silenced by the deafening din,
Frozen stiff in the clutches of nighttime, destroyed by the bone-chilling wind.
Into the wilderness, naked and trembling, silenced without the hope of a prayer,
Dodging the gunfire of age and infirmity, clothed in my camouflage of despair.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
EXPOSING ALL MY FRAUD
EXPOSING ALL MY FRAUD
The Grim Reaper crept to my door with his black cloak and his sickle.
In his hand my death warrant, signed and sealed for my convenience.
He issued me a summons, he had come to search my soul.
And in that scary moment, my whole life flashed before me,
Dripping sin and failure on the carpet of my condo.
He laughed a horrid, bitter laugh that echoed through the neighborhood.
He breathed his fire and hissed at me and beckoned me to follow.
My petty thoughts from yesterday, the hurts and the imagined slights
Reverberated in the sky like bitter vengeful fireworks.
The friends that I had frozen out resounded through the firmament,
The naked ones I had not clothed, the prisoners not visited.
They circled Mr. Death and I as we made the great descent.
The Grim Reaper crept to my door with his black cloak and his sickle.
In his hand my obituary, fresh from the press and dripping ink.
He issued me a summons, he had come to search my soul.
He hissed his words of censure, he was preaching to the choir.
They sentenced me to the river Styx and to the lake of fire.
And in that awful moment, my life replayed before me,
Dripping sin and failure like grenades upon my yard,
Shining a blinding spotlight, exposing all my fraud.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
The Grim Reaper crept to my door with his black cloak and his sickle.
In his hand my death warrant, signed and sealed for my convenience.
He issued me a summons, he had come to search my soul.
And in that scary moment, my whole life flashed before me,
Dripping sin and failure on the carpet of my condo.
He laughed a horrid, bitter laugh that echoed through the neighborhood.
He breathed his fire and hissed at me and beckoned me to follow.
My petty thoughts from yesterday, the hurts and the imagined slights
Reverberated in the sky like bitter vengeful fireworks.
The friends that I had frozen out resounded through the firmament,
The naked ones I had not clothed, the prisoners not visited.
They circled Mr. Death and I as we made the great descent.
The Grim Reaper crept to my door with his black cloak and his sickle.
In his hand my obituary, fresh from the press and dripping ink.
He issued me a summons, he had come to search my soul.
He hissed his words of censure, he was preaching to the choir.
They sentenced me to the river Styx and to the lake of fire.
And in that awful moment, my life replayed before me,
Dripping sin and failure like grenades upon my yard,
Shining a blinding spotlight, exposing all my fraud.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Sunday, March 29, 2009
THE BUDDHA
THE BUDDHA
The Buddha sits in cross-legged wisdom,
Smiling by the roadside and very much alive.
I pass him in a hurry, breathless and heaving,
Weighed down by my baggage and my bitter daydreams.
Scattered in my focus, humbled by my fractured schemes.
The Buddha knows the riddle and holds the answer tight to his vest,
While we scatter to and fro, suffering cardiac arrest.
We wonder if there’s more, as clear water laps the daylight shore,
Caressing the sand in calm repose.
I hear the seabirds overhead, I smell the fragrance of the rose.
Looking out my mother’s kitchen window,
I see a lone deer napping by the hedge,
Sleeping there in sweet surrender.
Believing in the flow of life, a sight divine and tender.
I pack it all away, somewhere deep within.
The clear water, the seabirds, the rose, the deer.
They resonate mysteriously,
Tunneling under my doubting veneer,
Making sense of my pilgrimage here.
The Buddha sits in cross-legged wisdom,
Smiling at me everywhere.
In the sea, in the garden, in my mother’s backyard.
The Buddha winks at me, in the sultry heat of the asphalt jungle.
So rotund, so peaceful, so very much alive.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
The Buddha sits in cross-legged wisdom,
Smiling by the roadside and very much alive.
I pass him in a hurry, breathless and heaving,
Weighed down by my baggage and my bitter daydreams.
Scattered in my focus, humbled by my fractured schemes.
The Buddha knows the riddle and holds the answer tight to his vest,
While we scatter to and fro, suffering cardiac arrest.
We wonder if there’s more, as clear water laps the daylight shore,
Caressing the sand in calm repose.
I hear the seabirds overhead, I smell the fragrance of the rose.
Looking out my mother’s kitchen window,
I see a lone deer napping by the hedge,
Sleeping there in sweet surrender.
Believing in the flow of life, a sight divine and tender.
I pack it all away, somewhere deep within.
The clear water, the seabirds, the rose, the deer.
They resonate mysteriously,
Tunneling under my doubting veneer,
Making sense of my pilgrimage here.
The Buddha sits in cross-legged wisdom,
Smiling at me everywhere.
In the sea, in the garden, in my mother’s backyard.
The Buddha winks at me, in the sultry heat of the asphalt jungle.
So rotund, so peaceful, so very much alive.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Saturday, March 28, 2009
FLOWERS BLOOMING
FLOWERS BLOOMING
Flowers blooming on the hill,
Spring begins its maiden dance.
Tulips bright as candy in a confectioner’s window
Wave in prideful unison across the pastel morning.
You are the rose climbing my trellis,
The hyacinth that holds my heart captive by your beauty.
You are the daffodils, fragrant and radiant,
The priceless purple iris on the gentle mountainside.
The earth revolves around the sun,
The morning glories take the stage.
Azaleas ripe as lollipops, they frolic in the garden.
The pansies with their lion faces decorate the lawn.
Petunias laced and spiked with dew offer heartfelt blessings.
You are the rose climbing my trellis,
The rhododendron in repose,
The phlox in all its majesty.
Flowers blooming on the hill have taken hold within my spirit.
Fresh as daisies on the doorstep, lively in the pastel morning.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Flowers blooming on the hill,
Spring begins its maiden dance.
Tulips bright as candy in a confectioner’s window
Wave in prideful unison across the pastel morning.
You are the rose climbing my trellis,
The hyacinth that holds my heart captive by your beauty.
You are the daffodils, fragrant and radiant,
The priceless purple iris on the gentle mountainside.
The earth revolves around the sun,
The morning glories take the stage.
Azaleas ripe as lollipops, they frolic in the garden.
The pansies with their lion faces decorate the lawn.
Petunias laced and spiked with dew offer heartfelt blessings.
You are the rose climbing my trellis,
The rhododendron in repose,
The phlox in all its majesty.
Flowers blooming on the hill have taken hold within my spirit.
Fresh as daisies on the doorstep, lively in the pastel morning.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
IN GREAT ABUNDANCE
IN GREAT ABUNDANCE
To travel across the ocean wide,
To see what’s on the other side,
To take your hand and bravely go
To places where the rivers flow.
In great abundance springs our love,
Bright as stars that glimmer high,
And we can catch life by the tail
As it goes whizzing quickly by.
I will be your stowaway on every long lost journey
And we will sail to places grand,
Holding heaven in our hands.
To fly into a sunset laced with every contour of your face,
It has become my fervent dream, my grandest hope, my fondest scheme.
It matters not the venue, it matters not the clime,
To be with you in this love so true until the end of time
Is all that matters in the end, to have found in you a lifelong friend,
The lover dancing merrily in all my waking reveries.
To travel across the ocean blue, secure inside this love so true.
To take your hand secure in mine, bathed in words so soft and kind.
In great abundance springs the day, as here with you I gladly stay
And we can catch life by the tail, before it slips away.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Monday, March 16, 2009
ALL THESE GIFTS
ALL THESE GIFTS
All these gifts that come my way,
Like sunlight filling up the day.
The gift of quiet in the dawn,
The silver dewdrops on the lawn.
The oatmeal and the coffee strong,
The gentle vibe of morning’s song.
Work that nourishes the soul,
That fills the empty, gaping hole,
Of idle hours spent alone.
The gentle colleagues, smart and kind,
They cheer the heart and stretch the mind.
All these gifts that come my way
Like snowflakes on some winter’s day.
Each interaction so divine,
The intercourse with humankind.
Each soul a mystery to uncover,
Each so different from the other.
A blessed quilt of colors grand,
A rainbow sitting in my hand.
All these gifts that shimmer bright
And you beside me in the night.
Your kiss that sends me o’er the moon
Like some infectious righteous tune.
All these gifts so sweet and fine,
The gift of life, the gift of time.
They lend their magic to this life,
Cutting through the pain and strife.
And as the veil of evening falls,
These gifts I cherish one and all.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
All these gifts that come my way,
Like sunlight filling up the day.
The gift of quiet in the dawn,
The silver dewdrops on the lawn.
The oatmeal and the coffee strong,
The gentle vibe of morning’s song.
Work that nourishes the soul,
That fills the empty, gaping hole,
Of idle hours spent alone.
The gentle colleagues, smart and kind,
They cheer the heart and stretch the mind.
All these gifts that come my way
Like snowflakes on some winter’s day.
Each interaction so divine,
The intercourse with humankind.
Each soul a mystery to uncover,
Each so different from the other.
A blessed quilt of colors grand,
A rainbow sitting in my hand.
All these gifts that shimmer bright
And you beside me in the night.
Your kiss that sends me o’er the moon
Like some infectious righteous tune.
All these gifts so sweet and fine,
The gift of life, the gift of time.
They lend their magic to this life,
Cutting through the pain and strife.
And as the veil of evening falls,
These gifts I cherish one and all.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Thursday, March 12, 2009
DELUSIONS OF GRANDEUR
DELUSIONS OF GRANDEUR
Ever since I was a child, I had the biggest dreams,
Never mind that most of them ended tearing at the seams.
Whenever I found a manure pile, there was a pony in it somewhere,
And life for me was Langston’s famous crystal stair.
I wrote a poem for Janis Ian and gave it to her at Orkney Springs.
I don’t know what I hoped for, but it must have been some lavish thing.
Perhaps she’d take it from the bag and read it there in front of me,
And I would be the poet laureate I’d always hoped to be.
Perhaps the beauty of my words in juxtaposition on the page
Would touch her heart like her songs had touched me at an impressionable age,
And perhaps my poem would make her cry and she would right there
shed a tear,
And I would catch it roll right down her cheek and keep it as a souvenir
And hold it close forever, sleeping with it every night,
To make my life like a rising sun, shining ever bright.
And just the other day, having shaken Judy Collins’ hand
At the end of a stunning show,
I wrote her her yearly birthday card and a fan letter most sincere,
For Judy and her music have been an inspiration through the years.
And then three days later, coming home from work,
I saw a white stretch limousine waiting at the light.
And I thought just maybe it was Judy inside that limousine,
Headed down Millwood, straight to Cameron, to my humble home,
To throw her arms around me and to thank me for my yearly tome.
All the way from New York City she had come in crazy motion,
To tell me she had saved my letters, to praise my great devotion.
Ever since I was a child, I’ve had delusions of grandeur,
An overactive imagination that overstepped the bounds of reason
That led up Langston’s crystal stair in search of fame and glory,
A climax sweet to a common life, a fitting end to my common story.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Ever since I was a child, I had the biggest dreams,
Never mind that most of them ended tearing at the seams.
Whenever I found a manure pile, there was a pony in it somewhere,
And life for me was Langston’s famous crystal stair.
I wrote a poem for Janis Ian and gave it to her at Orkney Springs.
I don’t know what I hoped for, but it must have been some lavish thing.
Perhaps she’d take it from the bag and read it there in front of me,
And I would be the poet laureate I’d always hoped to be.
Perhaps the beauty of my words in juxtaposition on the page
Would touch her heart like her songs had touched me at an impressionable age,
And perhaps my poem would make her cry and she would right there
shed a tear,
And I would catch it roll right down her cheek and keep it as a souvenir
And hold it close forever, sleeping with it every night,
To make my life like a rising sun, shining ever bright.
And just the other day, having shaken Judy Collins’ hand
At the end of a stunning show,
I wrote her her yearly birthday card and a fan letter most sincere,
For Judy and her music have been an inspiration through the years.
And then three days later, coming home from work,
I saw a white stretch limousine waiting at the light.
And I thought just maybe it was Judy inside that limousine,
Headed down Millwood, straight to Cameron, to my humble home,
To throw her arms around me and to thank me for my yearly tome.
All the way from New York City she had come in crazy motion,
To tell me she had saved my letters, to praise my great devotion.
Ever since I was a child, I’ve had delusions of grandeur,
An overactive imagination that overstepped the bounds of reason
That led up Langston’s crystal stair in search of fame and glory,
A climax sweet to a common life, a fitting end to my common story.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
PEACEFUL FLIES THE SNOW WHITE DOVE
PEACEFUL FLIES THE SNOW WHITE DOVE
We have set the world on fire,
Scorching the earth with the blaze of our love.
We have set the eagles free,
And peaceful flies the snow white dove.
As smoke it billows from the canyon,
Burning up the mountain pass.
Mother Nature upside down
In slow retreat and fading fast.
The earth awakens to our beauty,
Pays allegiance to our charms,
And spends the day in excited haze,
Enveloped in our loving arms.
We have climbed the summit steep
And wrestled with the thorns and weeds.
The convoluted vines and twigs,
The jagged stones, the scattered seeds.
