THE LEARNING CURVE

LEARNING CURVE

I’m discovering how to wear the dawn,
Lightly like a powdery snow.
To calm my breath and close my eyes
As thoughts go clattering to and fro.

Each morning brings a moment fine,
A chalice of the choicest wine.
I will drink that wine until I’m high.
Tasting life until I die.

I’m discovering how to sail along
The stormy seas I did not choose.
And take in sights that tantalize,
The mountains and the ocean views.

I’m discovering how to love and treasure
The obstacles that block my way.
Put away my bitterness, postpone it yet another day.

I’m discovering how to love the stage
I prance upon in clumsy steps.
The greasepaint and the brightest rouge,
Mementoes I have proudly kept.

I’m discovering how to love a man
Whose footsteps echo next to mine.
To hold him close and not let go
Despite the ravages of time.

I’m discovering how to bear the nights,
That stretch before me dark and long.
To listen to the coyote’s howl,
And the hoot owl’s mournful song.

I’m learning how to wear the dawn,
Gentle as the morning rain.
To thumb my nose at sticks and stones
And toughen up against the pain.

To hold on tight with sheer delight,
To the wonder of each passing day.
Hugging tight to the learning curve,
As I go my merry way.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

JUST GETTING STARTED

JUST GETTING STARTED

What if I’m living a life blessed and charmed,
And all my talk of doom and gloom is just a false alarm?
What if I have gone and closed the coffin lid too soon
And I have years before me to hum a happy tune?

And yes, it’s true that life is short,
Yet some folks live to a ripe old age,
And though I might not fit the cohort,
There may be ink left to dabble on the page.

What if like Moses and the seas he once parted,
I’m only chomping at the bit, and just now getting started.

What if my grandest dreams are waiting in the corridor,
And all I really need to do is open up the door,
Inviting in the company of friends I’ve not yet met.
What if I’m just getting started, what if I’m just getting set?
And all I need to prosper is to follow my own bliss.
Keeping the eye on the precious prize, the lottery of happiness.

What if all the time spent lost and brokenhearted
Is just the grand precursor of myself just getting started?
Of racing my motor and screeching my tires,
Of soaring on angel’s wings higher and higher.

What if I’m living a life that’s found favor,
With decades to go and years left to savor.
Then surely the heavens have the last laugh on me,
Surely the saints are giggling with glee,
And God himself must be chuckling with mirth
At all of these years I have wasted on earth.

What if I’m about to fall into the life I always dreamed?
What if all my troubles up and float right down the stream?
What if I’m about to sail on rivers yet uncharted?
What if I’m just cutting loose and just now getting started?

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2009
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

ANOTHER DAY ON THE SAHARA

ANOTHER DAY ON THE SAHARA

It’s another day on the Sahara, where the sun is beastly hot.
And the sand dunes burn in this land of no return,
For the rich and the poor, the haves and have nots.

It’s another day in the jungle heat, that swallows up the soul.
That binds and gags the will to live and eats a body whole.
The mythic humid mass of air that blows across the plain,
A land so grand that lacks a fan and could use a drop of rain.

It’s another day on the Sahara, the desert of my heart.
My engine it just cranks away, but cannot seem to start.
Perhaps I’ve overheated it with grudges run amok.
Perhaps I’ve angered all the gods and used up all my luck.

Perhaps the weary pace of life has slowed me to a crawl,
Leaving me without a friend to answer my distress call.
It’s another day of longing for some nameless, faceless thing,
A thing akin to love or hope or a song still left to sing.

It’s another day on the Sahara, where dreams have all run dry,
Where mankind’s thirst has scorched the earth,
Yet the stoic heavens will not cry.

It’s another day in the desert, my feet are kicking up the dust.
Perhaps it’s time to mount my camel and go explore this wanderlust.
Another day on the Sahara, the sun is beastly hot.
And the sand dunes burn in this land of no return,
For the rich and the poor, the haves and have nots.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2009
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

GURU

GURU

Bleeder in the corner,
You who are weary with life.

Bleed into the little glass
And send the gurus
Prime specimens of your blood to analyze.

Have you been a little boy nice,
Have you been eating whole grain rice
And berries from the wilderness?

Have you been practicing yoga
And avoiding toga parties
And wearing the proper meditation clothes.