Love has been a hillside green,
A landscape fair of clouds serene.
And love has been an order tall, a drowning, crushing waterfall.
Love is this and so much more, a muted scream, a jamming door.
A smile that echoes far and wide, across a grateful countryside
We have set the world on fire,
Scorching the earth with the blaze of our love.
The eagle soars above us free
And peaceful flies the snow white dove.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
We have set the world on fire,
Scorching the earth with the blaze of our love.
We have set the eagles free,
And peaceful flies the snow white dove.
As smoke it billows from the canyon,
Burning up the mountain pass.
Mother Nature upside down
In slow retreat and fading fast.
The earth awakens to our beauty,
Pays allegiance to our charms,
And spends the day in excited haze,
Enveloped in our loving arms.
We have climbed the summit steep
And wrestled with the thorns and weeds.
The convoluted vines and twigs,
The jagged stones, the scattered seeds.
Love has been a hillside green,
A landscape fair of clouds serene.
And love has been an order tall, a drowning, crushing waterfall.
Love is this and so much more, a muted scream, a jamming door.
A smile that echoes far and wide, across a grateful countryside
We have set the world on fire,
Scorching the earth with the blaze of our love.
The eagle soars above us free
And peaceful flies the snow white dove.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
BIG ASS MOON
BIG ASS MOON
Big ass moon in a midsummer’s dream,
Perfect for my love and me.
Driving to the ice cream stand,
End of the evening, out on the town.
Something sweet and something creamy
To glide so smooth across the throat.
Perhaps a brownie sundae or a Coca Cola float.
My hand on his lap as we stop for the light,
A wellspring of feeling as I grasp his fingers tight.
Those fine sacred fingers that know their way around,
Every last square inch of me at night when we lay down.
Big ass moon laughs high up above
As the night goes whizzing past.
As we lick and slurp quite noisily,
Dripping ice cream in our laps.
We find the oldies station on the car’s big stereo,
Some long forgotten melody we knew so long ago.
We wipe our sticky hands clean
On napkins made of paper,
And head home with the top down,
Rounding out our late night caper.
Hand on his knee as we ride through town,
Singing along if we know the tune.
Cruising along with nary a care
Under the big ass moon.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Big ass moon in a midsummer’s dream,
Perfect for my love and me.
Driving to the ice cream stand,
End of the evening, out on the town.
Something sweet and something creamy
To glide so smooth across the throat.
Perhaps a brownie sundae or a Coca Cola float.
My hand on his lap as we stop for the light,
A wellspring of feeling as I grasp his fingers tight.
Those fine sacred fingers that know their way around,
Every last square inch of me at night when we lay down.
Big ass moon laughs high up above
As the night goes whizzing past.
As we lick and slurp quite noisily,
Dripping ice cream in our laps.
We find the oldies station on the car’s big stereo,
Some long forgotten melody we knew so long ago.
We wipe our sticky hands clean
On napkins made of paper,
And head home with the top down,
Rounding out our late night caper.
Hand on his knee as we ride through town,
Singing along if we know the tune.
Cruising along with nary a care
Under the big ass moon.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Monday, March 9, 2009
I WILL LOVE YOU THOUGH IT RAINS
I WILL LOVE YOU THOUGH IT RAINS
Sweet love, you are the brightest star to ever fall into my life
And your care has warmed and softened my long and lonely nights.
And our love has opened like the petals of a flower beneath a caring sun,
And I will love you though it rains, though storms are sure to come.
When the workaday world forsakes you, when clouds obscure the view.
When friends seem cold and distant and your days turn misty blue.
I will love you though it snows and bends the trees, covered in their ice.
I will love you when it hurts, and when loving you feels nice.
I will love you when the world turns vicious and hurls its fiercest darts.
I will love you strong, right or wrong, with all the passion in my heart.
Sweet love, you are the brightest moon to ever light my way,
You awoke my sleeping inner child and called him out to play.
And I will love you though the earth it quakes,
Though my steps turn slower and my hands may shake.
I will love you through the trips to Paris, Frisco and the beach.
I will love you when the money’s gone and the trips fall out of reach.
And I will love you though it rains and your eyes they fill with tears.
I will love you through the gains and through the losses, through the years.
And I will stand so proud of you, of all you say and all you do.
I will hold you when your world turns dark and all you know is fear.
I will love you when the floods arise and wash against the hemisphere.
Sweet love, I hold you in my life and in my death and in my dreams,
Through light, through dark, through black, through white,
and all the colors in between.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Sweet love, you are the brightest star to ever fall into my life
And your care has warmed and softened my long and lonely nights.
And our love has opened like the petals of a flower beneath a caring sun,
And I will love you though it rains, though storms are sure to come.
When the workaday world forsakes you, when clouds obscure the view.
When friends seem cold and distant and your days turn misty blue.
I will love you though it snows and bends the trees, covered in their ice.
I will love you when it hurts, and when loving you feels nice.
I will love you when the world turns vicious and hurls its fiercest darts.
I will love you strong, right or wrong, with all the passion in my heart.
Sweet love, you are the brightest moon to ever light my way,
You awoke my sleeping inner child and called him out to play.
And I will love you though the earth it quakes,
Though my steps turn slower and my hands may shake.
I will love you through the trips to Paris, Frisco and the beach.
I will love you when the money’s gone and the trips fall out of reach.
And I will love you though it rains and your eyes they fill with tears.
I will love you through the gains and through the losses, through the years.
And I will stand so proud of you, of all you say and all you do.
I will hold you when your world turns dark and all you know is fear.
I will love you when the floods arise and wash against the hemisphere.
Sweet love, I hold you in my life and in my death and in my dreams,
Through light, through dark, through black, through white,
and all the colors in between.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Sunday, March 8, 2009
HEART SET SAIL
HEART SET SAIL
Glimmering was the ocean,
Sparkling ever blue.
I was on the cusp of giving up,
I had hid my heart from view.
But sometimes all it seems to take
Is a warm and welcome wind
To buffet you into the arms
Of a soulmate and a friend.
Where once my feet were anchored fast
To the lonely sand and shale,
The mermaids called my name at last,
The seabirds bid my heart set sail.
And vast horizons opened forth
And all the ships caressed the bay.
My fear of drowning all dissolved
Into the beauty of the day.
And off I sailed to isles of pleasure,
Swirling in your sacred smile,
A pirate counting up his treasures,
Heartstrings cast upon the miles.
The years fly by like seabirds soaring
High up in the stratosphere,
The aging compass in my soul still points to you,
My captain dear.
And memory points me to the day
That you became my welcome wind
And saved me from the shipwreck
And helped me live again.
The day you hummed your siren song
And freed my feet from the sand and shale,
The day you offered me your hand
And bid my heart set sail.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Glimmering was the ocean,
Sparkling ever blue.
I was on the cusp of giving up,
I had hid my heart from view.
But sometimes all it seems to take
Is a warm and welcome wind
To buffet you into the arms
Of a soulmate and a friend.
Where once my feet were anchored fast
To the lonely sand and shale,
The mermaids called my name at last,
The seabirds bid my heart set sail.
And vast horizons opened forth
And all the ships caressed the bay.
My fear of drowning all dissolved
Into the beauty of the day.
And off I sailed to isles of pleasure,
Swirling in your sacred smile,
A pirate counting up his treasures,
Heartstrings cast upon the miles.
The years fly by like seabirds soaring
High up in the stratosphere,
The aging compass in my soul still points to you,
My captain dear.
And memory points me to the day
That you became my welcome wind
And saved me from the shipwreck
And helped me live again.
The day you hummed your siren song
And freed my feet from the sand and shale,
The day you offered me your hand
And bid my heart set sail.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Saturday, March 7, 2009
MEN IN WHITE COATS
MEN IN WHITE COATS
Open the flood gates for the men in white coats,
Their clipboards in hand, their fine stethoscopes.
Their sterling credentials that boggle the mind,
Their antiseptic waiting rooms,
their wisdom most divine.
I have come to know them well,
to tread their hallowed offices.
They’ve x-rayed, poked and prodded
and pried into my business.
The rigidity, the stiffness,
the odd infernal shaking,
Are theirs to note in triplicate
in prose that’s most breathtaking.
Their pressured, caring nurses,
their gentle secretaries,
Strive to put the mind at ease
in the face of futures scary.
Open the floodgates for the men in white coats.
The journey’s last leg but no ending in sight.
Open the floodgates and break all the banks,
deductibles, co-pays and oxygen tanks.
Fears of demise that darken the evening
and vague diagnoses with ominous meanings
are mine for the taking and theirs for the giving,
Burning a hole in the passion for living.
Open the floodgates, let the madness begin,
trapped in the darkness of a game I can’t win.
On the horizon the great storm is brewing
and the men in white coats will be my undoing.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Open the flood gates for the men in white coats,
Their clipboards in hand, their fine stethoscopes.
Their sterling credentials that boggle the mind,
Their antiseptic waiting rooms,
their wisdom most divine.
I have come to know them well,
to tread their hallowed offices.
They’ve x-rayed, poked and prodded
and pried into my business.
The rigidity, the stiffness,
the odd infernal shaking,
Are theirs to note in triplicate
in prose that’s most breathtaking.
Their pressured, caring nurses,
their gentle secretaries,
Strive to put the mind at ease
in the face of futures scary.
Open the floodgates for the men in white coats.
The journey’s last leg but no ending in sight.
Open the floodgates and break all the banks,
deductibles, co-pays and oxygen tanks.
Fears of demise that darken the evening
and vague diagnoses with ominous meanings
are mine for the taking and theirs for the giving,
Burning a hole in the passion for living.
Open the floodgates, let the madness begin,
trapped in the darkness of a game I can’t win.
On the horizon the great storm is brewing
and the men in white coats will be my undoing.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
NEMESIS
NEMESIS
You are the great white whale of legends
That Ahab longed to kill and keep,
Gnawing at the ship’s great hull,
Enough to make a grown man weep.
You wait for me, teeth white and gleaming.
I walk the plank, barely dreaming,
Shaking in my wet suit and my plastic fins.
I try to keep the muscles loose,
But they stiffen like some stubborn corpse,
And I limp like Egor in the lab, flunking chemistry course.
Such a bitter and unpleasant sceme, stripped of all my dopamine.
A living death and a crying sin,
Closer to the edge than I’ve ever been,
To losing hope and falling into your vast impressive jaws.
The strength behind your mighty grip is enough to give me pause.
And falling futures, landslides grim,
All that’s left the murder and mayhem
Of your stiffness and your shaking,
Wheelchairs in the rear view mirror,
Youth and beauty for the taking.
You are the great white whale of legends
That haunted Ahab’s troubled sleep,
Gnawing at the ship’s great hull,
My nemesis in the briny deep.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
You are the great white whale of legends
That Ahab longed to kill and keep,
Gnawing at the ship’s great hull,
Enough to make a grown man weep.
You wait for me, teeth white and gleaming.
I walk the plank, barely dreaming,
Shaking in my wet suit and my plastic fins.
I try to keep the muscles loose,
But they stiffen like some stubborn corpse,
And I limp like Egor in the lab, flunking chemistry course.
Such a bitter and unpleasant sceme, stripped of all my dopamine.
A living death and a crying sin,
Closer to the edge than I’ve ever been,
To losing hope and falling into your vast impressive jaws.
The strength behind your mighty grip is enough to give me pause.
And falling futures, landslides grim,
All that’s left the murder and mayhem
Of your stiffness and your shaking,
Wheelchairs in the rear view mirror,
Youth and beauty for the taking.
You are the great white whale of legends
That haunted Ahab’s troubled sleep,
Gnawing at the ship’s great hull,
My nemesis in the briny deep.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Friday, March 6, 2009
COURSE OF THE MIGHTY RIVER
COURSE OF THE MIGHTY RIVER
Impossible to fathom is the random hand of Fate,
Reckless is the destiny I’ve lived and breathed of late.
Borrowing mercy like sugar crystals from a kindly next door neighbor.
Hoping good days on the way will still be mine to savor.
But the slightest hiccup in a well laid plan
Can yank the rug from underneath
The tenuous ground on which you stand
Once my life was a shining full moon,
And now it stands a meager sliver,
And there’s nothing mortal man can do
To change the course of the mighty river.
The mighty river set in motion opens into the mammoth ocean.
Never really what it seems, it cuts a swath, erasing dreams
I’m waterlogged and wasted,
Floating in the current like a stray piece of debris.
Impossible to decipher the roll of the errant dice.
Will I burn eternally or shiver lost beneath the ice.
Borrowing time from the kindly doctor, his electrodes and his implants.
Asking for a midnight pardon, a sudden change in circumstance.
The mighty river rolls along, rushing over silt and sand,
Seldom pausing in its path to lend the drowning man a hand.
The gods who once were good to me,
Shoot poison arrows from their quivers,
And there’s nothing I can say or do
To change the course of the mighty river.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Impossible to fathom is the random hand of Fate,
Reckless is the destiny I’ve lived and breathed of late.
Borrowing mercy like sugar crystals from a kindly next door neighbor.
Hoping good days on the way will still be mine to savor.
But the slightest hiccup in a well laid plan
Can yank the rug from underneath
The tenuous ground on which you stand
Once my life was a shining full moon,
And now it stands a meager sliver,
And there’s nothing mortal man can do
To change the course of the mighty river.
The mighty river set in motion opens into the mammoth ocean.
Never really what it seems, it cuts a swath, erasing dreams
I’m waterlogged and wasted,
Floating in the current like a stray piece of debris.
Impossible to decipher the roll of the errant dice.
Will I burn eternally or shiver lost beneath the ice.
Borrowing time from the kindly doctor, his electrodes and his implants.
Asking for a midnight pardon, a sudden change in circumstance.
The mighty river rolls along, rushing over silt and sand,
Seldom pausing in its path to lend the drowning man a hand.
The gods who once were good to me,
Shoot poison arrows from their quivers,
And there’s nothing I can say or do
To change the course of the mighty river.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Thursday, March 5, 2009
HERE'S TO THE GOOD TIMES
HERE’S TO THE GOOD TIMES
Here’s to the good times we have stumbled upon,
like blind drunkards in some dark alley.
Here’s to the rising stars of our days,
that shimmer like gossamer on the golden valley.
Here’s to the good times, dwell not upon tears,
for they will come unbidden, raping and pillaging,
confirming our worst fears.
Better to rise and give thanks for the sunshine,
that pours forth from heaven like a sweet golden wine.
Be thankful for clouds, be grateful for storms,
there is much to learn from thunder,
and the crack of lightning in the sky,
The most gorgeous rainbows follow our sorrows.,
the loveliest azure in the heavens, the sunrise of tomorrow.
Here’s to the good times, we claim them as our birthright.
like hapless dancers through this world, twirling with a hard-earned grace,
Doing pirhouettes against the evening sunset,
As day slowly dies and brushes a goodnight kiss
across our wild and weathered face.
Here’s to the good times, all we have is today,
let the moment caress you and whisk you away.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Here’s to the good times we have stumbled upon,
like blind drunkards in some dark alley.
Here’s to the rising stars of our days,
that shimmer like gossamer on the golden valley.
Here’s to the good times, dwell not upon tears,
for they will come unbidden, raping and pillaging,
confirming our worst fears.
Better to rise and give thanks for the sunshine,
that pours forth from heaven like a sweet golden wine.
Be thankful for clouds, be grateful for storms,
there is much to learn from thunder,
and the crack of lightning in the sky,
The most gorgeous rainbows follow our sorrows.,
the loveliest azure in the heavens, the sunrise of tomorrow.
Here’s to the good times, we claim them as our birthright.
like hapless dancers through this world, twirling with a hard-earned grace,
Doing pirhouettes against the evening sunset,
As day slowly dies and brushes a goodnight kiss
across our wild and weathered face.
Here’s to the good times, all we have is today,
let the moment caress you and whisk you away.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
WAITING FOR TREMOR
WAITING FOR TREMOR
This little mound of flesh I call my own,
This bulbous bag of bones I haul o’er the globe.
Stiff as a New Year’s cocktail,
rusty as the Tin Man,
Yearns to heave and smolder like a mighty volcano.
They say it’s best to quiver and shake,
The future brighter with a rhythmic pill roll.
They say there’s hope in the twitch of a finger,
like Michael J. Fox’s swift dancing pinkie.
And so I sit an impatient Mount Saint Helens,
And in my dreams I’m a rampaging Vesuvius.
Like a guard in the watchtower, I stake my claim.
A hungry captive trapped in my vessel.
Waiting for tremor on bended knee,
Blindly believing in the eruption to come.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
This little mound of flesh I call my own,
This bulbous bag of bones I haul o’er the globe.
Stiff as a New Year’s cocktail,
rusty as the Tin Man,
Yearns to heave and smolder like a mighty volcano.
They say it’s best to quiver and shake,
The future brighter with a rhythmic pill roll.
They say there’s hope in the twitch of a finger,
like Michael J. Fox’s swift dancing pinkie.
And so I sit an impatient Mount Saint Helens,
And in my dreams I’m a rampaging Vesuvius.
Like a guard in the watchtower, I stake my claim.
A hungry captive trapped in my vessel.
Waiting for tremor on bended knee,
Blindly believing in the eruption to come.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
KEEPSAKE
KEEPSAKE
(FOR KYLE)
I long to be your keepsake,
in the basement of your soul,
The clutter in your kitchen,
the winding in your road.
The clipping you can’t throw away,
the headline that proclaims,
All the stones we’ve gathered,
the sand that bears our name.
I long to be your keepsake,
the scrapbook musty worn,
The childhood action hero
whose clothes are frayed and torn.
The hope chest in your attic
to the brim and overflowing,
The locket of all loves gone by,
the sweet persistent knowing.
I long to be your keepsake,
your knight upon a stallion.
Your ribbon from a county fair,
your shining gold medallion.
The Wonder Woman comic books
within your chest of drawers,
The Debbie Harry poster you’ve
worshiped and adored.
I long to be your keepsake,
the photo in your frame.
The cobwebs’ sacred memory
of love’s eternal flame.
I long to hold you late at night
when the Sandman sprinkles dust.
To hear the beating of your heart,
to sleep and dream of us.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
(FOR KYLE)
I long to be your keepsake,
in the basement of your soul,
The clutter in your kitchen,
the winding in your road.
The clipping you can’t throw away,
the headline that proclaims,
All the stones we’ve gathered,
the sand that bears our name.
I long to be your keepsake,
the scrapbook musty worn,
The childhood action hero
whose clothes are frayed and torn.
The hope chest in your attic
to the brim and overflowing,
The locket of all loves gone by,
the sweet persistent knowing.
I long to be your keepsake,
your knight upon a stallion.
Your ribbon from a county fair,
your shining gold medallion.
The Wonder Woman comic books
within your chest of drawers,
The Debbie Harry poster you’ve
worshiped and adored.
I long to be your keepsake,
the photo in your frame.
The cobwebs’ sacred memory
of love’s eternal flame.
I long to hold you late at night
when the Sandman sprinkles dust.
To hear the beating of your heart,
to sleep and dream of us.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
NEW SUN RISING
NEW SUN RISING
(AN INAUGURAL POEM OF HOPE)
Into the brilliant daylight comes a humble, honest man
to lead this country out of the rubble, this torn and tattered land
Bravely cross the fruited plain, Barack Obama takes the reins,
banishing fear and bigotry, breaking their iron chains.
Creating a haven fair and kind for all to safely coexist.
Into the brilliant daylight,
sober soldier of hope, determined realist.
Into the brilliant daylight of liberty for all.
For black, for white, for Asian, for Hispanic,
for all the citizenry, for gay, for straight,
A melting pot, a brand new day, a blank and beckoning empty slate.
A man who stands for one and all, as he waxes eloquent,
and prepares to pave the way of justice, weaving his grand mosaic.
Of a flag that lives up to its promise and carries its own weight
for a nation of amnesiacs, forgetting how to judge and hate.
Into the brilliant sunlight comes a beautiful young man
whose smile lights up this sad horizon.
Leading us into the golden valley,
new day dawning and a new sun rising.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2009
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
(AN INAUGURAL POEM OF HOPE)
Into the brilliant daylight comes a humble, honest man
to lead this country out of the rubble, this torn and tattered land
Bravely cross the fruited plain, Barack Obama takes the reins,
banishing fear and bigotry, breaking their iron chains.
Creating a haven fair and kind for all to safely coexist.
Into the brilliant daylight,
sober soldier of hope, determined realist.
Into the brilliant daylight of liberty for all.
For black, for white, for Asian, for Hispanic,
for all the citizenry, for gay, for straight,
A melting pot, a brand new day, a blank and beckoning empty slate.
A man who stands for one and all, as he waxes eloquent,
and prepares to pave the way of justice, weaving his grand mosaic.
Of a flag that lives up to its promise and carries its own weight
for a nation of amnesiacs, forgetting how to judge and hate.
Into the brilliant sunlight comes a beautiful young man
whose smile lights up this sad horizon.
Leading us into the golden valley,
new day dawning and a new sun rising.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2009
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
SONGSTRESS OF SILVER
SONGSTRESS OF SILVER
(FOR JUDY COLLINS)
Songstress of silver, class personified,
You take the stage with your guitar and your kind blue eyes.
You sing the songs of Pete and Woody, Joni Mitchell,
Leonard Cohen,
And then you grace the keyboards and bless us
with your own songs,
Since You Asked and Secret Gardens,
Holly Ann and Houses.
And the concert hall becomes transformed, like water into wine,
as you weave your sonic tapestry across our hearts and minds.
There’s Ian Tyson’s cowboy, the charms of a day in Chelsea,
A snowstorm deep on Berthoud Peak, Both Sides to every story.
The tale of a revered father, on the Paris river deep
and Singing Lessons loud and clear in their majestic sweep.
Songs of loss and of rebirth that heal the brokenhearted;
Songs that pray for peace on earth,
remembering dreams discarded.
Songstress of silver, blue eyes gleaming, your spirit fills the room,
You take the stage with your guitar and pierce my heart clear through.
The stories from your childhood, Seattle, Colorado,
your dad and all his anecdotes from a life in radio.
Your years with Max and Brico, Mae West’s racy quips,
your feathery voice wraps ‘round a note and calms my restless spirit.
Songstress, make your music, enchant me with the beauty,
songs that speak of giving back, of family and of duty.
Blessed tunes that fill my ears in times that try the soul,
songs that herald faithfulness, when AmazingGrace takes hold.
Songstress of silver, inspiring awe, a living legend dear,
you take the stage and steal my breath with your soprano clear.
You sing the songs of Dylan, the lilt of Stephen Sondheim,
and charm a grateful audience with your gift of love divine.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
(FOR JUDY COLLINS)
Songstress of silver, class personified,
You take the stage with your guitar and your kind blue eyes.
You sing the songs of Pete and Woody, Joni Mitchell,
Leonard Cohen,
And then you grace the keyboards and bless us
with your own songs,
Since You Asked and Secret Gardens,
Holly Ann and Houses.
And the concert hall becomes transformed, like water into wine,
as you weave your sonic tapestry across our hearts and minds.
There’s Ian Tyson’s cowboy, the charms of a day in Chelsea,
A snowstorm deep on Berthoud Peak, Both Sides to every story.
The tale of a revered father, on the Paris river deep
and Singing Lessons loud and clear in their majestic sweep.
Songs of loss and of rebirth that heal the brokenhearted;
Songs that pray for peace on earth,
remembering dreams discarded.
Songstress of silver, blue eyes gleaming, your spirit fills the room,
You take the stage with your guitar and pierce my heart clear through.
The stories from your childhood, Seattle, Colorado,
your dad and all his anecdotes from a life in radio.
Your years with Max and Brico, Mae West’s racy quips,
your feathery voice wraps ‘round a note and calms my restless spirit.
Songstress, make your music, enchant me with the beauty,
songs that speak of giving back, of family and of duty.
Blessed tunes that fill my ears in times that try the soul,
songs that herald faithfulness, when AmazingGrace takes hold.
Songstress of silver, inspiring awe, a living legend dear,
you take the stage and steal my breath with your soprano clear.
You sing the songs of Dylan, the lilt of Stephen Sondheim,
and charm a grateful audience with your gift of love divine.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
WHEN THE PARTY ENDED
WHEN THE PARTY ENDED
(FOR JANIS IAN)
Since truth is not the enemy, you take its dare and set it free.
A guitar hero short in stature, rich in artistry.
You changed my life when I was young, languishing in gym class.
I learned the truth at seventeen, like Alice through the looking glass.
I was a young man who loved other men, in a small and sheltered place
and you took my thoughts and laid them bare with a spirit full of grace.
From you to me the wisdom flowed, almost as heaven sent
as I licked my wounds alone in the winter of my discontent.
Before my time, you broke the mold
with a song of interracial love.
A pioneer at 14 years, brave and feisty even then.
A rare and wondrous wordsmith when you first picked up your pen.
I learned to write from the beauty of your words,
songs like The Bridge and Hopper Painting.
Iowa sunrise in Jenny’s eyes, your melodies breathtaking.
What I needed was a lot more you, and I saw you live
around ‘92.
It was the year you reemerged, the year your silence broke,
Your train still ran upon the track, folks listened when you spoke.
Never knew you were so funny or played such a mean guitar,
that you cared so much about your fans or had such a giving heart.
I’ve followed you all over, like an Olympic sport.
Saw you twice in just one week, drove six hours to Williamsport.
To learn that you were gay like me filled my heart with pride,
After all the years I’d walked alone, your music at my side.
Your songs gleamed like a talisman, and left a lasting mark,
whispering hope and courage when the world was cold and dark.
I was a Janis Ian freak, you touched me through and through,
and when the party ended, I fell in love with you.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
(FOR JANIS IAN)
Since truth is not the enemy, you take its dare and set it free.
A guitar hero short in stature, rich in artistry.
You changed my life when I was young, languishing in gym class.
I learned the truth at seventeen, like Alice through the looking glass.