The assistant guru will analyze your blood
And spout wise mysticism into your ears.
While the head gurus read Playgirl magazine,
Drink large quantities of booze
And have outrageous orgies in the back room
Marked Authorized Personnel Only.

The assistant guru will analyze your blood
While the head gurus drink their mixed drinks on ice
And avoid such trivialities as berries and whole grain rice.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 1983
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

THE EYES OF YOUR ADMIRER

EYES OF YOUR ADMIRER

When the fountain showers its waters,
Melancholy to the summer rain,
Go find a cloud in your brain
Soft and white and unspoiled.

Go find a white cotton dream
And sail upon that dream
And let that cotton dream
Soak up the blood of your sorrow,
And when the dream’s soft whiteness
Heals your lost tomorrow,
Come back to earth,
Where the madness shall be bearable again.

I will be the cloud of snow white
For you to lay your head upon.
Look into the eyes of your admirer.

The ludicrous trappings of existence do not suffocate
When the snow white cloud of your admirer
Engulfs you in a dream.
The pervasive sadness will shriek into oblivion
And fade like withered goblins.

When the fountain showers its waters,
Joyfully to the summer sun,
Come back to earth where you can find your way
Through the stealthy shadows of another day.

The madness goes into the pure white sun of new salvation.

I will be that cloud of snow white for you to lay your head upon.
Look into the eyes of your admirer.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 1983
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

I WANT TO LIVE FOREVER

I WANT TO LIVE FOREVER

I want to live forever, as long as it’s with you.
You touch my heart so tenderly, you speak to me so true.

Your gentle voice, it soothes me, like an angel by the door,
Taking me to places I have never been before.

I want to live forever in the fold of your embrace,
When you open your arm to let me in
Against the profile of your face.

I want to kiss you hungrily, just like a dream come true.
I want to live forever, as long as it’s with you.

I want to stay forever beside you on this bed,
Although there are things that must be done,
Let me fondle you instead.

And run my hands all over you, my fingers laced with yours
And lightly kiss your tender cheek, beside me soft and warm.

I want to dream of wondrous things,
A house all our own and wedding rings.

A rainbow flag rippling on the front porch screen.
Togetherness through thick and thin is what its message sings.

I want to live forever, to feel your rhythmic ride,
To spread my legs like angel’s wings and welcome you inside.

To taste the warmth of your sweet lips,
Your breath as sweet as morning dew.
I want to live forever, as long as it’s with you.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

B-1078

B-1078

B-1078 was the room that she slept in.
Her footprints would bleed their mud and grime
Into the brown carpet.

The old maids who cleaned would always bitch about the dirt
And the scattered male underwear on the floor.

But the woman in B-1078 was a sorceress
Who didn’t care about propriety and old maids.
A sorceress who lived for the night,
A sorceress no man would ever touch.

The sorceress in B-1078 was actually quite mad
And bought male underwear in packages
And dumped it on the brown carpet
And danced around the holy virgin briefs.

The woman in B-1078,
Blew her brains out with a pistol,
One night in B-1078.
And the next morning the old maids
Bitched about the blood and casual sex.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 1983
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

SILENCE

SILENCE

Silence fills the night,
I bask in its quiet glow.
After a day that has gotten away,
The quiet overtakes my soul.

Home becomes a sanctuary,
A church, a haven fair.
I meditate by candle flame,
I mouth my grateful prayer.

All the blessings I’ve received,
Gather ‘round like treasured friends.
And spirit fine like vintage wine
Holds sweet compassion for my sins.

Silence fills the morning, I sit cross-legged on the floor,
As I wonder what the day will bring,
What beauties lie in store.

The sun it rises pink and gold,
It states its case with colors bold
And I offer thanks for this brand new day
That Providence has sent my way.

Silence fills the earth, the soldiers have come home,
The wars at last are over, the trials of flesh and bone.
The world it has become a church,
A synagogue, a haven fair.
We dance around the candle flame
And all join hands in prayer.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

TO LIVE IN THE WORLD

TO LIVE IN THE WORLD

Proudly I rise to live in the world,
Unencumbered by baggage, the tears of the past.
And build my new life on the wings of a prayer,
A joyous momentum of dreams built to last.

Proudly I rise and labor in peace,
The fruits of my working day rise up to greet me.
And the hammer and sickle prepare me a feast
And the forces of darkness will not defeat me.