I was a young man who loved other men, in a small and sheltered place
and you took my thoughts and laid them bare with a spirit full of grace.
From you to me the wisdom flowed, almost as heaven sent
as I licked my wounds alone in the winter of my discontent.
Before my time, you broke the mold
with a song of interracial love.
A pioneer at 14 years, brave and feisty even then.
A rare and wondrous wordsmith when you first picked up your pen.
I learned to write from the beauty of your words,
songs like The Bridge and Hopper Painting.
Iowa sunrise in Jenny’s eyes, your melodies breathtaking.
What I needed was a lot more you, and I saw you live
around ‘92.
It was the year you reemerged, the year your silence broke,
Your train still ran upon the track, folks listened when you spoke.
Never knew you were so funny or played such a mean guitar,
that you cared so much about your fans or had such a giving heart.
I’ve followed you all over, like an Olympic sport.
Saw you twice in just one week, drove six hours to Williamsport.
To learn that you were gay like me filled my heart with pride,
After all the years I’d walked alone, your music at my side.
Your songs gleamed like a talisman, and left a lasting mark,
whispering hope and courage when the world was cold and dark.
I was a Janis Ian freak, you touched me through and through,
and when the party ended, I fell in love with you.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
COMING OF AUTUMN
COMING OF AUTUMN
The coming of autumn, so good for my soul,
The metallic blue sky, his sweet porcelain smile.
Life the more precious as the years ebb away,
I bask in the cool, giving thanks all the while.
The coming of autumn, the brilliance of the sun.
The burnished leaves tremble,
on waves of parkinson,
Shaking and falling, fulfilling Nature’s plan,
Like I tremble at my lover’s beauty,
standing nude before me as he bravely takes my hand.
The coming of autumn, nature’s great show,
the crunching of morning, the leaves red and amber,
My doctor’s appointments, laced with hope and danger.
The coming of autumn,
so much I dream, so much I fear.
The gentle touch of his magic fingers,
the slow decline of advancing years.
The coming of autumn, so good for my soul,
The majestic blue sky, his broad winning smile.
Life but a dream as I cherish it all,
the magic cornucopia of the sweet abundant fall.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
The coming of autumn, so good for my soul,
The metallic blue sky, his sweet porcelain smile.
Life the more precious as the years ebb away,
I bask in the cool, giving thanks all the while.
The coming of autumn, the brilliance of the sun.
The burnished leaves tremble,
on waves of parkinson,
Shaking and falling, fulfilling Nature’s plan,
Like I tremble at my lover’s beauty,
standing nude before me as he bravely takes my hand.
The coming of autumn, nature’s great show,
the crunching of morning, the leaves red and amber,
My doctor’s appointments, laced with hope and danger.
The coming of autumn,
so much I dream, so much I fear.
The gentle touch of his magic fingers,
the slow decline of advancing years.
The coming of autumn, so good for my soul,
The majestic blue sky, his broad winning smile.
Life but a dream as I cherish it all,
the magic cornucopia of the sweet abundant fall.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
DREAMSLAYER
DREAMSLAYER
So benign you were at first, pretending you were a crossing guard,
Slowing me down at the intersections,
the roaring din of careless drivers,
the horrid pace of modern life.
But you were yet a monster sleeping in my dark substantia nigra,
soon to waken in your fury and turn me old before my time.
So charming in your subtlety, yet vicious in your bile,
you froze me in the supermarket, you crippled overnight.
You left me trapped inside my body,
once a temple standing tall.
Now I’m hunched and forward leaning, now I creep and barely move.
With shattered sleep, I sweat profusely, battling with
your demons new.
So benign you were at first, pretending you were on my side,
Until you set your fury loose and I could not stem the tide.
You sent your armies of destruction to confiscate my dopamine.
My pleasure chemicals are gone, their fortress overtaken.
I’m vanquished by the onslaught, and stand before you shaking.
And so the flag-draped coffin of all I hoped to be
was carried off into the dusk before I knew what hit me.
By some high and mighty dreamslayer and his unforgiving sword.
My nemesis, my enemy, who has the final word.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
So benign you were at first, pretending you were a crossing guard,
Slowing me down at the intersections,
the roaring din of careless drivers,
the horrid pace of modern life.
But you were yet a monster sleeping in my dark substantia nigra,
soon to waken in your fury and turn me old before my time.
So charming in your subtlety, yet vicious in your bile,
you froze me in the supermarket, you crippled overnight.
You left me trapped inside my body,
once a temple standing tall.
Now I’m hunched and forward leaning, now I creep and barely move.
With shattered sleep, I sweat profusely, battling with
your demons new.
So benign you were at first, pretending you were on my side,
Until you set your fury loose and I could not stem the tide.
You sent your armies of destruction to confiscate my dopamine.
My pleasure chemicals are gone, their fortress overtaken.
I’m vanquished by the onslaught, and stand before you shaking.
And so the flag-draped coffin of all I hoped to be
was carried off into the dusk before I knew what hit me.
By some high and mighty dreamslayer and his unforgiving sword.
My nemesis, my enemy, who has the final word.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
TUG OF WAR WITH WINTER
TUG OF WAR WITH WINTER
Like a fisherman well seasoned
on the iceberg of your heart,
I stand in the shallow waters,
with my world all blown apart.
The bitter waves creep through me
of tangled, acrid words.
A fog horn in the distance, a flock of angry birds.
Lightning crashes empty nets
and thunder issues warning.
My breast stroke flails against the tide,
lost in grief and mourning.
The ocean dark and poisonous,
the glaciers sharp as thumb tacks.
The lighthouse on the hill stands dark,
the ship’s hull has a crack.
The wind as violent as a banshee
shakes my loose foundation.
I tremble with the bullet holes
of brittle devastation.
The sailor who I trusted is absent without leave
and I am stranded in the foam,
lonely and bereaved.
I stand without an overcoat,
as the shoreline starts to splinter,
Barefoot on the frosty ground,
playing tug of war with winter.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Like a fisherman well seasoned
on the iceberg of your heart,
I stand in the shallow waters,
with my world all blown apart.
The bitter waves creep through me
of tangled, acrid words.
A fog horn in the distance, a flock of angry birds.
Lightning crashes empty nets
and thunder issues warning.
My breast stroke flails against the tide,
lost in grief and mourning.
The ocean dark and poisonous,
the glaciers sharp as thumb tacks.
The lighthouse on the hill stands dark,
the ship’s hull has a crack.
The wind as violent as a banshee
shakes my loose foundation.
I tremble with the bullet holes
of brittle devastation.
The sailor who I trusted is absent without leave
and I am stranded in the foam,
lonely and bereaved.
I stand without an overcoat,
as the shoreline starts to splinter,
Barefoot on the frosty ground,
playing tug of war with winter.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
SAW YOU YESTERDAY
SAW YOU YESTERDAY
Saw you yesterday, as if for the first time,
stomping through the rain-soaked gutters
in your killer galoshes,
Making mincemeat of the winter storm,
your heart steeled hard against the madness.
Saw you yesterday in a fit of defiance,
gunning through the stop signs
with a reckless abandon,
As if you weren’t concerned with me,
as if I were a poltergeist or a fading apparition.
Saw you yesterday, drenched with a burning fever,
kneeling on the precipice of a healing waterfall.
Praying for death to snatch you with his sickle,
for Mother Earth to swallow you
within her swollen reaches.
Saw you yesterday, a bloody, war-sick fighter,
trolling the aisles of the hardware store,
With landmines rife across your face,
A shopping cart of razor blades
your mode of transportation.
Saw you yesterday, as if for the first time.
Your eyes they glistened lonely,
devoid of song and dance,
A teardrop on the landscape, a river never cresting.
A one-act play that was cast in gray,
a spirit that was breaking.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Saw you yesterday, as if for the first time,
stomping through the rain-soaked gutters
in your killer galoshes,
Making mincemeat of the winter storm,
your heart steeled hard against the madness.
Saw you yesterday in a fit of defiance,
gunning through the stop signs
with a reckless abandon,
As if you weren’t concerned with me,
as if I were a poltergeist or a fading apparition.
Saw you yesterday, drenched with a burning fever,
kneeling on the precipice of a healing waterfall.
Praying for death to snatch you with his sickle,
for Mother Earth to swallow you
within her swollen reaches.
Saw you yesterday, a bloody, war-sick fighter,
trolling the aisles of the hardware store,
With landmines rife across your face,
A shopping cart of razor blades
your mode of transportation.
Saw you yesterday, as if for the first time.
Your eyes they glistened lonely,
devoid of song and dance,
A teardrop on the landscape, a river never cresting.
A one-act play that was cast in gray,
a spirit that was breaking.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
SERENADE OF TWILIGHT
SERENADE OF TWILIGHT
The stars in your eyes, love, I tried them on for size.
They shone as bright as diamonds,
how they mesmerized.
And when the sunlight narrowed, passing deep
into the sky,
You wrapped me in your tender arms,
a serenade of twilight.
My devils and my demons, they packed up
all their things,
And tumbled from their lofty heights
like tangled balls of string.
And when the dusty day had vanished deep into the moon,
you plucked my heartstrings with your fingers,
lovely was the tune.
The dreams in your heart, love, I tried them on for size.
They fit me like a hand in glove, a warm and sweet surprise.
And as our footsteps coalesced, echoing through time,
I knew that I had found a home, a refuge most sublime.
The bright light of your spirit, love, I tried it on for size,
and found what I was seeking, a passion undisguised.
You wrapped me in a tender web, naked, warm beside me
and like a shooting star divine, I felt your presence guide me.
The orbits in your eyes, love, I tried them on for size.
They shone as bright as gossamer, how they mesmerized.
And when the sunlight fractured and dissolved into the sky,
you wrapped me in your gentle arms, a serenade of twilight.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
The stars in your eyes, love, I tried them on for size.
They shone as bright as diamonds,
how they mesmerized.
And when the sunlight narrowed, passing deep
into the sky,
You wrapped me in your tender arms,
a serenade of twilight.
My devils and my demons, they packed up
all their things,
And tumbled from their lofty heights
like tangled balls of string.
And when the dusty day had vanished deep into the moon,
you plucked my heartstrings with your fingers,
lovely was the tune.
The dreams in your heart, love, I tried them on for size.
They fit me like a hand in glove, a warm and sweet surprise.
And as our footsteps coalesced, echoing through time,
I knew that I had found a home, a refuge most sublime.
The bright light of your spirit, love, I tried it on for size,
and found what I was seeking, a passion undisguised.
You wrapped me in a tender web, naked, warm beside me
and like a shooting star divine, I felt your presence guide me.
The orbits in your eyes, love, I tried them on for size.
They shone as bright as gossamer, how they mesmerized.
And when the sunlight fractured and dissolved into the sky,
you wrapped me in your gentle arms, a serenade of twilight.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
I MOURNED YOU EARLY
I MOURNED YOU EARLY
It was a gradual parting of the ways
To the woman I loved best of all.
A slow, methodical decline, I saw the writing on the wall.
I mourned you on my birthday in the year 2001
When Judy Collins sang My Father
And I thought of you, my mother
And our seasons in the sun.
I mourned you oft on Friday nights,
The night of our weekly pizza feast,
When the truck bearing your oxygen
Sat parked along the street.
After your trip to the doctor
And your latest breathing tests,
The concentrator in the foyer
Became our uninvited guest.
I mourned you in my bed at night,
Listening to the motor of that lifeline grim,
Archiving my memories sweet,
And cleaving steadfast unto them.
I mourned you at your brother’s funeral,
Portable oxygen at your side,
Still your effervescent self,
Your wheelchair on its maiden ride.
I mourned you at the Wolf Trap show,
As Will the Circle Be Unbroken pierced
the summer evening air.
Its story of a mother’s passing
Streaked my face with silent tears.
I mourned you at each intervention,
Each hospital and nursing home,
‘Til at last I stood in your hospice room, your last breath spent and your spirit flown.
I mourned you early, loud and long.
I mourn you still, the memories strong.
And late at night I lie awake
And hear your spirit sweetly call.
The priceless one who gave me life,
The woman I love most of all.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
It was a gradual parting of the ways
To the woman I loved best of all.
A slow, methodical decline, I saw the writing on the wall.
I mourned you on my birthday in the year 2001
When Judy Collins sang My Father
And I thought of you, my mother
And our seasons in the sun.
I mourned you oft on Friday nights,
The night of our weekly pizza feast,
When the truck bearing your oxygen
Sat parked along the street.
After your trip to the doctor
And your latest breathing tests,
The concentrator in the foyer
Became our uninvited guest.
I mourned you in my bed at night,
Listening to the motor of that lifeline grim,
Archiving my memories sweet,
And cleaving steadfast unto them.
I mourned you at your brother’s funeral,
Portable oxygen at your side,
Still your effervescent self,
Your wheelchair on its maiden ride.
I mourned you at the Wolf Trap show,
As Will the Circle Be Unbroken pierced
the summer evening air.
Its story of a mother’s passing
Streaked my face with silent tears.
I mourned you at each intervention,
Each hospital and nursing home,
‘Til at last I stood in your hospice room, your last breath spent and your spirit flown.
I mourned you early, loud and long.
I mourn you still, the memories strong.
And late at night I lie awake
And hear your spirit sweetly call.
The priceless one who gave me life,
The woman I love most of all.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
REMEMBERING YOU
REMEMBERING YOU
(FOR MOTHER)
I want to live fearlessly, gather the wildflowers.
Praising each second, extolling each hour.
To waken each morning with pure gratitude,
Embracing the present, remembering you.
To go on a magical sojourn through time,
A lavender journey with laughter and song.
Buoyed by the love and the company of friends,
Those precious companions that follow along.
I want to have a laugh of honey,
To think the best of everyone.
To trust the hand of Providence,
Taking each day as it comes.
To eat and drink with merry gusto,
To savor with supreme delight
All the tasty treats before me
That tease and tempt the appetite.
I want to live kindly and patient and wise
And see the world through your graceful green eyes.
The way you made allowances for man’s unpleasantness,
The way you opened up your heart
And poured forth sweet forgiveness.
I want to live fearlessly, banishing sorrow,
Praising each second, each shining tomorrow,
And then in the twilight of an amorous moon,
To light all my candles, remembering you.
=BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
(FOR MOTHER)
I want to live fearlessly, gather the wildflowers.
Praising each second, extolling each hour.
To waken each morning with pure gratitude,
Embracing the present, remembering you.
To go on a magical sojourn through time,
A lavender journey with laughter and song.
Buoyed by the love and the company of friends,
Those precious companions that follow along.
I want to have a laugh of honey,
To think the best of everyone.
To trust the hand of Providence,
Taking each day as it comes.
To eat and drink with merry gusto,
To savor with supreme delight
All the tasty treats before me
That tease and tempt the appetite.
I want to live kindly and patient and wise
And see the world through your graceful green eyes.
The way you made allowances for man’s unpleasantness,
The way you opened up your heart
And poured forth sweet forgiveness.
I want to live fearlessly, banishing sorrow,
Praising each second, each shining tomorrow,
And then in the twilight of an amorous moon,
To light all my candles, remembering you.
=BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
A LAVENDER UNEQUALED LOVE
A LAVENDER, UNEQUALED LOVE
(FOR MOTHER)
You spoke to me softly when I was a baby,
knew I was fragile, knew I could break,
And you cheered as I cleared the
hurdle of crawling,
The daunting stunt of walking upright.
You dried forgotten playground tears,
cooked and cleaned like a woman possessed,
a legend in your own time
with wide-eyed kindergarteners.
You taught me to drive when I was a teen.
Fearlessly you braved the wheel,
as I ripped around corners and parallel parked
and slammed on the brakes,
dodging last minute dangers.
You were there at college,
where I tried to make you proud,
and you listened to Barry Manilow
at decibels quite loud.
You were there for all the ceremony,
the scandal and the bland
and when I struggled drowning,
you led me to dry land.
We shared a wiry, precious pup
who tumed into a wise, sweet friend.
The sweet joy of his growing up,
the anguish at his passing.
We’ve shared ups and we’ve shared downs,
Sarcoidosis, Parkinson’s,
country drives and coffee breaks
and quiet confidences.
We’ve shared Judy Collins
on balmy Wolf Trap evenings,
And a lavender unequaled love
that grows with passing seasons.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
(FOR MOTHER)
You spoke to me softly when I was a baby,
knew I was fragile, knew I could break,
And you cheered as I cleared the
hurdle of crawling,
The daunting stunt of walking upright.
You dried forgotten playground tears,
cooked and cleaned like a woman possessed,
a legend in your own time
with wide-eyed kindergarteners.
You taught me to drive when I was a teen.
Fearlessly you braved the wheel,
as I ripped around corners and parallel parked
and slammed on the brakes,
dodging last minute dangers.
You were there at college,
where I tried to make you proud,
and you listened to Barry Manilow
at decibels quite loud.
You were there for all the ceremony,
the scandal and the bland
and when I struggled drowning,
you led me to dry land.
We shared a wiry, precious pup
who tumed into a wise, sweet friend.
The sweet joy of his growing up,
the anguish at his passing.
We’ve shared ups and we’ve shared downs,
Sarcoidosis, Parkinson’s,
country drives and coffee breaks
and quiet confidences.
We’ve shared Judy Collins
on balmy Wolf Trap evenings,
And a lavender unequaled love
that grows with passing seasons.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
THE SNOW WILL FALL
THE SNOW WILL FALL
The snow will fall on my barren grave,
as time marches on and history is made.
And legions of angels will transcribe my name
in the golden book, sealed by a flame.
All that is left will be threads of memory,
of times that you spent celebrating with me.
The time when our destinies melded as one,
when our feet strolled the sand,
warmed by the sun.
When I saw in your pupils the answers to prayers
and woke in the morning to find you still there.
The moon will fall down on our years of romance,
when our eyes dim with age
and we tire of the dance.
One will go first and one will remain
to pick up the pieces and live through the pain.
All that is left will be ashes and dust,
sparks of remembrance and tinges of us,
That will meddle with sleep
and tear through the night
like meteor showers of tremulous light.
And all will be kept in the annals of time,
to ponder thereafter in moments divine.
The snow will fall on my barren grave,
alone in the churchyard where I was laid.
And the sun will set on a life well spent
with those that I loved and cherished and kissed.
All that is left our golden days
of halcyon brilliance and amorous ways.
And legions of angels will enter my name
in the golden directory, guarded by flame.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
The snow will fall on my barren grave,
as time marches on and history is made.
And legions of angels will transcribe my name
in the golden book, sealed by a flame.
All that is left will be threads of memory,
of times that you spent celebrating with me.
The time when our destinies melded as one,
when our feet strolled the sand,
warmed by the sun.
When I saw in your pupils the answers to prayers
and woke in the morning to find you still there.
The moon will fall down on our years of romance,
when our eyes dim with age
and we tire of the dance.
One will go first and one will remain
to pick up the pieces and live through the pain.
All that is left will be ashes and dust,
sparks of remembrance and tinges of us,
That will meddle with sleep
and tear through the night
like meteor showers of tremulous light.
And all will be kept in the annals of time,
to ponder thereafter in moments divine.
The snow will fall on my barren grave,
alone in the churchyard where I was laid.
And the sun will set on a life well spent
with those that I loved and cherished and kissed.
All that is left our golden days
of halcyon brilliance and amorous ways.
And legions of angels will enter my name
in the golden directory, guarded by flame.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
I COULD SLEEP THE NIGHT
I COULD SLEEP THE NIGHT
I could sleep the night, deep in peace beside you,
In between the cool, clean sheets of my lover’s vows.
I could count the sheep and their passing bleats,
And the Sandman would come tiptoeing in
Before I reached the number ten.
I could sleep the night so fearlessly,
For you’ve become so dear to me.
I could sleep the night, covered in the song
of you and me,
Blind to the land mines and grenades
That clutter up the scenery.
I could slumber sweet with no regrets
And hobknob with the moon and stars,
Wrapped in the golden promise
of this miracle that is ours.
If you would only mouth the words that signify devotion,
If you would let your eyes meet mine
and drink the magic potion,
You’d fall beneath my well laid schemes,
Be victim to my wishes,
And lie with me in rapture sweet,
In moments so delicious.
If you would only plunge and fall,
Head over your helpless heels,
You’d be pierced by Cupid’s bow
And know just how it feels.
I could sleep the night, deep in peace beside you,
In between the clean, soft sheets, floating in slow motion.
I could sleep the night so soundly,
For you’ve become my destiny,
swimming laps beside me in this happy ocean.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
I could sleep the night, deep in peace beside you,
In between the cool, clean sheets of my lover’s vows.
I could count the sheep and their passing bleats,
And the Sandman would come tiptoeing in
Before I reached the number ten.
I could sleep the night so fearlessly,
For you’ve become so dear to me.
I could sleep the night, covered in the song
of you and me,
Blind to the land mines and grenades
That clutter up the scenery.
I could slumber sweet with no regrets
And hobknob with the moon and stars,
Wrapped in the golden promise
of this miracle that is ours.
If you would only mouth the words that signify devotion,
If you would let your eyes meet mine
and drink the magic potion,
You’d fall beneath my well laid schemes,
Be victim to my wishes,
And lie with me in rapture sweet,
In moments so delicious.
If you would only plunge and fall,
Head over your helpless heels,
You’d be pierced by Cupid’s bow
And know just how it feels.
I could sleep the night, deep in peace beside you,
In between the clean, soft sheets, floating in slow motion.
I could sleep the night so soundly,
For you’ve become my destiny,
swimming laps beside me in this happy ocean.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
STAR ON THE RISE
STAR ON THE RISE
You looked indestructible, the day before they cut you down,
dressed in the armor of suit and tie.
Crunching numbers at your desk, your star on the rise.
A company man, cocky and bright,
with the Fortune 500 clear in your sight.
Climbing the ladder, each pure golden rung,
on status and fringe benefits your star was draped and hung.
The penthouse suite, the Jaguar, the requisite trophy wife,
That was the stuff of your fabulous life.
You looked indefatigable, the day before they swallowed your soul,
The day before the market crashed and took its deadly toll.
A humpty-dumpty on the wall, poised to jump
And doomed to fall,
Popping the aspirins and Tylenol,
And steeling your resolve,
As the money flew away swift as confetti on the wind,
As you said goodbye to your cronies and fairweather friends.
You could feel a strange foreboding, the day your pink slip came
And it made your face sting with shame,
To be caught inside a losing game.
So you packed your mementos and your mugs,
The evidence of your corporate life,
The snapshots of you and your trophy wife
On that last great trip to paradise.
You walked like a dead man to your sporty car,
Your office stripped and vacant, you left the door ajar.
You looked indestructible the day before they cut you down.
Dressed in the armor of suit and tie,
Crunching numbers at your desk, your star on the rise.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
You looked indestructible, the day before they cut you down,
dressed in the armor of suit and tie.
Crunching numbers at your desk, your star on the rise.
A company man, cocky and bright,
with the Fortune 500 clear in your sight.
Climbing the ladder, each pure golden rung,
on status and fringe benefits your star was draped and hung.
The penthouse suite, the Jaguar, the requisite trophy wife,
That was the stuff of your fabulous life.
You looked indefatigable, the day before they swallowed your soul,
The day before the market crashed and took its deadly toll.
A humpty-dumpty on the wall, poised to jump
And doomed to fall,
Popping the aspirins and Tylenol,
And steeling your resolve,
As the money flew away swift as confetti on the wind,
As you said goodbye to your cronies and fairweather friends.
You could feel a strange foreboding, the day your pink slip came
And it made your face sting with shame,
To be caught inside a losing game.
So you packed your mementos and your mugs,
The evidence of your corporate life,
The snapshots of you and your trophy wife
On that last great trip to paradise.
You walked like a dead man to your sporty car,
Your office stripped and vacant, you left the door ajar.
You looked indestructible the day before they cut you down.
Dressed in the armor of suit and tie,
Crunching numbers at your desk, your star on the rise.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
THE FINISH LINE IS TO THE SWIFT
THE FINISH LINE IS TO THE SWIFT
The world is callous, dark and cruel
to a man who can’t keep pace.
The road ragers hot on my bumper,
violently on my case.
Eyes flashing angrily in my rear view,
reproachful voices taunt me.
My days of glory in the dust,
childhood trophies haunt me.
The finish line is to the swift, so where am I to go?
How long until I find my place,
away from the life of the shadows?
To do a thing and do it fast
is the newfound measure of a man,
The tortoise and the terrapin have not a leg on which to stand.
Businessmen with mobile phones
that fit in the palm like a dime,
eat their lunches at their desks to buy a little time.
Like Mario Andretti, their premium is on speed,
their engines built on peptic ulcers,
swimming in their greed.
Meanwhile the antiquated earth
revolves with calm around the sun,
out of sync with modern man
and his strange, misguided wisdom.
The finish line is to the swift,
their feet held to the fire,
My car has hit the jersey wall
and blown its last good tire.
The world is callous, swift and dumb,
mercy has grown cold and rare.
The road ragers seethe and rev their engines,
middle fingers in the air.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
The world is callous, dark and cruel
to a man who can’t keep pace.
The road ragers hot on my bumper,
violently on my case.
Eyes flashing angrily in my rear view,
reproachful voices taunt me.
My days of glory in the dust,
childhood trophies haunt me.
The finish line is to the swift, so where am I to go?
How long until I find my place,
away from the life of the shadows?
To do a thing and do it fast
is the newfound measure of a man,
The tortoise and the terrapin have not a leg on which to stand.
Businessmen with mobile phones
that fit in the palm like a dime,
eat their lunches at their desks to buy a little time.
Like Mario Andretti, their premium is on speed,
their engines built on peptic ulcers,
swimming in their greed.
Meanwhile the antiquated earth
revolves with calm around the sun,
out of sync with modern man
and his strange, misguided wisdom.
The finish line is to the swift,
their feet held to the fire,
My car has hit the jersey wall
and blown its last good tire.
The world is callous, swift and dumb,
mercy has grown cold and rare.
The road ragers seethe and rev their engines,
middle fingers in the air.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
BALLOONS INTO THE SKY
BALLOONS INTO THE SKY
(FOR PETER CIMINI)
The day of his funeral was yellow and fine.
The sun blazed forth like a miracle, water into wine.
We had gathered there to say goodbye
to a man that I had known
for a quick, keen sense of humor
and a gift for answering phones.
He had passed from the world at 48,
a swift, sudden shock, a cruel twist of fate.
And we all left our cars in the springtime breeze
and filed into the chapel, lost in memories.
His life had been the circus,
and his Ringling Brothers family came,
to share their stories of the man,
his life an everlasting flame.
They stood behind the podium
and commenced to gently share,
his tender love for friends and beasts,
the myriad ways he cared.
Two soloists sang for his widow
and the mourners in their Sunday clothes
and in the chapel draped with flowers,
the Holy Spirit echoed.
Emotions ran high and tears flowed undaunted
and the anecdotes stirred laughter,
the way he would have wanted.
And we all felt more alive that day,
buoyed by the tributes and the soaring tunes,
and the parking lot was drenched with the color
of helium balloons.
Releasing them to the firmament,
we bade our friend goodbye
and watched his spirit soaring free,
against a picture perfect sky.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
(FOR PETER CIMINI)
The day of his funeral was yellow and fine.
The sun blazed forth like a miracle, water into wine.
We had gathered there to say goodbye
to a man that I had known
for a quick, keen sense of humor
and a gift for answering phones.
He had passed from the world at 48,
a swift, sudden shock, a cruel twist of fate.
And we all left our cars in the springtime breeze
and filed into the chapel, lost in memories.
His life had been the circus,
and his Ringling Brothers family came,
to share their stories of the man,
his life an everlasting flame.
They stood behind the podium
and commenced to gently share,
his tender love for friends and beasts,
the myriad ways he cared.
Two soloists sang for his widow
and the mourners in their Sunday clothes
and in the chapel draped with flowers,
the Holy Spirit echoed.
Emotions ran high and tears flowed undaunted
and the anecdotes stirred laughter,
the way he would have wanted.
And we all felt more alive that day,
buoyed by the tributes and the soaring tunes,
and the parking lot was drenched with the color
of helium balloons.
Releasing them to the firmament,
we bade our friend goodbye
and watched his spirit soaring free,
against a picture perfect sky.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
NECTAR AND AMBROSIA
NECTAR AND AMBROSIA
Sometimes the gods are angry as sin,
Their lips in a pout on their silvery thrones,
Hurling their thunderbolts in a horrible wind
‘til one of them strikes you a final blow.
I am far from tasting nectar and ambrosia,
Far from the food of Athena and Zeus,
And sometimes I wake to a world that’s exploding,
My neck feels the pull of the hangman’s noose.
I go in pain where rigid muscles send me,
Encased like the tin man in a suit of rust,
Shuffling along like a shackled captive,
As I watch fellow travelers kicking up dust.
Sometimes the universe deals a bad hand,
And you wander through the wilderness a callous, broken man,
And you sing your songs to no one, devoid of any rhyme,
As your hourglass slowly empties in the deep abyss of time.
I am far from springing fully formed, like Athena from that fabled forehead.
I am Icarus fallen, wings charred and melted,
A destitute Sisyphus in the land of the dead.
Far from riding shotgun on that golden chariot,
Instead I mount a crippled horse that limps into the sunset.
Sometimes the gods are full of vinegar and piss,
Arching their backs at the slightest offense,
And making their displeasure known
By clinching their collective fist.
And I may not ever crack the code of what I’ve done to earn their scorn.
I’m trapped inside eternal dark,
Blinded to Aurora as she ushers forth the morn.
I am far, so far from feeding on nectar and ambrosia sweet,
And hurled from the Acropolis, my banishment complete.
The gods they roar in unison, their lips in a pout from their silvery thrones.
I’m lost adrift on their evil wind, feet bloodied on their jagged stones.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Sometimes the gods are angry as sin,
Their lips in a pout on their silvery thrones,
Hurling their thunderbolts in a horrible wind
‘til one of them strikes you a final blow.
I am far from tasting nectar and ambrosia,
Far from the food of Athena and Zeus,
And sometimes I wake to a world that’s exploding,
My neck feels the pull of the hangman’s noose.
I go in pain where rigid muscles send me,
Encased like the tin man in a suit of rust,
Shuffling along like a shackled captive,
As I watch fellow travelers kicking up dust.
Sometimes the universe deals a bad hand,
And you wander through the wilderness a callous, broken man,
And you sing your songs to no one, devoid of any rhyme,
As your hourglass slowly empties in the deep abyss of time.
I am far from springing fully formed, like Athena from that fabled forehead.
I am Icarus fallen, wings charred and melted,
A destitute Sisyphus in the land of the dead.
Far from riding shotgun on that golden chariot,
Instead I mount a crippled horse that limps into the sunset.
Sometimes the gods are full of vinegar and piss,
Arching their backs at the slightest offense,
And making their displeasure known
By clinching their collective fist.
And I may not ever crack the code of what I’ve done to earn their scorn.
I’m trapped inside eternal dark,
Blinded to Aurora as she ushers forth the morn.
I am far, so far from feeding on nectar and ambrosia sweet,
And hurled from the Acropolis, my banishment complete.
The gods they roar in unison, their lips in a pout from their silvery thrones.
I’m lost adrift on their evil wind, feet bloodied on their jagged stones.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
YOU BRING ME SWEET TIMES
YOU BRING ME SWEET TIMES
Our love is like a bakery I remember from my youth,
It fills me to the brim, it caters to my sweet tooth.
With every kind of candy and delicacy divine,
Back when sweets were good for you and I had a slender waistline.
You bring me sweet times at the break of morn,
Cinnamon coffee, croissants in bed.
Kisses that waken my soul to the rapture,
Glorious pastries, my sweet daily bread.
You bring me sweet times when the clock strikes noon
And we meet over lunch in this rapturous room.
You feast on my body like a pirate of old,
Pillaging deep for treasures untold.
You curry my favor, you fill up my cup,
I drink of you freely, you are always enough.
You inhabit my soul like a sweet tooth divine,
A chocolate éclair or a cool French silk pie.
You bring me sweet times, like a crepe or a pancake,
Smothered in syrup, a delicious escape,
A crème filled doughnut, or one filled with jelly,
That wakes up the senses and fills up the belly.
You bring me sweet times at the close of the day,
When my body surrenders to your sexy ways,
And as the sun sets and evening draws nigh,
You bring me sweet times ‘neath the peppermint sky.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Our love is like a bakery I remember from my youth,
It fills me to the brim, it caters to my sweet tooth.
With every kind of candy and delicacy divine,
Back when sweets were good for you and I had a slender waistline.
You bring me sweet times at the break of morn,
Cinnamon coffee, croissants in bed.
Kisses that waken my soul to the rapture,
Glorious pastries, my sweet daily bread.
You bring me sweet times when the clock strikes noon
And we meet over lunch in this rapturous room.
You feast on my body like a pirate of old,
Pillaging deep for treasures untold.
You curry my favor, you fill up my cup,
I drink of you freely, you are always enough.
You inhabit my soul like a sweet tooth divine,
A chocolate éclair or a cool French silk pie.
You bring me sweet times, like a crepe or a pancake,
Smothered in syrup, a delicious escape,
A crème filled doughnut, or one filled with jelly,
That wakes up the senses and fills up the belly.
You bring me sweet times at the close of the day,
When my body surrenders to your sexy ways,
And as the sun sets and evening draws nigh,
You bring me sweet times ‘neath the peppermint sky.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
A MILLION WAYS TO SAY IT
A MILLION WAYS TO SAY IT
(FOR KYLE)
Now that your love lives in me, chivalrous and gallantly,
Like some knight from Camelot, some mystic world that time forgot,
Like Lancelot to my Guinivere, sweet words whispered in my ear,
We face a future wrapped in lace, precious memories locked in place.
Now that your love breathes in me, in and out so effortlessly.
Now we face the golden age, light the torch and turn the page
And march with soldiers’ steps in time, turning water into wine.
There are a million ways to say it, long stem roses, a dinner out,
But none quite say just what I feel or capture what this love’s about
A million trinkets I could give, a thousand lifetimes I could live
And spend each lifetime tucked inside the shelter of your arms so wide.
A million stories I could tell, of how you rescued me from hell,
And brought me safely from the brink and bid me from your well to drink.
Now that your love lives in me, growing, changing, ever free,
We face a future gleaming bright, stars ascending in the night
Just like flowers in the snow, or an old remembered tune,
That lives inside the heart and grows, our love forever blooms.
There are a million ways to say it, a Macy’s card or something sweet,
A chocolate mountain, a bottle of wine, scotch and soda, whiskey neat.
There are a million ways to say it, flowers, candy, clever lines,
I choose a kiss on your precious lips for you my treasured valentine.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
(FOR KYLE)
Now that your love lives in me, chivalrous and gallantly,
Like some knight from Camelot, some mystic world that time forgot,
Like Lancelot to my Guinivere, sweet words whispered in my ear,
We face a future wrapped in lace, precious memories locked in place.
Now that your love breathes in me, in and out so effortlessly.
Now we face the golden age, light the torch and turn the page
And march with soldiers’ steps in time, turning water into wine.
There are a million ways to say it, long stem roses, a dinner out,
But none quite say just what I feel or capture what this love’s about
A million trinkets I could give, a thousand lifetimes I could live
And spend each lifetime tucked inside the shelter of your arms so wide.
A million stories I could tell, of how you rescued me from hell,
And brought me safely from the brink and bid me from your well to drink.
Now that your love lives in me, growing, changing, ever free,
We face a future gleaming bright, stars ascending in the night
Just like flowers in the snow, or an old remembered tune,
That lives inside the heart and grows, our love forever blooms.
There are a million ways to say it, a Macy’s card or something sweet,
A chocolate mountain, a bottle of wine, scotch and soda, whiskey neat.
There are a million ways to say it, flowers, candy, clever lines,
I choose a kiss on your precious lips for you my treasured valentine.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
SLEEP, THAT SLY EVASIVE FOX
SLEEP, THAT SLY EVASIVE FOX
In the middle of the darkest night
When nightmares call and a thousand witches
Cast their wicked spells.
You bring cool water to my forehead,
Respite from a thousand screaming hells.
And you sit with me, you hold my hand
And I am lost in a sweet dreamland
And the night is cool as peppermint,
Bathed in splendor heaven sent,
And lives within my memory,
A new and wondrous reverie.
And oh, how I sleep, drifting silent in your arms.
I sleep through dogs barking,
And neighbors’ errant smoke alarms.
And oh, how I slide, body bliss on satin sheets
While the Sandman waves his magic wand
And the sheep I’ve counted cease to bleat.
And oh, how I snore, lost to life’s unending roar
Of plans that slip in vain through hands
And die swift deaths on foreign lands.
In the middle of the night, when all my failures gather ‘round.
You touch my hand and time stands still,
And the future looms on solid ground.
And sleep, that sly, evasive fox,
Curls up in my lap and claims his throne.
And I at last am king of slumber and you my restful home.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
In the middle of the darkest night
When nightmares call and a thousand witches
Cast their wicked spells.
You bring cool water to my forehead,
Respite from a thousand screaming hells.
And you sit with me, you hold my hand
And I am lost in a sweet dreamland
And the night is cool as peppermint,
Bathed in splendor heaven sent,
And lives within my memory,
A new and wondrous reverie.
And oh, how I sleep, drifting silent in your arms.
I sleep through dogs barking,
And neighbors’ errant smoke alarms.
And oh, how I slide, body bliss on satin sheets
While the Sandman waves his magic wand
And the sheep I’ve counted cease to bleat.
And oh, how I snore, lost to life’s unending roar
Of plans that slip in vain through hands
And die swift deaths on foreign lands.
In the middle of the night, when all my failures gather ‘round.
You touch my hand and time stands still,
And the future looms on solid ground.
And sleep, that sly, evasive fox,
Curls up in my lap and claims his throne.
And I at last am king of slumber and you my restful home.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
GRAVESTONES
GRAVESTONES
First my father left me, a burden great to bear.
My mother later joined him, disappearing into air.
And then my brother’s partner and a litany of friends
Who succumbed to the last big mystery, like sand before the wind.
All that’s left are gravestones and scattered memories
Of lives lived out on Planet Earth, in varying degrees
Of fulfillment and of fortune in all its sad design.
Their passing leaves my heart in tatters, sorrow working overtime.
The great promise of my father, to retire and travel far.
The longing of my mother, to catch his fallen star.
My brother’s partner’s longing for a love he never found,
Lies forever locked inside his crypt within the ground.
All that’s left are gravestones or ashes in an urn
And lessons for those left behind that we never seem to learn.
To live our lives intentionally, to be tender, to be kind,
To cut ourselves and others slack as we move through time.
To gather rosebuds while we’re young,
To catch some snowflakes on our tongue.
To go for ice cream in the summer, to ride the ferris wheel.
To swallow up our foolish pride, to tell our loved ones how we feel.
To understand that time is short and life so very dear.
To make the most of the dances and the chances given here.
First my father left me, and he left me far too soon,
And then my mother joined him far beyond the moon.
Then my brother’s partner, it was then his time to go,
And friends who faded into dust, like errant flakes of snow.
All that’s left are gravestones, the more we travel on,
And names to be forgotten when our lineage is done.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
First my father left me, a burden great to bear.
My mother later joined him, disappearing into air.
And then my brother’s partner and a litany of friends
Who succumbed to the last big mystery, like sand before the wind.
All that’s left are gravestones and scattered memories
Of lives lived out on Planet Earth, in varying degrees
Of fulfillment and of fortune in all its sad design.
Their passing leaves my heart in tatters, sorrow working overtime.
The great promise of my father, to retire and travel far.
The longing of my mother, to catch his fallen star.
My brother’s partner’s longing for a love he never found,
Lies forever locked inside his crypt within the ground.
All that’s left are gravestones or ashes in an urn
And lessons for those left behind that we never seem to learn.
To live our lives intentionally, to be tender, to be kind,
To cut ourselves and others slack as we move through time.
To gather rosebuds while we’re young,
To catch some snowflakes on our tongue.
To go for ice cream in the summer, to ride the ferris wheel.
To swallow up our foolish pride, to tell our loved ones how we feel.
To understand that time is short and life so very dear.
To make the most of the dances and the chances given here.
First my father left me, and he left me far too soon,
And then my mother joined him far beyond the moon.
Then my brother’s partner, it was then his time to go,
And friends who faded into dust, like errant flakes of snow.
All that’s left are gravestones, the more we travel on,
And names to be forgotten when our lineage is done.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
LITTLE FAT GIRL FROM MARTINSBURG
LITTLE FAT GIRL FROM MARTINSBURG
All hail to thee, Ms. Suzanne Lee, with your saucy Southern twang
And your ample physique,
Not to mention your gift of gab and your healthy helping of feminine mystique.
I loved you from day one, when first you crossed my soft heart’s threshold,
Your kind and friendly kisses, your bear hugs strong and bold.
All hail to thee, my friend most dear, married to the handsome Larry,
Who all by himself is a treasure to see,
Who suffers erectile dysfunction for me,
And who is I’m sure shocked and amazed,
At how much I consume at restaurant buffets.
All hail to thee, and thy sprightly dog Darren,
Whose humping is renowned and revered in the doggy kingdom.
Who when he does it to guests must scare them,
Until they find it’s just his way of being kind, albeit randy,
And offering up your leg to him is a treat as sweet as candy.
All hail to thee, Ms. Suzanne Lee, who calls them as she sees them,
Who does not care for hypocrites in this or any season.
Who is loyal as the day as long, one of the only friends within my life,
That I would feel secure to call in the middle of the night.
But only in an emergency, such as if the Viagra worked too well,
And my hard-on it would not go down and you know what began to swell.
And I don’t know what you would do, in a moment so bizarre,
But hopefully you would hop half dressed into your cute gay car
And whiz on down the interstate into the night so dark and barren,
But I hope thou dost not do to me what you did to doggy Darren.
And if the state police should stop thee as thou speed along thy way,
Just say you’re a friend indeed to a friend in need on his most hardest day,
And leave him in the dust as you know you must and make tracks down that highway.
All hail to thee, Ms. Suzanne Lee, I love you beyond words,
And consider this my ode to thee, the little fat girl from Martinsburg.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
All hail to thee, Ms. Suzanne Lee, with your saucy Southern twang
And your ample physique,
Not to mention your gift of gab and your healthy helping of feminine mystique.
I loved you from day one, when first you crossed my soft heart’s threshold,
Your kind and friendly kisses, your bear hugs strong and bold.
All hail to thee, my friend most dear, married to the handsome Larry,
Who all by himself is a treasure to see,
Who suffers erectile dysfunction for me,
And who is I’m sure shocked and amazed,
At how much I consume at restaurant buffets.
All hail to thee, and thy sprightly dog Darren,
Whose humping is renowned and revered in the doggy kingdom.
Who when he does it to guests must scare them,
Until they find it’s just his way of being kind, albeit randy,
And offering up your leg to him is a treat as sweet as candy.
All hail to thee, Ms. Suzanne Lee, who calls them as she sees them,
Who does not care for hypocrites in this or any season.
Who is loyal as the day as long, one of the only friends within my life,
That I would feel secure to call in the middle of the night.
But only in an emergency, such as if the Viagra worked too well,
And my hard-on it would not go down and you know what began to swell.
And I don’t know what you would do, in a moment so bizarre,
But hopefully you would hop half dressed into your cute gay car
And whiz on down the interstate into the night so dark and barren,
But I hope thou dost not do to me what you did to doggy Darren.
And if the state police should stop thee as thou speed along thy way,
Just say you’re a friend indeed to a friend in need on his most hardest day,
And leave him in the dust as you know you must and make tracks down that highway.
All hail to thee, Ms. Suzanne Lee, I love you beyond words,
And consider this my ode to thee, the little fat girl from Martinsburg.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
THE CLEANING LADY IS AGAINST ME
THE CLEANING LADY IS AGAINST ME
Rumors spread like wildfire in public spaces.
A blabbermouth friend invented for me a life of womanizing and carousing
And in the middle of the meeting house
Made merry remarks about my character, covering it with criminal clouds.
While the haggard cleaning lady swept and dusted, overhearing all,
And wondering just what sort of awful evil
Lurked in my heretofore face-only-a-mom could adore
Sweet and innocent countenance.
(Friends can be wicked rogues, how well I now know.)
The cleaning lady knows my secrets.
She knows all about the lovers and the beer stains on my bedcovers.
She knows the sounds of my lovers’ voices,
My social diseases, my ill-informed choices,
And she is sure to spread the word to her cleaning lady friends,
And soon they all will have heard, and I will be at wit’s end.
Her disinfectants and her vacuums, her air fresheners and perfumes.
They will never clean away my friend’s loose words in these public rooms.
See that cleaning lady, go fetch her,
She’ll tell you that I am a lecher.
She knows deep, dark secrets psychologists would kill for.
All my panache and regrets, my appetites and drives.
And all the knowledge she possesses would make the prim churchwomen
In my small town break out in horrified hives.
The cleaning lady pretends to only sweep,
Her nose out of others’ business to dignifiedly keep.
But I know that she’s a silent judge who bears an angry grudge.
And at night I trudge home with the awful truth
That the cleaning lady is against me.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Rumors spread like wildfire in public spaces.
A blabbermouth friend invented for me a life of womanizing and carousing
And in the middle of the meeting house
Made merry remarks about my character, covering it with criminal clouds.
While the haggard cleaning lady swept and dusted, overhearing all,
And wondering just what sort of awful evil
Lurked in my heretofore face-only-a-mom could adore
Sweet and innocent countenance.
(Friends can be wicked rogues, how well I now know.)
The cleaning lady knows my secrets.
She knows all about the lovers and the beer stains on my bedcovers.
She knows the sounds of my lovers’ voices,
My social diseases, my ill-informed choices,
And she is sure to spread the word to her cleaning lady friends,
And soon they all will have heard, and I will be at wit’s end.
Her disinfectants and her vacuums, her air fresheners and perfumes.
They will never clean away my friend’s loose words in these public rooms.
See that cleaning lady, go fetch her,
She’ll tell you that I am a lecher.
She knows deep, dark secrets psychologists would kill for.
All my panache and regrets, my appetites and drives.
And all the knowledge she possesses would make the prim churchwomen
In my small town break out in horrified hives.
The cleaning lady pretends to only sweep,
Her nose out of others’ business to dignifiedly keep.
But I know that she’s a silent judge who bears an angry grudge.
And at night I trudge home with the awful truth
That the cleaning lady is against me.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
SOMEONE LEFT TO WEEP
SOMEONE LEFT TO WEEP
All I want from the gods today are flowers for my tomb
And someone left to sing for me a solemn burial tune.
Today I feel old as a statue on the village square.
Muscles ache with a sad, dull pain,
The residue of advancing years.
Centuries marked off my calendar,
Gone are my dreams of gold behind a rainbow.
Passing fancies of sweet young twenty-something,
Beautiful men chiseled in their underwear.
Today I feel ancient as Socrates, eyes aimed at the empty wall,
Focused on no one and nothing,
Clutching at straws in the musty museum air.
All I want from life today is for shadows to creep lightly,
For the sun to dim and to sink slowly
For someone left to weep for me in tears of crystal silver.
For the moon to pause and sink its claws into the thread of memory,
For the stars to quake and quiver.
Today I feel naked, ugly in my wrinkled flesh.
The angel Gabriel blows his horn for others, not for me.
The years have left my muscles useless, my lips have turned to rust.
Long past is the Golden Age, its heroes choking on their dust.
All I want from life today is a headstone for my fresh made tomb
And someone left to weep for me in the graveyard at high noon.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
All I want from the gods today are flowers for my tomb
And someone left to sing for me a solemn burial tune.
Today I feel old as a statue on the village square.
Muscles ache with a sad, dull pain,
The residue of advancing years.
Centuries marked off my calendar,
Gone are my dreams of gold behind a rainbow.
Passing fancies of sweet young twenty-something,
Beautiful men chiseled in their underwear.
Today I feel ancient as Socrates, eyes aimed at the empty wall,
Focused on no one and nothing,
Clutching at straws in the musty museum air.
All I want from life today is for shadows to creep lightly,
For the sun to dim and to sink slowly
For someone left to weep for me in tears of crystal silver.
For the moon to pause and sink its claws into the thread of memory,
For the stars to quake and quiver.
Today I feel naked, ugly in my wrinkled flesh.
The angel Gabriel blows his horn for others, not for me.
The years have left my muscles useless, my lips have turned to rust.
Long past is the Golden Age, its heroes choking on their dust.
All I want from life today is a headstone for my fresh made tomb
And someone left to weep for me in the graveyard at high noon.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
BEFORE THE YEARS HAVE FLOWN
BEFORE THE YEARS HAVE FLOWN
(FOR ANN )
I want to get to know you, adopt you as my own,
Feel friendship warm and tender before the years have flown.
To lose my fear when I’m around you,
To speak the thoughts that cross my mind,
To feel the weight of the past few years
Dissolve into the sands of time.
I want to get to know you, your irreverence and your wit,
A second mother in my lifetime, real and heaven-sent.
I want to know the dreams you’ve carried,
Bright across the drifting sand,
The bright parade of choices made,
Hurdled clear across the land.
I want to feel your gentle mercy,
Echoing through my darkest night.
Your watchful eye that ever glistens,
Burning in the skies so bright.
I want to get to know you, your present and your past,
Your hopes for all your grandchildren, the well in which they’re cast.
To make sense of your choices, to see how bright they shine,
Radiant displays of you, the simple and divine.
To see you in my lover fair and all his sweet array
Of attributes that glimmer bright, like candles on a cloudy day.
I want to get to know you, adopt you as my own,
Feel friendship warm and tender before the years have flown.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
(FOR ANN )
I want to get to know you, adopt you as my own,
Feel friendship warm and tender before the years have flown.
To lose my fear when I’m around you,
To speak the thoughts that cross my mind,
To feel the weight of the past few years
Dissolve into the sands of time.
I want to get to know you, your irreverence and your wit,
A second mother in my lifetime, real and heaven-sent.
I want to know the dreams you’ve carried,
Bright across the drifting sand,
The bright parade of choices made,
Hurdled clear across the land.
I want to feel your gentle mercy,
Echoing through my darkest night.
Your watchful eye that ever glistens,
Burning in the skies so bright.
I want to get to know you, your present and your past,
Your hopes for all your grandchildren, the well in which they’re cast.
To make sense of your choices, to see how bright they shine,
Radiant displays of you, the simple and divine.
To see you in my lover fair and all his sweet array
Of attributes that glimmer bright, like candles on a cloudy day.
I want to get to know you, adopt you as my own,
Feel friendship warm and tender before the years have flown.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
FOND WISHES
FONDEST WISHES
To see Vermont in autumn time, or the Gardens of Versailles,
the San Francisco cable cars against a moonlit sky.
To walk along the sandy shores of a
thousand sunlit beaches,
To splash in the welcome coolness
of a million ocean reaches.
To see the boats of Annapolis,
in their Christmastime parade,
lit up in all their glory, a sparkling display.
To shake the hand of Judy Collins, to speak to Janis Ian,
to go through life with blinders off,
and thrilled with what I’m seeing.
To see New York and feel Times Square
pulsing deep within my veins,
To walk the soggy London streets,
in the midst of a soaking rain,
to see the Eiffel Tower or to cruise along the Seine.
To see the red lights of Amsterdam,
sex up close in the windowpanes,
To witness the Grand Canyon, its sheer immense design,
to see the ruins of ancient Greece, the architecture fine.
Or maybe just to dine with you at a Popeye’s here in town,
to cruise the old familiar streets, the tunes cranked up
and the windows down.
To see a movie at the cineplex,
caught up in the twisting plot,
the intrigue and the mystery,
in a land that time forgot.