Bravely I go to the depths of the forest,
Sweet contemplation alone with the pines.
Happy to live in the shelter of nature,
The gifts of the spirit, water to wine.

Sweetly I live in the lap of your luxury,
Grateful I bathe in the lake of your smile.
A life lived rejoicing, a lonely man rescued,
My hand in yours, we walk the last mile.

Gladly I speak of the well of your blessings,
The God of our Fathers, spirit of peace.
Blithely I breathe in and out with attention,
The flame of the candle my bold centerpiece.

Proudly I rise to live in the world,
Free of my baggage, chains of my past,
And build a new life on the sweet wings of prayer,
A precious momentum of dreams built to last.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

MY PERSONAL ADONIS

MY PERSONAL ADONIS

I get all kinds of notions, whenever you are near,
Lose my inhibitions and overcome my fears.

I rise high above, the harsh flames burning bright,
My body close against you in the confines of the night.

My personal Adonis, with my picture perfect chest,
And legs that are to die for, lips that pass the test.

My Romeo, my man of steel, my model and my muse.
My remedy for cloudy days, my refuge from the blues.

You came upon me suddenly, I undressed you in my mind,
A striptease show from head to toe, I knew what I would find.

Feet whose souls would rest in mine when spooning joyful on the bed,
Arms that wrap around my neck, give me now my daily bread.

Your magic hands that tend to roam to parts I dare not mention,
Your expert dick a perfect fit, mine stands in rapt attention.

My personal Adonis, with your picture perfect smile,
A page torn from a magazine on how to dress with style.

As sure as dusk must follow dawn, I like you best with nothing on.
And all it takes to strike the mood is you before me in the nude.

Those dashing eyes, those precious lips,
Those priceless thighs, those sexy hips.
My man of steel, my Romeo, you ride me hard ‘til I explode,
And I fall asleep to the gentle kiss of my personal Adonis.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

SHELTERING ARMS

SHELTERING ARMS

Helpless as a baby or a wounded bird,
I lie in the fold of your sheltering arms.
Sunlight through the window fades,
A benediction and a blessing.

Your fingers stroke my forehead,
Knead my aching shoulders.
Close of day creeps silently,
Moonlight fills the bedroom.

Helpless as a street person sleeping on the corner grate,
I turn to you for solace, kindness in your countenance.
Swimming in the pleasures of the flesh,
As we make our way toward paradise.

A world of wonder, this precious patch of earth.
Haven for lovers, refuge for gypsies,
A weary traveler on the brink.
Helpless as I pause to think, where I’d be without you,
Here in the lamplight, stroking my hair.

Helpless as a naked man in a haystack full of needles.
Life has pricked me sharp and deep, pummeled me relentlessly.
But in this room just you and I have our date with destiny.
Helpless in a world we know, a world we trust implicitly.

Be patient with me love, for I break and crumble easily,
Like rubble from a structure fire, fanned aflame by a careless match.
So rock me gently in this chair, helpless as a baby or a wounded bird,
Sing to me your lullaby and I will hang on every word,
Helpless in the fold of your sheltering arms.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

IN AN AUTUMN LEAF

IN AN AUTUMN LEAF

In an autumn leaf I trace your face,
The veins that bulge-

The voice that cracks
When crunched by the weight of emotion

In an autumn leaf,
I fire the shots of cool reproach that blind you
And in a paper hand of tree
I look and then I find you.

Your chains on me, rattle in my apple cider,
Leaving me drunk
And soiled with the rains of what was right and wrong.

Your chains on me, bind like screams in a child’s bad dream,
And the Jack O’lantern face, vivid and evil
Explodes on the porch in undiluted madness.

The winter is coming, trees undressing for bed.
Jack Frost sends a stagnant, chilly breath.
I look in an autumn leaf-
I think of you, and feel the kiss of death.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 1983
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

LIFETIMES

LIFETIMES

Lifetimes, strife-times, husband and wife times,
Knife in the back times.

Is it on the itinerary, to have an early coronary?
What will the future hold to the mimes of a work-a-day world?

Bare times, spare times,
Wishing you were there times.

Is it written in the skies or covered by the screeching cries?
What will tomorrow bring, to mimes engulfed in loss?

Spit out your dreams if they leave a bitter taste.
The plain white cross above your tomb
Binds your life before you leave the womb.

Throw away the agony, if you want to live to ninety-three.
Perhaps it would be best
If you lived your life with me and I with you.