Or maybe just to lay with you,
at the end of a long and tortured day
and feel each curve of your body warm
as it melts my cares away.
To see Vermont in autumn time, the Gardens of Versailles,
or just the love you feel for me, shining in your deep blue eyes.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
To see Vermont in autumn time, or the Gardens of Versailles,
the San Francisco cable cars against a moonlit sky.
To walk along the sandy shores of a
thousand sunlit beaches,
To splash in the welcome coolness
of a million ocean reaches.
To see the boats of Annapolis,
in their Christmastime parade,
lit up in all their glory, a sparkling display.
To shake the hand of Judy Collins, to speak to Janis Ian,
to go through life with blinders off,
and thrilled with what I’m seeing.
To see New York and feel Times Square
pulsing deep within my veins,
To walk the soggy London streets,
in the midst of a soaking rain,
to see the Eiffel Tower or to cruise along the Seine.
To see the red lights of Amsterdam,
sex up close in the windowpanes,
To witness the Grand Canyon, its sheer immense design,
to see the ruins of ancient Greece, the architecture fine.
Or maybe just to dine with you at a Popeye’s here in town,
to cruise the old familiar streets, the tunes cranked up
and the windows down.
To see a movie at the cineplex,
caught up in the twisting plot,
the intrigue and the mystery,
in a land that time forgot.
Or maybe just to lay with you,
at the end of a long and tortured day
and feel each curve of your body warm
as it melts my cares away.
To see Vermont in autumn time, the Gardens of Versailles,
or just the love you feel for me, shining in your deep blue eyes.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
THREW MY LOVE
THREW MY LOVE
You threw my love heavenward, ceiling bound,
Shattering the skylight and frightening the songbirds.
A blade held tight across my throat,
A gun cocked at my temple.
The matchbox cover in your pants that screamed out your betrayal,
A reckless night spent with a stranger,
The stuff of dime store novels, potboiler simmering.
You threw my love across the field,
Beyond the fencepost, out of bounds.
Your disregard it stings me still,
Like a scorpion poised in some stinking ashtray.
Spreading venom far and wide, a cancer bleak, a pestilence.
You hurled indifference through the air,
You aimed it hard, below the belt.
Like a high school game of dodgeball,
There was mayhem in your aim.
I found his notes, and they sang like a canary.
I read his emails, which you carelessly kept.
A current affair that you watered daily,
Putting the whore in horticulture.
Like a seasoned gumshoe I unearthed it all
With my monocle and my intuition.
A Sherlock hot upon the scent of a cold, clandestine murder.
You threw my love across the room,
Hurled it through the plate glass window.
Left it lying in a heap.
A smoldering fire, a smoking gun,
A tribute to your treachery.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
You threw my love heavenward, ceiling bound,
Shattering the skylight and frightening the songbirds.
A blade held tight across my throat,
A gun cocked at my temple.
The matchbox cover in your pants that screamed out your betrayal,
A reckless night spent with a stranger,
The stuff of dime store novels, potboiler simmering.
You threw my love across the field,
Beyond the fencepost, out of bounds.
Your disregard it stings me still,
Like a scorpion poised in some stinking ashtray.
Spreading venom far and wide, a cancer bleak, a pestilence.
You hurled indifference through the air,
You aimed it hard, below the belt.
Like a high school game of dodgeball,
There was mayhem in your aim.
I found his notes, and they sang like a canary.
I read his emails, which you carelessly kept.
A current affair that you watered daily,
Putting the whore in horticulture.
Like a seasoned gumshoe I unearthed it all
With my monocle and my intuition.
A Sherlock hot upon the scent of a cold, clandestine murder.
You threw my love across the room,
Hurled it through the plate glass window.
Left it lying in a heap.
A smoldering fire, a smoking gun,
A tribute to your treachery.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
TELL ME WHAT I HAVE
TELL ME WHAT I HAVE
Tell me what I have, and be quick about it,
you who wear a lab coat,
you who drive a Porsche.
You who went to med school
and excelled at every course.
Tell me, sir, oh, pretty please,
the name of my disease.
Tell me what I have, and do not keep me waiting,
This ignorance no longer bliss,
this fear and trepidation.
I’ve sat in hallowed waiting rooms,
wearing out upholstery,
Trusting your diplomas
and the expertise they’re boasting.
Only for the receptionist
to fill my heart with sorrow,
The wizard doc is baffled,
go away, come back tomorrow.
Tell me what I have, and don’t pull any punches,
five years now of guesswork,
vague and useless hunches.
Tell me what I have, thou idiot savant,
my limbs are growing stiffer,
my body’s getting gaunt.
Come to me and spill the beans
and a diagnosis offer,
A simple loss of dopamine
or am I retaining copper?
Tell me what I have, kind sir,
pretty please as honey,
Or kindly give the bank your Porsche
and give me back my money.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Tell me what I have, and be quick about it,
you who wear a lab coat,
you who drive a Porsche.
You who went to med school
and excelled at every course.
Tell me, sir, oh, pretty please,
the name of my disease.
Tell me what I have, and do not keep me waiting,
This ignorance no longer bliss,
this fear and trepidation.
I’ve sat in hallowed waiting rooms,
wearing out upholstery,
Trusting your diplomas
and the expertise they’re boasting.
Only for the receptionist
to fill my heart with sorrow,
The wizard doc is baffled,
go away, come back tomorrow.
Tell me what I have, and don’t pull any punches,
five years now of guesswork,
vague and useless hunches.
Tell me what I have, thou idiot savant,
my limbs are growing stiffer,
my body’s getting gaunt.
Come to me and spill the beans
and a diagnosis offer,
A simple loss of dopamine
or am I retaining copper?
Tell me what I have, kind sir,
pretty please as honey,
Or kindly give the bank your Porsche
and give me back my money.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
TO THE GUY IN THE LIBRARY WITH THE SEXY WAY OF SLEEPING
TO THE GUY IN THE LIBRARY WITH
THE SEXY WAY OF SLEEPING
Angel man on the red revolving couch,
Your lips are closed and silent like your innocent eyelids.
Your knees hang in the air like stand-up comics.
I’ve never understood why you don’t stretch them,
flex them, relax them.
I’ve never understood why you give me such a thrill,
such a caring chill.
Such a wild, abrupt start, such a pain in the heart.
I’ve never understood quite what to do,
why it’s taboo, why I can’t touch you.
I’ve never understood why your soft blackish curls
give me such a dreadful whirl.
I look at you so soft and harmless and love you in my soul
And I tell myself you are gentle and would tear apart no one.
But would you tear up this poem and laugh at me if you knew
And send me under the willows weeping,
Guy in the library with the sexy way of sleeping.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
THE SEXY WAY OF SLEEPING
Angel man on the red revolving couch,
Your lips are closed and silent like your innocent eyelids.
Your knees hang in the air like stand-up comics.
I’ve never understood why you don’t stretch them,
flex them, relax them.
I’ve never understood why you give me such a thrill,
such a caring chill.
Such a wild, abrupt start, such a pain in the heart.
I’ve never understood quite what to do,
why it’s taboo, why I can’t touch you.
I’ve never understood why your soft blackish curls
give me such a dreadful whirl.
I look at you so soft and harmless and love you in my soul
And I tell myself you are gentle and would tear apart no one.
But would you tear up this poem and laugh at me if you knew
And send me under the willows weeping,
Guy in the library with the sexy way of sleeping.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
LOOKING FOR REDEMPTION
LOOKING FOR REDEMPTION
I’m riding deep into the sunset,
On a stallion all aflame,
While lost and wayward angels
Bandy about my name.
In private conversations
They offer up my soul
Unto the highest bidder
With his silver and his gold.
I am scouting out a resting place
On which to lay my head,
Skirting sacred borders between
The living and the dead.
I am sending out a feeler to the devil and the saints,
My heart is growing weary, my footsteps growing faint.
I’m gliding hard into the abyss of lost
With no reprieve,
Dangling on the precipice with nothing to believe.
The God of all my fathers sits sullen on the throne,
His mercy has forsaken me,
His kindness up and flown.
I am tunneling in the murky depths
With motor skills awry,
Bargaining with my captors and the terroristic sky.
A pelting rain devours the sun, a monumental storm
That floods away the afternoon and crucifies the morn.
I’m limping hard into the sunset,
Covered deep in all my fears.
Looking for redemption sweet
And finding only tears.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
I’m riding deep into the sunset,
On a stallion all aflame,
While lost and wayward angels
Bandy about my name.
In private conversations
They offer up my soul
Unto the highest bidder
With his silver and his gold.
I am scouting out a resting place
On which to lay my head,
Skirting sacred borders between
The living and the dead.
I am sending out a feeler to the devil and the saints,
My heart is growing weary, my footsteps growing faint.
I’m gliding hard into the abyss of lost
With no reprieve,
Dangling on the precipice with nothing to believe.
The God of all my fathers sits sullen on the throne,
His mercy has forsaken me,
His kindness up and flown.
I am tunneling in the murky depths
With motor skills awry,
Bargaining with my captors and the terroristic sky.
A pelting rain devours the sun, a monumental storm
That floods away the afternoon and crucifies the morn.
I’m limping hard into the sunset,
Covered deep in all my fears.
Looking for redemption sweet
And finding only tears.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
THE BEAST
THE BEAST
The beast comes lumbering to my door,
Breathing heavily, grunting loudly.
With his horn he tears a gaping hole in the wood,
The sawdust scatters on the morning wind.
The muscles they tighten and slow to a crawl
And Death brings his warm woolen shawl
To wrap around my shoulders.
The beast comes lumbering to my door,
The world is growing colder.
The beast comes uninvited, and makes himself at home,
With his horn he stands in firm control,
Probing each room of my unsuspecting soul.
A tyrant in training, he swallows me whole,
My life a broken vase of bitter black roses
Rotting on the basement steps.
The beast is unrelenting, he will destroy me yet.
The beast wears me down in relentless combat,
Dresses me in the dregs of depression and fatigue.
Hiding in the background, he mounts a keen offensive,
A timeless reign of terror, a swift and sudden blitzkrieg.
I cry for the dreams that strike hollow on the floor.
The tears come in torrents, like Noah’s great flood.
I weep for my wounds that lay open and oozing,
Slathered in sorrow, layered in blood.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
The beast comes lumbering to my door,
Breathing heavily, grunting loudly.
With his horn he tears a gaping hole in the wood,
The sawdust scatters on the morning wind.
The muscles they tighten and slow to a crawl
And Death brings his warm woolen shawl
To wrap around my shoulders.
The beast comes lumbering to my door,
The world is growing colder.
The beast comes uninvited, and makes himself at home,
With his horn he stands in firm control,
Probing each room of my unsuspecting soul.
A tyrant in training, he swallows me whole,
My life a broken vase of bitter black roses
Rotting on the basement steps.
The beast is unrelenting, he will destroy me yet.
The beast wears me down in relentless combat,
Dresses me in the dregs of depression and fatigue.
Hiding in the background, he mounts a keen offensive,
A timeless reign of terror, a swift and sudden blitzkrieg.
I cry for the dreams that strike hollow on the floor.
The tears come in torrents, like Noah’s great flood.
I weep for my wounds that lay open and oozing,
Slathered in sorrow, layered in blood.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
IN THE MYRIAD WAYS
IN THE MYRIAD WAYS
In the myriad ways you love me,
Affection like a fountain, rushing through time and space.
Lighting my sky, enticing the mountains,
My lover of substance and infinite grace.
In the myriad ways you hold me,
Fingers gallivanting like thieves in my hair.
Weaving their spell, new horoscopes born,
Dancing bravely in hallowed mystic air.
In the myriad ways you fill me,
Like a chalice in the sanctuary,
Your body and spirit like lanterns that shine.
In the myriad ways you move through my memory,
Dissolving the barriers with sorcery fine.
In the myriad ways you lift my vision,
Bending me closer to the light.
In the myriad ways you surround with protection,
Gallantly vanquishing night.
In the myriad ways you hold me fast
And make love to me slow.
In the myriad ways you come to me and away my demons go.
In the myriad ways you love me,
Affection like a waterfall perched upon your face.
Igniting my heart, enticing the mountains,
My lover of substance and infinite grace.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
In the myriad ways you love me,
Affection like a fountain, rushing through time and space.
Lighting my sky, enticing the mountains,
My lover of substance and infinite grace.
In the myriad ways you hold me,
Fingers gallivanting like thieves in my hair.
Weaving their spell, new horoscopes born,
Dancing bravely in hallowed mystic air.
In the myriad ways you fill me,
Like a chalice in the sanctuary,
Your body and spirit like lanterns that shine.
In the myriad ways you move through my memory,
Dissolving the barriers with sorcery fine.
In the myriad ways you lift my vision,
Bending me closer to the light.
In the myriad ways you surround with protection,
Gallantly vanquishing night.
In the myriad ways you hold me fast
And make love to me slow.
In the myriad ways you come to me and away my demons go.
In the myriad ways you love me,
Affection like a waterfall perched upon your face.
Igniting my heart, enticing the mountains,
My lover of substance and infinite grace.
-BRUCE POTTS
COPYRIGHT 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
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