Lifetimes, strife-times, husband and wife times.
We race to the finish, and the hourglass is overturned.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 1983
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

SHE HAS NOT EVEN A PHOTOGRAPH

SHE HAS NOT EVEN A PHOTOGRAPH

Her memory is accident-prone,
She wishes she’d been more sentimental.

Her thoughts are not at all arranged
Like slides on a Carousel projector.

And recollections are judges in long black robes
Who sentence the years unjustly.

While his bones rot, her brains ache
And she visits the gravesite with flowers
While rats scurry across the floor of her dreams.

She wishes Ouiji board miracles.
She wishes him back in his big black armchair,
Scowling behind his Economic News.

His body was him.
Physical presence is the name of relationships,
And she has not even a photograph vivid enough to comfort the scar
Or plug the fountain of scarlet blood.

Ghosts dance a slow dance, hold their white forms close.
She dances with the creaking floorboards,
And tries to French-kiss her wedding ring.
The little gold devil rests glued to her finger.

He stays glued to her veins and arteries.
She stays glued to her house with the cross on the door.

She collects obituaries from the Daily News
And widowhood is a crucifixion that bids her walk,
Spear in her side, easily down to her own demise.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 1983
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WAITING BY MY DOOR

WAITING BY MY DOOR

I threw my pennies deep in the wishing well,
After years of traveling in suspended hell.

A reckless course of sorrow had become my daily bread
And Fate like a tornado came and kicked me in my head.

Bleeding by the roadside, bruised and feeling sore,
Until the day I found your mercy, waiting by my door.

A rush of symptoms unforeseen, a diagnosis dire
That left me dancing like a fool on top the circus high wire.

All the sad and lonely years I’d too long called my own
Until you opened up your door and gently called me home.

The day that I first met you is emblazoned on my mind,
The stories told of relatives, the bittersweet parade of time.

How you loved your mother the way I cherished mine,
A glimpse of heaven in your eyes, a glorious paradigm.

By evening’s end my heart was sold on all you had to give,
My date was kept with destiny, at last I learned to live.

I held you tight upon the sofa, kissed you lightly on the lips,
And all the while my heart grew wild, emotions doing back flips.

Since that night you have learned my secrets,
Crossed the threshold of my fears.
Helped chase away the demons, wiped away my tears.

Bleeding by the roadside, a beggar lost and needing more,
Until I found your kindred spirit, waiting by my door.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

MIDNIGHT MAN

MIDNIGHT MAN

Another sleepless midnight,
My lamp burns inside the window
Like a prophetic sign.

While inside I crouch in silent prayer,
Some other whispered agony,
A strange and tortured hymn.

Midnight man
Under the moon of a God who knows his secrets.
Of hearts that skip beats
Lungs that can’t breathe.

Anonymous anxiety that drains away the lifeblood
Burns in me tonight.

The owls in the trees know my secrets and my lies.

They know the smell of coffee burning on a hot plate
In some ascetic’s room
Who writes the night of his life away
‘til the brooding spirit lifts.

There cannot be anywhere
Another man with this lonely perseverance.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 1983
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

HARD TO RECONCILE

HARD TO RECONCILE

I try to love you, to see your good,
Yet there are days I imagine you in a white hood,
And I want to do a noisy wake-up dance
And shine a bright and blinding light
Upon your silly ignorance.

McCain’s too old, Obama’s too black,
The Mexicans are shifty,
And your closed mind attacks.

And what about Obama’s middle name?
What good can come of a man named Hussein?
And how can a person of charm and good faith
Be lost to his fear and a measure of hate?

I have no doubt you care for me, even though you know me well,
Yet I wonder if you truly think I shall suffer the coals of hell.
For having the gall to love another man,
And not to find some lucky woman
And fulfill Nature’s plan.

Is Anita Bryant alive in your soul?
Does her ghastly vision match your own?
Your beliefs your wear for the world to see,
You spout them right in front of me.

And though you’re kind and graceful and you greet me with concern,
Your beliefs they can and will not stand, yet you refuse to learn.
I try to love you and see your good,
I pretend I do not hear and see your subtle bigotry.
And though I am still civil and greet you with a smile,
Your beliefs, they are offensive, and hard to reconcile.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

CRYING SHAME

CRYING SHAME

Crying shame that I sit in my ashes,
Choking on promises, nursing hot flashes.

Crying shame that love’s remains within this rough-hewn urn
Are eulogized by friends and strangers, as I do a slow burn.

Incineration becomes you, you unfortunate fool,
For I am bad at pardons and have flunked forgiveness school

Your transgressions are remembered all,
As you sadly slink your way back home,
And our love has met a dreadful fall
That rivals the collapse of Rome.

Crying shame that your wedding band
Has fallen on the hardest times
Covered in the seaweed buried deep beneath the salty brine.

A sailor boy in deep tarnished blue,
Will gasp for air and fade from view,
And die forgotten on the ocean floor,
Wondering what it all was for.

Drowning becomes you, you unfortunate fool,
For I am bad at CPR and have flunked the Golden Rule.
Crying shame that I cannot offer pardon for the way you plunder.
Your pirate garb too well becomes you,
And blows our sacred world asunder,

Crying shame that memory serves me,
A crying shame you crushed the dream.
Rigor mortis revs its engine, ripping every seam.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

CLIMBING THE LADDER

CLIMBING THE LADDER

Climbing the ladder, rung by rung,
Angling for the summit, tiptoeing towards the top.

You are the prayer that the love gods have answered,
The pearl in my oyster, the cream of the crop.

Scaling the ivy strewn walls of your castle,
Putting aside my fierce dread of heights,

All for the chance to lay down beside you
And feel your hands on me all through the night.

Rappelling from cliffs and swinging from trees,
Hang gliding happy, adrift on a breeze.

Jumping the bungee to land at your door,
Adrenaline pumping like never before.

All for the golden and glorious chance
To hold your naked body close
And run my tongue along your flesh,
Your head down to your sacred toes.

To hold tight to your handsome form,
Your backside curvy, soft and warm,
Your bare feet a delicious treat, sensuous against my legs.

To feel in the darkness the silk of your kiss,
To stay here forever and bask in the bliss.

It’s all I could ask for, to claim you as mine
And capture your heart for a moment in time.

Climbing the ladder, slowly but surely,
Inching my way towards the top.

You are the gift that the goddess has given,
The pearl of my oyster, the cream of the crop.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

SHADOW OF MY DEATH

SHADOW OF MY DEATH

The shadow of my death it lingers, reaching out its shriveled fingers,
Ghastly in the blind inferno, reckless but right on point.

Like a desperate madman on the loose, casing out this run down joint,
Reaching out its rigor mortised arm to check the pulse of this humble abode
And calling the doctors and blue-ing the code,
To say that at last there is no one at home.

The shadow of my death if follows, through the canyons and the hollows.
Everywhere I walk I see its grisly yellowed jaundiced face,
My peaceful final resting place.

The shadow of death, it cares not for words,
Words like not yet or I need more time.
A brutal test proctor with stopwatch in hand
From classroom to classroom he stalks this great land,
Oblivious to our whining pleas.

He has his own unchanging dreams,
That mortal man is far too stupid to comprehend.
Into the background like a phantom, the shadow of death descends.

And the shadow of my death, it kicks my sorry ass,
Deep and hard as a soccer ball on artificial grass.
And I’m left tumbling like a meteorite, back to the dust from which I came.
As the shadow of my death leans closer, snuffing out the flame,
Leaning in like some backstabbing friend, whispering my name.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

TRAIL MIX

TRAIL MIX

What has happened to my life, for once I was on track,
And now the rain just keeps on pouring,
Seeping into sidewalk cracks,
And every nook and cranny of my life has been explored,
The depths to which I’ve plummeted from the heights I used to soar.

And all that I can do is curse the Holy Grail
And retrace all my steps along this misbegotten trail.
And I cannot blame another, for the fault is all my own.
But my fate is mired in quicksand, failure etched in stone.

It’s a trail mix is what it is, to coin a metaphor,
We mix the watercolors along our private seashores.
We gather the fruits of all our years, we paint our own design
And somehow I have run amok and desecrated mine.
A trail mix of dried fruit left behind from Eden,
Where Eve and Adam share the shame, banished from the kingdom.

A trail mix of coconut, of almonds and of raisins sweet
That swing from the tree above me, just beyond my reach.
I hear reproach in the crack of lightning, my hearing is acute,
The thunder it proclaims my name in its stern rebuke.
And life is like a little child who never learned to share,
Eating all the trail mix with trumpets and with fanfare.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED