WILL THERE REALLY BE A NEW YEAR

WILL THERE REALLY BE A NEW YEAR

Here in late December, I can scarce remember,
What a new year looks like, how it even feels.
An artificial mark on the calendar, scarcely even real.
An apple or a postage stamp falling from the sky,
A smattering of confetti, the strains of auld lang syne.

Unlike Christmas with its pomp and glory,
Thanksgiving with its grateful story.
The New Year is a holiday in search of some good press,
Nothing but a slapdash, grand hilarious mess.

And if I’ve offended some New Year’s revelers,
That was surely not my intent,
But perhaps even they in their strange hats and noisemakers,
Know what I really meant.

Will it really be 2011 or just more of the same?
A depressing, thankless twenty-ten by just another name.
You really have to wonder where we go from here,
After a month of merriment to distract us from our fears.
Will there really be a fresh new start, will there really be a new year?
Or will we be sinking deeper in the quagmire of recession,
The stock market a broke, hilarious joke teetering toward the Great Depression.

Perhaps I’m not the best to say, my 2010 has been a mess,
Illness brings its challenges and its fair share of stress.
But I’m one of the lucky ones, I have my lover and my home
And a few close friends to comfort me when I’m feeling most alone.
My thoughts are with the homeless ones, the truly down and out.
Those I meet who are on the street, alone without a doubt.
Will there really be a new year to ease their endless drought?

Here in late December, I can scarce remember,
What a new year feels like or how it even looks.
2010 has done me in, a New Year for the record books.
Suffice to say I won’t be going out to shake my ass and celebrate
And with any luck I’ll be in bed and fast asleep by eight.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

MAN IS AN ISLAND

MAN IS AN ISLAND

No man is an island, or so a famous poet claimed.
John Donne be damned, I think he’s wrong,
An island is my middle name.
It’s out of sight and out of mind for all my so-called friends.
Beyond the walls of our shared work life,
Their friendship it does not extend.

I cannot say I blame them, I could predict it plain as day.
All the vows to keep in touch that have been sent my way.
Could wallpaper my room with the scent of foul perfume
Man is an island, an instrument untuned.

Where are all the well wishers, where are all the cronies?
Some of them are parents, some are just plain phonies.
Some have obligations that I can only surmise,
It’s hard to uncover all the wherefores and the whys.

And I alas am just as bad, I am not above reproach.
I always am afraid to call, for fear of being a bother,
Afraid to hear I can’t talk now, why don’t you try back later?
In short I lack the confidence I ever touched their lives at all,
And so I wait, procrastinate, and watch the paint peel off the wall.
On the precipice with my memories, poised to take a fall.

Retirement can be a prison, if you let it be,
And I will not keep my life under lock and key.
I will find new friends, reclaim the old,
Extend my hand, be kind and bold.
And try my best to brave the cold.

No man is an island, John Donne is such a crock.
It’s Paul Simon for my money and his song I Am A Rock.
Life is brief and people fade,
We meet so solemn at their grave.
Fools who stand on shifting sands,
We are rocks and we are islands.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

THE LIGHTS OF CHRISTMAS

THE LIGHTS OF CHRISTMAS

The lights of Christmas still amaze me,
Just as when I was a child.
Though my face is growing weathered
With each weary mile.

The lights of Christmas charm me,
In this special season,
Where the Christ child’s birth is heralded,
Giving this world a reason.
A reason to silence its cannon fire and its atom bombs,
To join hands in a solemn procession,
Damn the economy, damn the recession.
Damn the naysayers and all the cynics who proclaim that peace on earth is dead.
Praise God for all the mercies he has heaped upon our heads.

I love the Santas and the reindeer and the blinking stars.
I love the piped in Christmas carols that echo from the yards.
I love the over the top displays, too much for me is never enough.
I love the full length Christmas cards and all that sentimental stuff.

I love those bright humongous snow globes that are relatively new,
I love the miniature lighted trains, I love to park and take in the view.
My mother reappears to me in the passenger seat of my car.
A pleasure she and I would share, I hold her memory in my heart.

I love the giant nativity scenes, Mary, Joseph, and the Holy Child,
The sacred and profane are all the same, they mix in a weird yet a wondrous style.
And the constant in all of these is love, in the coldest season of the year.
The love of a parent for a child to create a holiday island of cheer.
Then to turn around like a secret Santa and unwittingly share it with me.
From the bottom of my heart I thank you for your wonderlands of beauty.

And here in Wakeland where we live, the elves have all been busy,
Losing themselves in a dreamland, a decorating tizzy.
I could drive the streets from end to end, and still not fully take it in.
The gigantic Grinches, the Mickey Mouses, the Plutos and the Penguins,
Delight me with their colors and their bright shenanigans.

The lights of Christmas still bedazzle and beguile,
Just as much or even more than when I was a child.
Though my face is growing old and weathered,
The lights of Christmas make me smile and swoon,
A most delightful decadence, that flies me to the moon.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

THE BRAVEST ONE

THE BRAVEST ONE
(FOR PAULA)

The bravest one I’ve ever known, refused to be a prisoner to her fate,
When you asked how she was, her reply was “fucking great.”
The bravest one I’ve ever known was my irreverent friend,
A woman who slew cancer, ‘til it got its second wind.

First I saw her jaundiced eyes and knew her liver had been shot to hell.
Metastasis will do that, it is evil and it wishes no one well.
And yet she drove to work each day, the first one there, the last to leave.
In love with deadlines and with hope and punctuality.
Few matched her in devotion, there were few who even dared to try,
Hard work has fallen out of favor, in the younger generation’s eyes.
A paycheck at the end of the week is all the striving’s for,
But for her the work it mattered and her legacy mattered more.
Not to be seen as a quitter, not to use illness as an excuse.
Hard times had come and stood by her side, she was ten paychecks in arrears when she died,
Yet what mattered was her loyalty and sailing against the wind.
And perhaps that’s what brought us together as friends.

Two weeks before she quit working she took a week of lunch breaks.
And allowed herself a cup of hot tea, or perhaps a vanilla milk shake.
Yet she never gave herself to pity, on those sunny days we drove to the park.
To drink our coffee and our tea, to not fall victim to the dark.

The bravest one I’ve ever known never forgot a kindness,
The thank you, the friendship, the housewarming cards,
That shone a light and conquered the blindness.
The blindness we all sometimes see on this cold, unfeeling earth.
She knew the value of a laugh, she knew what a smile was worth.

The bravest one I’ve ever known had faults and she had flaws,
I paint her here not as a saint, she put up her fair share of walls.
Walls that sometimes shut me out, chilly as an autumn breeze.
Stony silences and stubbornness, she had her share of these.
And yet I think she needed these to fight her battles, win her wars.
To gather up the bravery to go where none had gone before.
And now as I look back through tears and cherish her sweet memory,
And ponder all the lives into which her light has shone,
I hope one day to be half as brave, as the bravest one I’ve known.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

EXTINGUISHED

EXTINGUISHED

It’s easy to lose sight of things,
Lurking right beneath your nose.
Out of place in your flesh and blood,
Overdressed in your Sunday clothes.

It’s easy to feel all but useless,
For friends lose sight and fade from view.
You wonder what it ever was
The world and its kingpins saw in you.

Where once you held the silver and gold,
Now you shiver in the bitter cold.
Where once you were sartorially dressed,
Where once you were distinguished,
The fire has vanquished from your soul,
Your hope all but extinguished.

It’s easy to get lost in dreams,
To toss and turn in fitful screams.
To crave the drama and the tears
Of the life you left behind.
The magic of your useful years,
The slow decay of passing time.
The place inside your tattered heart,
The plans you have relinquished.
The scorched remains of all you’ve lost,
The light of love extinguished.

It’s easy to lose sight of hope,
To find misery in your horoscope.
To forget that life is give and take and a constant letting go.
That you need the change of seasons, the ice storms and the snow.

To understand that life is making way for a whole new generation,
To put its stamp on what has gone before,
The end of the road, the closing of the door.
It’s all in the game that they forget your name
That they write and call no more.

And though your future looms before you,
Right now your purpose seems obscure,
Just hold on tight with all your might,
Though disease consumes and there is no cure.
To everything there is a season and life still has a reason.

Though it may not be the life you wished,
There is a future in your crystal ball,
Towering high and looming tall,
You are still magic in your way,
You still are quite distinguished,
The fire is smoldering and will flame again,
You are the man you’ve always been.
Like the phoenix you shall rise, before your very eyes,
Never small and never slight, never quite extinguished.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

BANANA BOAT

BANANA BOAT

Here in my banana boat, with all the other lunatics,
I float down my stream in a fitful dream,
Drunk on empty promises and hoping that they stick.
Having gambled with my fortune, burned my candle to the wick.

Here in my banana boat, nursing my broken pride,
A wobbly disabled replica on his final bumpy ride.
Giving up all I’ve known to unknown kings on their pompous thrones
And scared to ponder for too long what the bumpy future holds.
Here in my banana boat, I brace myself for the coming cold.

Here in my banana boat the only way out is through.
Some say it will be easy, and a move long overdue.
But am I quitting just my jobs or am I quitting life?
I take a gambler’s leap of faith into that dark night.

These are not easy seas to navigate, these wild tempestuous seas of fate.
I pray to whatever God will listen the questions that I ask,
Am I up to the storms that lie ahead, the monumental task?
Or will I float forever until I’m penniless and out of breath?
Lost without a compass on the desperate shore of death.
Or will I find the buried treasure, will I find the gold.
After it is all too late and my dreams are bought and sold.

And all that I can seem to do is play the songs that praise today.
For there’s really no tomorrow, you just take your leap of faith,
And hope the net is really there if only you believe.
I have no other magic tricks nor hocus pocus up my sleeve.

And God only knows what I’m doing here, still alive and kicking,
Hitching my wagon to a falling star and a clock that keeps on ticking.
But I’m sailing straight into the sunset on this strange banana boat,
Hoping I can wait it out and hoping I can stay afloat.
Drunk on empty promises and praying one will stick.
Having gambled with my meager fortune, burned my candle to the wick.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WIDE-EYED

WIDE=EYED

To have life come pry open my eyes
And pierce the contours of my ragged disguise,
And lead me so gently to the other side,
Where the saints lie in wait with their wisdom and their songs
To remind my soul of what it’s known all along.

To live with abandon in the desert, in the wilds,
To live and want for nothing, just as wide-eyed as a child.
Wide-eyed as the babe who wakes, where every day is fraught with joy
And hills are climbed and heights are scaled by the reckless boy.

To have life come with all its mischief and tickle my feet,
As I wander lost in the desolation of these city streets.
To lead me home with much finesse, like some cosmic GPS.
To reach inside and mend the tatters of a heart that has long since died.
To clear my tunnel vision, to leave me stunned and wide-eyed.

Here in the haze where nothing is clear, choking on our dust,
It’s easy to stay lost in space, blind to the joy that circles us.
To forget this life is an unwrapped gift, that every day is Christmas.
That it is ours to understand that we can live if we think we can,
Cradled in life’s loving arms as it gently draws us nigh,
Secure and wanting nothing, just as wide-eyed as a child.

Here in the monstrosity of man’s own bloated greed,
Each one a law unto himself and blind to the other’s need.
It’s easy to lose sight of these, of faith, of hope, of charity.
Yet in the end the three of these are all we need to set us free,
As we wander lost in the desert wilds,
Chained to our fear and ignorance, asleep without a smile.

To have life come pry open our eyes,
To make us strong and make us wise.
To live with sweet abandon, in the desert, in the wilds,
To hunger and to thirst no more, wide-eyed as a child.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

CLEAR ON THROUGH ETERNITY

CLEAR ON THROUGH ETERNITY

Because you’ve done so much for me,
Opened my eyes and let them see.

And shone a light that set me free,
Clear on through eternity,

I hope to do the same for you,
To stay forever faithful, remain forever true.

It’s not my duty, my sweet love,
To remind you of your beauty.

But I’ll rise and do it anyway.
On the morning of each brand new day,

When sunrise streaks across the sky
And bids my sorrow swiftly fly.

O’er the dusky mountaintops,
Littered with the day’s spent teardrops.

It’s not my job, but I’ll make the vow,
To pause and do it anyhow,
And sing your praises loud and clear,
A clarion call from far to near.

It’s not my duty all the while,
To tell you how you make me smile,
How you charm with grace and style
And comfort me through life’s long mile.

It’s not my duty or my chore,
To tell you how I yearn for more.
More of your mystery and your charm,
The shelter of your loving arms.

But I’ll smile and do it anyway, with all I do and all I say.
Because you’ve done so much for me,
Opened my eyes and let me see,
And shone a light that set me free,
Clear on through eternity.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WAITING PATIENTLY

WAITING PATIENTLY

Waiting patiently for Death to call,
I turn and face this desolate wall,
And listen for his footfalls forlornly in the hall.

His wasted form ingratiates,
His presence it emaciates.
My body it has wasted like a puzzle picture pasted
Up against the backdrop of my life’s remains.

Waiting patiently for Death to call
With his trademark scythe and blood stains.

With his long black coat and staff
And his grim and haunting laugh.

Waiting patiently for Death to call,
For I have had my fill,
Of holding on long past my prime,
Of stealing from life’s till.

Of bargaining with God for one or two more days,
Of making promises I can’t keep to mend my evil ways.

Of putting up with scoundrels with their wagging wicked tongues,
Who leave life’s courtrooms still unscathed, both judge and jury hung.

And thankful for the wondrous gifts my life it has bestowed,
My friends that have gone with me down this long and winding road.
My lover and my partner, the crowning jewel of all my years.
I say goodbye with gratitude and a smattering of tears.

Waiting patiently on my suitor Death to make his final call,
I turn and face this desolate, lonely bedroom wall.
Listening for his footsteps so forlornly in the hall.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

COMFORT OF HOME

COMFORT OF HOME

By the fireside we will eye each other again like the first time
And sit engulfed in our coffee and our private dreams.

And it won’t seem like a lifetime of touching and embracing,

Only like the comfort of home on a cold night in the city
With a well acquainted stranger.

You make it seem so easy, when the times are hard and wild.
You shelter me with your loving arms
Like a parent protects a frightened child.

After a day of the world and its nonsense,
We lie by the fire and breathe in the scent
Of the potpourri in the hall, sweet as peppermint.

No matter what stones the world has thrown,
I know I have you and the comforts of home.
The pillows, the music, the glow of the TV
All bring a sweet reassurance to me.

And all the miracles of this life are mine,
The blessings like light in the darkness they shine,
The loaves and the fishes, the water to wine.

By the bedside, we will eye each other again like the first time,
That still same glimmer and spark in our eyes.

And it won’t seem like a lifetime of the feel of your flesh.

Only like the comfort of home on a warm night in the country
With a well acquainted lover.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

EYES AS BLUE AS CHINA

EYES AS BLUE AS CHINA

My love has eyes as blue as china,
No one on this earth is finer.
His steps are brave and do not falter,
And in my eyes he walks on water.

He is the stuff of which legends are made,
Though the storms of life gather and leave me afraid.
He’s the shoulder I lean on, my staff and my prayer,
His gaze escapes nothing, I know that he cares.

If the carpet is stained, he is there to remove it.
He’s a friend of Woolite, owns stock in Renuzit.
He’s a whiz with a vacuum, cleans house like a wizard,
A flurry of action that mimics a blizzard.

My love has lips that rival his eyes,
Supreme in their softness, they tease and tantalize.
Over the moon I blindly go.
Following his light and shadow.

My love has curves ripe to explore,
They tease and leave me wanting more.
His touch my private gold mine,
His fingers are a stitch in time.
The fount from whom my blessings flow,
He is my world and all I know.

My love has eyes as blue as china,
Deep as the deepest ocean.
Eyes that recklessly I dive into,
Drowning in a sweet, slow motion.

My love has eyes like the deep blue sea,
In a rush of passion they cover me.
Like a blanket of stars on a cold winter’s night,
They leave me blinded by their light.

My lover’s eyes are blue as china,
No one on this earth is finer,
And I’d follow him like a lamb to slaughter,
For in my eyes he walks on water.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

DRUMBEAT OF THE SAINTS

DRUMBEAT OF THE SAINTS

I swore I heard the rumblings, nothing less than quaint,
This morning when I first arose to apply my rouge and greasepaint.

I swore I saw a chariot go streaking forth the skies.
I swore I saw the face of God with these two doubting eyes.

I swore I heard the tribal rhythms, drums and cymbals crashing,
The thunder of that long black train with all its lights gone flashing.

I swore I saw the funeral pyre, the friends and neighbors mourning,
As straight into the sunset bold, my soul it went a’soaring.

I swore I saw renting of garments, I swore I heard gnashing of teeth,
As my body lay an empty shell upon soft but sterile sheets.

I swore I rose above it all, lost in space and dangling,
And from my perch above it all, I gained new understanding.

And there was nothing else to ponder, nowhere left to run,
My work beneath the earth’s big sun, at long last had been done.

I had been a gambler and a huckster all my life,
But I found a peace of heaven in my true love’s deep blue eyes.

I swore I heard the rumblings that echoed far and wide,
Across the golden valley and the peaceful mountainside.

I drank it in, embraced it all, and knew it all was good,
And came at last to stand steadfast where all the angels stood.

I swore I heard the rumblings, they were nothing less than quaint,
The still and sacred pulsing of the drumbeat of the saints.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

ALL I GET

ALL I GET

All I get is lonely, all I get is blue streaks,
All I get are melancholy days and wasted weeks.

All I get is shaking, all I get is stiff.
All I get is meaningless, all I get is what if’s.

All I get is crocodile tears, all I get is posturing.
All I get for all my years is snot from lying nostrils.

All I get is limping, all I get is worn,
All I do is merely pimping, all I get is more forlorn.

All I get is silence, indifference from the gods,
They think I am a hindrance, they think that I am odd.

All I get is wilted flowers in a desolate bouquet.
They weep their tendrils on my bosom, then die and fade away.

All I get is anger, all I get is bottled rage,
A lonely actor doomed to fret his life out on the stage.

All I get is battered suns and dingy desperate moons,
A life that’s dipped in arsenic and slips away too soon.

All I get is postcards from someone else’s stay,
A stink bug for a house pet, a lost and lonely stray.

All I get is why I can’t and never why I can,
All I get is separateness, estrangement from my fellow man.

All I get’s a lot of nothing, foul excuses, how they reek.
All I get are empty words, nonsense songs and doublespeak.

All I get is lonely, all I get is blue streaks,
All I get are melancholy days and wasted weeks.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

NO RHYMES

NO RHYMES

No rhymes, ballerina, these are troubled times.
No beams in the lighthouse for the mariner.

The masses are tossing, disturbed on their bed sheets,
Anxieties clogging their pores.

Feel ashamed and angry, ballerina,
Who was I to think I knew the way?

No rhymes, ballerina, and no time,
To tie a ribbon around my heart
And offer it to you, hoping it will suffice.

Sometimes I think, a basket of scorpions would be nice.

The weathermen are on in their funny hats,
Predicting with ten percent certainty
The world will indeed end in ice,
And not in fire, as previously reported.

No rhymes, ballerina, these are troubled times.
For I have learned to know my own mind
And what I’ve found there sends me screaming
Into the portals of the ghastly night.

It helps to know you are out there, ballerina, still devoted to me,
Keeping my dreams in your mind under lock and key.

Good to know you are out there, my muse and my friend,
Walking on the rushing waters, waiting in the howling winds.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

HAVE A MOMENT'S PITY

HAVE A MOMENT’S PITY

So easy to snuff out the fire, to extinguish the life of a fragile heart.
I’m hanging to life by a slender thread, always missing the mark,
Clinging to all I have ever known, tallying each new breath.
Yet sometimes I count myself among the dead,
And sinking to my lowest depth.

You could pull the rug from under me,
the pillars could come crashing down.
The best it is behind me and I’m running out of time,
My confidence is shaken, like a battered town along the fault line.

I scarce know how to stay afloat, the oars are missing from this flimsy boat.
The lighthouses my only guide have lost electricity,
And now I’m drifting rudderless on tempestuous seas.
Hold off your hail and lightning, have a moment’s pity on me.

I was with you from a long time past,
Perhaps my fabled golden age was destined not to last.
But tears, they fill my anxious eyes, when I think of that last goodbye.
And in the name of progress, you could aim your wrecking ball
Full speed and merciless against my shrinking world,
And it will be too late for me, once that thunderbolt is hurled.

So easy to step on the helpless ant who longs for nothing but a crumb,
Don’t leave me to my blackness dire, when the fire dies low and the soul lies numb.

Hold off on your thirst for novelty and change,
My sleep is restless, stained with demons,
The losses mount, and life turns strange.
The world is spinning and I am falling, struggling hard to keep apace.
Have a moment’s mercy on me, a second of your healing grace.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

MAYBE IT'S TIME

MAYBE IT’S TIME

Maybe it’s time, to swim with the tide,
Sail along with the dolphins on their playful ride,
Dodge the sharks and the coral reefs,
Examining worn, outdated beliefs,
And live like the spirit of Jacques Cousteau,
Free on the ocean, enjoying the flow.

Maybe it’s time, to run with the deer,
White-tailed and innocent, nothing to fear,
Except the encroachment of man and machines,
Destroying habitat, wreaking havoc with dreams.
Maybe it’s time not to nod and to wink,
To take just a moment to stop and to think.

Maybe it’s time to fly with the birds,
Straight to the summit, a place beyond words.
The sweetest music you have ever heard,
Reverberates here in the drum of your ear.
Maybe it’s time to sing like the lark,
Or to trill like the nightingale late after dark.
When the pink maroon of sunset streaks in the sky,
As the day takes an overdose, preparing to die.
When all that we’ve seen and all that we’ve done,
Judged by the Father, pardoned by the Son,
Comes back to comfort or haunt with its power,
As the future unfolds like a welcoming flower.

Maybe it’s time, to cradle the world in soft loving hands.
To whisper your prayers for the family of man.
To tell a friend or lover that you love them so,
Relaxing soft into the flow, until it’s time for you to go.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

GIGANTIC LEMON GUM DROP

GIGANTIC LEMON GUM DROP

Quiet is the night, cascading sweetly o’er the village,
The sun gigantic lemon gum drop explodes into the moon.
I think of you at end of day, a savior coming to me soon.

Quiet is your smile, that spreads its holy visage,
Here and there and everywhere, the nooks and crannies of my soul,
Like a toasty English muffin that you craftily stole.
And noisy is the world outside, its cannon fire goes rumbling.
One by one its mighty soldiers fall and go a tumbling.

But love’s a wonderland of grace, I find within your precious face,
Riding high in my esteem, a soft and wondrous golden dream.
And quiet is so far away, until I reach this threshold.
Wearily I make my way up these magic carpet stairs.
And lay my body down to rest, unloading all these heavy cares.
They fall like lead upon the floor, this entranceway enchanted.
I cherish this, I relish this, I take it not for granted.

And quiet comes the setting sun, after all is said and done.
And as I close my weary eyes, you are my precious wondrous prize.
I wait amidst the darkness and know that you are coming soon.
The sun gigantic lemon gum drop explodes into the moon.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

MY LOVER AND MY FORTRESS

Note: This past week Kyle and I celebrated our ninth year anniversary. We first met August 18th, 2001. In honor of the occasion, below is one of the first poems I wrote for him. I thank him for a beautiful nine years, and here's to the rest of our lives together!

MY LOVER AND MY FORTRESS

The contours of your body,
as you lie within my grasp.

Legs entwined and bare feet touching,
in the cool of love-fed sheets.

The hairs on your back and neck beckon erotically,
And I feel tender for you, protective and proud.

You came and kidnapped me,
tied up my heart,
pillaged it like a bandit,
And keep it as a prized possession
to spirit you through the day.

And I have fallen oh so hard,
hurled down a flight of fancy,

Stricken by a bout with the porker Cupid,
Frazzled and weak in the knees.

And like a naked prince you kneel before me,
I see your smile and decipher your soul.

A distribution of body hair that drives me to distraction,
A sweet expanse of gentle man, my lover and my fortress.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2010
(first composed in 2002)
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

GIFTS

GIFTS

Gifts fall unbidden into our laps, they catch us unawares.
The cutest baby in her bonnet, the puppy on the leash.

The kind word of a stranger, that heals a wayward heart
And rescues hope like a refugee, flailing in the ocean.

Gifts ask for nothing, they charm and beguile,
Dressed in bows and ribbons that sail in the breeze.

A chiseled young man on a sandy shore,
A big bosomed lady in the market square,
Wearing a rose in her long flowing tresses.

Gifts arrive, arms outstretched in myriad disguises
And laid at our doorsteps by a cosmic UPS.

The lover who surprises with a noontime rendezvous,
His kisses holy mischief that punctuate the air.

Gifts in their timeliness blow us off course
As the wreckage of the day surrounds us,
And we butt up against the final frontier,
Scavengers for peace, lost in our death and our dust.

Gifts bind our hearts in a desperate thanksgiving,
And we bow bent and humbled, aching to trust.

The years leave us starving, too few morsels fall,
Like manna from God in a snit of benevolence.

So fill up your basket, though the favors are few,
With the sweet smell of hyacinths drenched in redemption.

The gifts that fall unbidden in slow, languid motion
And keep us here yet one more day to traipse this lonesome planet.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

PIERCING EVERY BUBBLE

PIERCING EVERY BUBBLE

Cruising on a bad patch, on a slippery road,
I drove into a snow bank, losing all control.

Saw you in my rear view, gathering up the rubble,
Leaving me with nothing to show for all my trouble.

At the end of a winding hall, I saw you in your judge’s gown.
You clutched a piece of parchment and you waved it up and down.

Pronouncing sentence in a monotone on the thrills our hearts did seek,
Condemning me with withered stares from upon your mountain peak.

On a slippery slope I climbed to greet you,
With wounded hands that cracked and bled,

Broken glass lodged in my hair, the shards encased my head.

You looked at me accusingly, a scornful furious gaze,
Venom dripping from your eyes, your ruby lips ablaze.

You hissed that I’d betrayed you, you thundered from your throne
And the weak excuse I offered up, it left you cold as stone.

A lover’s penance you demanded, nothing more and nothing less,
And like a vagrant I was stranded, lost in emptiness.

Cruising on a bad patch, on a slippery road,
I launched into a snow bank, losing all control.

Saw you in the distance, searching through the rubble,
Stomping on my every dream, piercing every bubble.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

MANSION

MANSION

Not a man of lavish tastes, I walk this earth content,
A happy hiker, easy stride, underneath the firmament.

My wallet gaunt, emaciated, hanging by a thread,
My bank account a suicide jumper, teetering on the edge.

My real estate portfolio reveals a run down shack,
And a car that heaves and sighs with woe,
Stalled along the railroad tracks.

But in my mind I own the throne and spend in royal fashion,
Rich in things that feed the spirit, precious things that fire my passion.

For you, my love, have made my world a tapestry of colors bright.
I sleep with you beneath the moon, you satisfy my appetite.

A feast you are to these sad eyes, these disenfranchised lips,
And merrily I follow you on joyous carnal trips.

Not a man of lavish tastes, nor a slave to foolish fashion,
I live content to be with you, my Rolls Royce and my mansion.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

ADAM AND STEVE

ADAM AND STEVE
(DEDICATED TO THE REV. FRED PHELPS
AND RELIGIOUS FUNDAMENTALISTS EVERYWHERE)

This world is filled with Adams and Steves.
We were not mistakes when God gave us breath.
And nor is our death a time for rejoicing,
You ignorant, ignorant fools.
I don’t know why you do what you do,
If you follow the Christ, you should follow his rules.

The world is filled with Adams and Steves,
You cannot tell us what to believe.
And you cannot keep us down with your laughter,
Your jeers and your taunts that rise to the rafters.

You cannot gleefully dance on our graves,
As if your precious souls are the only ones saved.
For we come in Christian, in Buddhist, in Jew.
And we are not fooled by the likes of you.
Who carry the banner of a bloodthirsty God.
Who’ve forgotten His grace with a wink and a nod.
Who picket our funerals in anger and hate,
As if people chose to be gay or be straight.

The world is filled with Adams and Steves,
Together for years to our lovers we cleave,
Yet still are denied the basic of rights.
To marry, raise children, in wartime to fight.

Our existence is never a reason to fear,
We all have a place on this planet so dear.
Go back to your churches, you ignorant fools.
If you follow the Christ, you should follow his rules,
And love one another as He has loved you.
Don’t tell the rest of this world to believe,
The venom you spew about Adam and Steve.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

DOWN THROUGH THE YEARS

DOWN THROUGH THE YEARS

Down through the years you have clothed me in light,
Seen me through many a nightmare-drenched night.

Sung me your love songs, your melodies spare,
In the soft desert moon, in the rarefied air.

Down through the years, like an agent for peace,
You have nurtured my spirit with great expertise,
And filled in the gaps that were left by the wind,
With the will of a soldier and the zeal of a friend.

Tumbling through time, we fall to the ground,
Breaking swift barriers of sight and of sound.
Walking through time on its thin grains of sand,
And finding my heaven in the clasp of your hand.

Down through the years as the tides ebb and flow,
Your love the most constant feeling I’ve known.
Winding its way through the rivers divine,
Stealing across the deep canyons so fine.
Taking the past and all its sad stories,
And building a future of consummate glory.

Down through the years you have walked the good earth,
Raised me from death and eased my rebirth.
Held me through changes, shielded from harm,
Here in the fold of your sweet loving arms.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

MOORINGS

MOORINGS

It seems these days I spend my time skating on thin ice.
The shore has disappeared from sight.
And I am miles from paradise, giving up without a fight.

The fireworks in your eyes have faded,
Straight into the depths I've waded.
Footsteps creak on ancient floorings,
I'm like a ship that's lost its moorings,
Tossing and turning with the chilling winds.
Drowning in a pool of sins for which I soon will burn.

It's as if I never even learned,
The wisdom of just holding on, the power of forgetting.
The joy that comes from letting go,
The peace of heartache lifting,
The sand as it goes shifting.

My world has crashed and splintered.
It seems I'm in the hinterlands,
With icebergs floating all around.
Drowning in the mighty waves,
That wash up on the frozen sound.

It seems I'm skating on thin ice,
The world has lost its rhyme and reason.
The rain falls hard these winter nights,
A swollen, painful lonely season.

My footsteps creak on ancient floorings,
And I at last have lost my moorings.
Remembering my ancient bliss,
My heart it hungers for your kiss.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

LOVE, THE WAY IT USED TO BE

LOVE, THE WAY IT USED TO BE

Isn't it sad,
To miss the way it used to be
When love flowed soft and lazily
Straight from you to me.

And isn't it a dreadful waste,
throwing it away for just a taste.
A tempting morsel from another's lips,
The beckoning sway of another's hips.

And isn't it a dreadful guise,
That I seldom see behind your eyes.
It comes as such a grand surprise,
Those moments that I do,
See you real and true.

Isn't it an awful gas,
Like two ships in the night we pass.
Felix and Oscar, pissing in their separate pots,
Lights that flicker out and stop.

Isn't it a dreadful riot,
where once we talked there's only quiet.
And now the rain comes pouring down
In torrents on the thirsty ground.

And isn't it a lively blast,
To find you once again at last.
To feel your kiss, warm and free,
Flowing straight from you to me.
Love, the way it used to be.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

MELANCHOLY

MELANCHOLY

My dream was lost the day you said goodbye,
And with a sad and desperate fanfare my hopes fell from the sky.

Alone I wandered aimlessly, drenched in melancholy,
And the night fell down upon me in all its wayward folly.

Melancholy as the owl who hoots alone amidst the pines,
Melancholy as the poet who can’t keep track of his bitter rhymes.

Sad as a monk in his solitary chamber
That echoes with heartbreak and trembles with danger,

Remiss like a singer who’s forgotten the tune,
Forsaken like the bloodhound who bays at the moon.

My dreams were shattered like frail plates of glass,
Like a flash from your heart my visage was cast.

And I heard not the warnings and saw not the signs
Of our love affair’s quick and relentless decline.

In solitude I stand, awash in melancholy,
As the Christmas bells ring ‘neath the ivy and holly.
Melancholy as the elf who cannot make his toy,
Melancholy as the sad and disenchanted boy.

The holiday it passes, like just another moonless season
And I am bitter as the wind that blows without a rhyme or reason.

My dream it died a painful death, alone upon the barren plain.
Melancholy falls the night, a solemn avalanche of rain.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

SUNSET OF SUBURBIA

SUNSET OF SUBURBIA

Dusk comes humidly to the hill,
the hill I now call home.

And the haze of an evening sunset
forms in the sky alone.

My lover and I, we are at peace,
granite countertops and everything shiny new.

As we seal the grout, clean out the garage,
making room for a car or two.

The future beckons, wrapped in a bow of clear sky blue.

Here in Wakeland, where I dare to sleep and dream,
where the days end early and the nightbirds sing.

And all is well, just as my lover promised it would be,
when he broadened my vision, helping me to see.

So here I lie on luxurious sheets,
and watch the sunset of Suburbia sweet.

Dusk comes sticky as a post-it note of gratitude,
flowing to the universe in a calm and cooling mood.

As the sun dips low in the far horizon,
may all our nights fall sweet as this one.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

LOSING TOMORROW

LOSING TOMORROW

Here I stand at the end of the line,
Pocketing daydreams, guzzling wine.

Holding out hope for this love that we share,
While all of our dreams disappear in the air.

Here I stand hungrily outside your door,
Longing for peace but finding a war.

And weapons of mass destruction abound,
Strewn in anger across the cold ground.

Where can I wander, where can I roam
And find a safe haven that I can call home?

For love has turned chilly, bitter and cold
And I travel alone in the deep winter snows.

Here I stand at the end of our dream,
Where we go from one to the other extreme.
You love then you hate but can never agree,
Just what it is you are wanting from me.

I shiver alone, a helpless Jack Frost,
Helpless, uncharted in the land of the lost.

All roads do merge and converge where you are,
My beautiful lover, my dreamer, my star.
And it’s hard to believe that we’ve run out of time,
That the sun in our heaven no longer shines.
That the days tumble slowly in reckless malaise,
Immune to our suffering, deaf to our praise.

Here I stand at the end of the line,
Begging for love that was once rightly mine.
Clinging to memories, dreams laced with sorrow,
Perched on the precipice, losing tomorrow.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

MENU

MENU

What will I choose today from the menu?
What will I take from the gifts on the table?
How will I answer the call of the angels,
Will I be willing, will I be able?

Dining in the cosmic restaurant of the soul,
Feeling the hunger that swallows me whole.
Tasting the flavors of the palate divine,
The sweet golden bread, the nourishing wine.

Will I be cross or will I be kind?
Will I have peace and presence of mind?
Will I have reason to burst into tears,
Caught in the crossfire of the passing years?

And will I be blind and pretend not to see,
Not to know the pleasure of God and his mercy?

What will I choose today from the menu?
What will I take from the gifts on display?
Will I choose the most expensive entrée
And hope that the angels all look away?

When will I wake up to my promise,
And see all the good I have to give?
When will I learn to treasure the moment,
To follow my heart as long as I live?

When will I lead and when will I follow,
When will I hold out and when will I cave?
When will I spend all the currency given,
When will I scrimp and when will I save?

What will I choose today from the menu?
What will I take from the gifts on the table?
How will I answer the call of the angels,
Will I be willing, will I be able?

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

PATIENCE IS A VIRTUE

PATIENCE IS A VIRTUE

Patience is a virtue, but it comes hard for me,
Just like a lost mariner adrift upon the sea.
Weary from his travels, longing so for home,
As he stares into the distance, seeing nothing but the foam.

I raise my hand to greet the day,
But the words I speak get in the way,
And I am lost in promises and pools of good intentions.
Patience is an angry god, I cannot get his attention.

I have dared to shake an angry fist,
I have met my Maker fair,
And begged for him to take me
Through the clouds or anywhere.

But all he does is chortle quietly, shrug his shoulders at the sun.
Your life and all its sin and vice is just the same as anyone’s.
How dare you push the envelope, how dare you challenge me?
Life’s bitter reason and its rhyme, will be revealed in my good time.
And he flings his arm dismissively, happy to be done,
And goes back to his games and his godly fun,
With this word of counsel, have patience, my son.

Yet patience is a virtue that I do not possess,
I clamor in my underclothes for evening’s sweet caress.
And with life I wage my daily war, desperate for a truce,
This disease it wreaks its havoc and I wonder what’s the use.

Patience is a virtue, but it comes hard for me,
Just like those lost mariners adrift upon the sea,
Weary from my travels, longing so for home,
Staring lost into the distance, seeing only foam.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

EARTH ABHORS A VACUUM

EARTH ABHORS A VACUUM

Trudging down a muddy path
At desperation’s edge.

Looking down from the dizzy heights
Of a building’s fabled ledge.

The cars below weave slow and prosaic,
A melancholy mosaic that burns my soul to ash.

My dreams go skidding on the cold, wet pavement,
In a heap of twisted tears they crash.

Saline floods the alleys and the disappointed thoroughfares,
Leading me to leap into the sad abyss of nowhere.

Earth abhors a vacuum, and God is sick to death of mine,
I am the bane of his existence, no longer part of his design.

Sullen is the mantelpiece on which I hang my hat.

The best laid plans slip from my hand,
My visions all have fallen flat.

My cries for help they slip and slide,
Precariously over the Great Divide.

Speaking in a foreign tongue my fellow man can’t comprehend.

Perched upon my Tower of Babel, teetering in the dusty wind.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

TIME WILL COME

TIME WILL COME

Time will come when you will long for
More than just a lover who leaves by stroke of dawn.

Time will come when the bitter world
Falls down around you like a broken song.

And you will inhabit your furious dust,
Long for a companion to heal your pain and rust.

You will feel the cost of the ones you have lost,
The ones you have discarded and given up too soon.

Time will come when your heart requires,
More than a big dick and a pretty face.

Time will come when your years of fun
Will corrode into a bitter race your weary feet cannot sustain.
Time will come when you tread water
And sink beneath a damning rain.

Time will come when your pleasure will evaporate and flee,
And turn into a dreadful scourge that will be mourned and pitied.
Time will come when you long for,
More than a handsome stranger in your bed.
When your voice cries out for tenderness
And a warm soft shoulder on which to lay your head.

For someone to confide in, the secrets that kill and maim,
Another one to go through time with, one who knows your name.

Time will come when you will long for
More than just a lover who leaves by stroke of dawn.
Time will come when the bitter world,
Slips through your fingers like a broken song.

Time will come when your eyes will swell and softly fill with tears,
And you’ll weep for the loss of the golden dreams
You have carried through the years.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

ANGELS IN THE ATMOSPHERE

ANGELS IN THE ATMOSPHERE

I dare not be sleeping, when inspiration strikes,
Deaf to the sure swift hand of Fate in its flight.

For the moon is high in the October sky,
It’s getting cold this time of year,
And everywhere I turn I see
The angels in the atmosphere.

The angels that watch over me,
As I lay sleeping safe and sound.
Their presence I once doubted
From my vantage point upon the ground.

The angels that sing clear and strong,
The angels that fly with all their might,
Across the valleys and the mountains,
Fading in and out of sight.

I dare not nod nor dare doze off
When they spread their awesome wings,
And lay down sweet beside me
With the joy that freedom brings.

For the nights are long, the trials are real,
The burdens great that I must bear.
So they lend to me their courage grand
And offer up their blessings fair.

And I will rise and call their names,
As surely as I know my own.
And tell the world the joy I’ve found,
The sweet relief from rocks and stones.

The joyful songs that echo forth whenever they are near.
Those sweet companions of my days,
The angels in the atmosphere.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2009
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

I ALMOST FELT YOU NEAR

I ALMOST FELT YOU NEAR

Are you satisfied, my wicked one?
I almost felt you near again last night,
Into my troubled dreams you would catapult,
Spreading your sin like the flowers of your cult.

Do the men still stare and worship you,
Impale themselves on tulip stalks,
Talk the talk and walk the walk,
Eunuch like at your request?

Are you still the evil slab of denial,
Smeared across the face of each man
Who begged and lusted for your flesh.
Are they squirming in your spider’s web,
Tangled in its twisted mesh?

Do they all shiver and quiver at your sight,
My love, are you their treasure?
Do they worship you in unison,
Prick blood from their arms for your pleasure?

Do you still accept burnt offerings like the God of Moses?
Do your lovers still tempt you with wine and with roses?
Lovely dream breaker, do you still play those devious games?
Sleeping with men, then forgetting their names?

Are you satisfied, my wicked one?
I almost felt you near again last night.
Still as vain, still as righteous, still as difficult,
Spreading your sin like the flowers of your cult.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Author's Note: Relax! Kyle and I are fine. All these "2010" poems so far are from my college days when I was a brooding and bitter young man. I'm still brooding, but I think I'm done with the bitter part!

CAN YOU FIND THE MAN

CAN YOU FIND THE MAN

Can you find the man in me,
Behind these crying eyes?
Look for the man with the blood stains on his thighs.

I am so unlike the men,
Strong and solemn in black suits and ties,
Men who roam the business world.

I am not the man
Who wrote his number on the wall,
I am not that man at all.

I am a man, poorly dressed and somewhat odd.
I am not much of a man by the standards set by gods.

I am clumsy, cannot dance,
Am not equipped for the hard labor of romance.
My plumbing will not work for men
Who like their sleeping partners
Marked “Satisfaction Guaranteed”.

I am not the man who cursed a blue streak in your ears.
Can you find the man in me, behind these silly boyish tears.
I am the man
Wounded by what the gods say I lack.

I am not a prize that other men covet for their own,
I am quite the man alone.

Can you find the man in me,
Behind these crying eyes?
Look for the man with the blood stains on his thighs.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

ANTONIO

ANTONIO

Antonio, my darling peacock,
Leave the music on and stay awhile,
Let me bask in the glow of your Spanish smile.
I’m afraid I need the singers after all
To ease my suffering, to answer my call.

Antonio, let me strip you gently of your clothes.
I’m afraid I need to taste your body
Just once more before you go.
Just one more night in the tropic breeze,
Then leave me to my memories.

Antonio, my darling peacock,
Pucker up that rainbow set of lips
Parade past me with those swinging hips,
And kiss me one last time upon the spiral staircase,
Before you bid your sad farewell to me in this lonesome place.

Let our lips dance across the rivers of our wasted dream,
The fabric of our love unraveled and tearing at the seam.
Let me strip you gently of your clothes one more time tonight,
And press your body close to mine and hold on to me tight.

Antonio, my darling peacock, leave the music on
As the credits roll across the screen of our sad little show.
I fear I was always in need of the singers,
And was too proud to bend and let you know.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

SEND NO CLOUDS

SEND NO CLOUDS

Send no clouds across my eyes,
Dragon king, you must be kind.
Send no fire across my nostrils,
No love there will you find.

I am on this lonely ride
Where I cannot see the sun.
I am on the dark side,
Lost to you and everyone.

Send no clouds across my eyes,
Dragon king, you must be kind.
Send no flesh between my fingers,
Let me have my peace of mind.

I am made to build my life with stone,
I am made for braving my seas alone.

Send no clouds across my eyes,
Lay no hands upon my groin.
Send no love to stir my thighs,
I am a drifter who must move on.

Send no clouds across my eyes,
Dragon king, you must be kind.
Leave me lost and leave me bleeding,
Leave me by the roadside.
This body is a danger zone
Set against a desolate sky.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

JENNIFER

JENNIFER

She was a poem of many voices,
And spoke to me as we walked through the courtyard,
For I sang to her in many tones.

The songs live on, in some passionate revival.
She stands within the portrait and smiles at my broken life
And looks upon the shattered dreams of tomorrow,
As together we remember a past of gleaming sunlight.

Jennifer, fall into my arms,
Though the snowfall of time has mellowed your golden hair
And blossomed it to a lovely gray.
Come back to the wonderland of our embrace.

The fireside mission beckons us to follow
And urges us on to a shrieking paradise.
I know that time has twisted your mind
Into pails of sloshing confusion.
Our wounds are fresh and open as we roam the world.
Bleed on me your lonely tales,
The dark room with the shades drawn,
The black and dismal rocking chair,
The bed and the strait-jacket.

Bleed on me.
I too have screamed into the emptiness.
I too have felt the fever.
I have been crazy, too, and locked away.
But I can remember a spring day and an autumn brisk,
When you and I sang amid the flowering willows,
And lent smiles to the fading daffodils,
And watched the world fall dead upon its self-constructed battlefields.
Do you remember our victory, when we were champions,
And you wore flowers on your head and a smile upon your shining face?

Wheelchairs and empty pocketbooks are now home for you.
But my quivering voice calls out your name in agonizing shades.
I am an old, old man alone.
The flowers in your hair have wilted and died,
And the ecstasy of meeting you again ignites my mind.
Tomorrow could be the day for you and me, when time calls us to leave.

I picked up the morning paper and saw your death notice,
An obituary in black.
And I could not hold back the tears which fell like pools to drown me.
I tried so hard to stay at peace, but all I could see was your empty stone house,
And all I could hear was the hideous creaking of your rocking chair.
Back and forth, back and forth, the chair creaked through the darkness.

Jennifer, fall into my arms, though the snowfall of time
Has mellowed your golden hair.

I bleed on you my lonely tales.
The coffin is lowered,
The flowers at your head are alive and swaying in the breeze.

I remember our stunning victories, when we were still the champions,
And the tears fall freely, for Jenny, how I loved you.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 1980
Revised Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

URSULA

URSULA

Ursula is nothing now but a broken, worn out spring.
The spinning top and setting sun
Remember her when day is done.

Past promises step aside, nothing is permanent
And the fire burns in the attic of her sevenfold covenant.

I had a night with her, an evening sweet between the sheets
Of a million insecurities.
And I know her well enough to know
Her anguished pain at passing time.
When leaves turn the color of September sighs,
And tall trees bend in the wind of sure infinity.

Far reaching consequences follow everywhere she goes,
Down the lovely rain drenched streets of pride and primrose.

Saviors unsaved lie in the ashes of life’s unwritten page,
And bats in the belfry fight the timeless war of age.
October in Paris, December in Denmark, snow on the panes.
Her life in the crystal ball shows marked signs of strain.

“More, more, more” yell angry fans to her statue on the Champs d’Elysse,
She is the mermaid of the Seine, a prisoner in France,
Still too young to fade away, too elderly to dance.
Her once warm hopes are growing cold,
Her priceless body growing old.
It is time she went on home to her rose gardens
And faced the nights of her life’s sweet autumn.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 1980
Revised Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

CHEERS

CHEERS

Cheers for the years that you were here,
Frowns for the clowns whose faces are down with despair.

The evening with its golden stars is just another freak show.
Without your arms around me, not one truth do I know.

And the desires flame like fireworks
For the caravan of passion that we knew.
For the days when my sackcloth and secrets
Lay safe in the bosom of you.

Cheers for the years when you were here,
Frowns for the clowns whose faces are down with despair.

The burly fisherman at the bar spins another tall tale,
The peanuts and the beer are stale.
The drunks in the streets stagger full of homeless golden blood.

This night was meant for agonized replies.
I hear nothing but December winds pouring from the skies.
I hear you laugh with someone else,
You cannot hear my tortured cries.

The morning with its wasteful sun is nothing but an accident.
I’d love to call you up and say that what I said was never meant
To hurt you in the least or make you want to leave me,
But perhaps you’d not believe me.

This life without you here beside me is nothing but a freak show.
Without your dreams to cherish, not one truth can I know.

And desires flare like fireworks
For the caravan of passion that we knew.
The days when all my sackcloth and secrets
Lay naked in the bosom of you.

And so I sit and raise my glass, pondering our glorious past.
Cheers for the years when you were here,
Frown for the clowns whose faces are down with despair.

-Bruce Potts
Original Copyright 1984
Revised Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

MIDGE

Hers's an oldie (but hopefully goodie) from my college days. Circa 1984.

MIDGE

Every man’s dream, the flaming red head-
mop top with clothespin body
And long, sharp banana nose.

You bop along the windy cities,
Ride your unicycle down nature trails,
Scoff at candlelit dinners.

Jellybean in your lunch bucket,
What a girl, you turn me on,
And whatever made you wait this long
To string out your absurdities
For all the world to gape and see.

Cold, flapping fish dancing in your tennis shoe,
An “I Hate Fresh Men” placard
Pasted with Krazy Glue to the front door of your ivy bound cottage.

A vegetarian stew gurgles on your stove
And your love beads shine and fascinate
As they twinkle close to the freckles of your long, thin neck.

It’s nights like these I start to sit and wonder
About laying my boots beneath your cat’s warm soft form on the floor.

If you didn’t hate men so much, why,
I’d climb beside you in the sleeping bag
And try to turn you on like a Jimi Hendrix groove never could.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 1984
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WERE IT NOT FOR YOU

WERE IT NOT FOR YOU

Were it not for you, I would not have known love,
The unlawful carnal knowledge of a man.
Were it not for you, I’d have lived a fantasy,
The rest of my days in a sad dreamland.

And because of you, every dream has come true.
I have flown, I have flown through the heavens so blue,
Done all manner of things I swore I would not do,
Were it not for you.

Were it not for you, I’d have never walked a Paris thoroughfare,
Never seen the London fog and Rome’s majestic airs,
Or San Francisco with its trolleys or the Golden Gate.
I would have met quite a different fate, were it not for you.
I would not have had the money and in short would not have dared,
If not for you and your wandering spirit, I would not have even cared.

But I followed where you led, where your hands have pointed,
Feeling like a chosen one, as though I’d been anointed,
Into some brotherhood where only you and I reside
And it has been a pleasure grand to join you on this ride.

Were it not for you, I would not have known passion,
Nor even the slightest of style and of fashion.
Were it not for you, there would still be blood on my coat,
San Fran would be a distant land where dead wishes would float.

Because of you, every dream has come true,
I have flown, I have flown through horizons so blue,
Done all manner of things I swore I would not do,
Were it not for you.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

ALBERGO CESARI

ALBERGO CESARI

The Albergo Cesari, my home away from home,
For a few short days of R&R here in the streets of Rome.
A breakfast of croissants, cold cuts and tempting fare.
The pigeons gather dutifully on the corner of the square.

The Albergo Cesari, a refuge from the teeming crowd.
A haven from polizia, from buses and from taxis loud.
The almost overwhelming beauty of the young Roman men.
As soon as one passes by, another hurries by again.

The storefront with the latest fashions,
We’re with Stupid and the like,
The tiny little Roman cars, the limousines, the motorbikes.
The pizza and the gelato that melt upon the tongue,
The horns and air brakes every night when sleep it will not come.

The Albergo Cesari, where in the alleyways outside,
Angry maitre D’s scream in Italian at some hapless waiter’s sad mistake,
And the beauty of the city that could cause your heart to break.
The Pantheon, the Coliseum, where it’s now safe to be a Christian,
And sculpted lions that vomit water day and night in penance.
The Trevi Fountain and the Vatican, where we all complete our pilgrimage.
The nuns and priests with placid smiles expressed upon their visages.

The Albergo Cesari and all of this, mine for just a few days more,
As I teeter on joblessness back in the States, where nothing is secure.
The Albergo Cesari, my home away from home,
For a few short days of R&R here in the streets of Rome.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

IT MEANS SO MUCH TO HAVE YOU

IT MEANS SO MUCH TO HAVE YOU

It means so much to have you,
In the sacred morning time,
When songbirds fill the air with tunes
And the churchyard vespers chime.

To brush a hand against your chest,
To lie awake and sigh,
To cherish how you rescued me
Just in the nick of time.

It means so much to have you in the dusty afternoon,
When the sun hangs high above us,
Beating down its mellow tune.

To think of you throughout the day,
To hold you in my soul.
To walk the walk of faithfulness
Within this heart you stole.

It means so much to have you in the evenings of our dreams,
When we cuddle in these covers and show what passion means.

It means so much to have you,
When the demons stake their claims.
When the terrors come to grip me
And the shadows call my name.

To feel your hands upon my skin,
Your legs entwined with mine,
As the sun dies in the evening mist
And the stars begin to shine.

It means so much to have you, in the sacred twilight time,
When the night birds croon and warble
And the evening vespers chime.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2007
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

TO EMBRACE ANOTHER RAINBOW

NOTE: THE FOLLOWING IS NOT SO MUCH A POEM ABOUT SUICIDE AS IT IS A POEM ABOUT HOPE AND ABOUT LOVE. IT WAS WRITTEN OBVIOUSY DURING A VERY DARK TIME IN MY LIFE (BEFORE THE ANTI-DEPRESSANTS KICKED IN!) AND I NOTE THAT I AM STILL HERE TODAY, DOING QUITE WELL, THANK YOU. BUT IF YOU ARE FEELING SUICIDAL, PLEASE CALL THE NATIONAL SUICIDE PREVENTION HOTLINE AT 1-800-273-8255. AND REMEMBER TO EMBRACE THE RAINBOW!

TO EMBRACE ANOTHER RAINBOW

Sometimes it’s all too much,
Here at the end of what I call life,
Here at the ebb of what I used to call my powers.
The ingratitude of my fellow man,
The dwindling of my useful hours.
Sometimes it’s all too much,
Living here in the darkness of my brain,
Substantia nigra deteriorating,
Cells dying in a blackening rain.
How much of my sadness is real
And how much a mirage?
How much is my imagination, how much a façade?

Do people care as little as they sometimes appear,
Leaving me lost in my maze of dread and fear.
And if I were to take a razor blade
And slide it up and down my wrist
And end it all right here and now,
Would my death then have a special twist,
And give anyone a moment’s pause.
To wish they had been kinder somehow
To me and my sensitive soul in its final sensitive hours?

Sometimes it’s all too much and I feel unloved by anyone,
And nothing I do is ever enough to bring back the renegade
sun.
Sometimes the joy arrives too late to ever have a chance
And sometimes the tango dancer leaves you in the middle of the dance.

Sometimes I think too irrationally to see any light at all
And long to pack it in too soon before the night should fall too hard.
My heart a broken crystal, nothing left but useless shards,
To be swept up in some tired dust bin, laid to rest like final ashes.
My former self a distant memory, a few random brilliant flashes,
That flickered and burned out like some hapless fuse.
An empty vessel no one sails on or even cares to use.

Sometimes it’s all too much, and I feel that razor on my wrist,
And heaven’s just a slice away, gleaming bright like an amethyst.
Sometimes it’s all too much, and it’s only that I love you so,
That I care to live another day, to embrace another rainbow.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

EUNUCH

EUNUCH

I read your death notice, sterile and bizarre,
And felt as though I had been toppled by a careless speeding car.

And I say this not to blame, I don’t even know their name.
But someone in their infinite wisdom reduced you to a phantom
Who never loved either woman or man
And seeing you reduced this way was somehow more than I could stand.

For I never knew such a devoted eunuch,
Who dreamed of romance and physical passion.
A joyful man who lived and loved with abandon.
Who was delighted to get roses or just a little attention
From a lover who I shall not mention.

I read your death notice and though it meant no harm,
I thought it a betrayal of you and of all your wit and charm.
And later at the funeral home, amidst the photos of your children and wife,
There was not one displayed of you and the man who shared your life.

Where was the 20 plus years you so lovingly spent
With a man I assume you thought heaven sent?
Was it all a smokescreen and just a charade,
A costume ball, a masquerade.
And surely most of the mourners knew, of this other life,
Of this love so true,
Yet pretended to be blind and not to see,
And to happily join the hypocrisy.
It’s a casualty of being gay, I guess it happens every day.

Yet I read your death notice, and in truth it made me ill
And gave me an ugly case of the chills.
That in this day and age of rainbow flags and pride,
Of cleaving to one’s lover and hearkening to his side,
That in the end you were a eunuch, and I know not who to blame,
That a 20 plus year love affair still dared not speak its name.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2009
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

I'M NOT LONELY

I’M NOT LONELY

Engine roars, my heart’s kickin’,
I’m not lonely, this love’s stickin’.
Your flesh, a stick to the ribs meal.
(I like the way you feel.)

When I’m under you, you mechanic, me car.
Everything we are is sultry and smooth.
(I like the way we groove.)

And so long have I waited for the key to start my trigger.
(my throttle’s getting bigger,
you’re driving me to blowing time.)

The stars in my eyes dance and shine.
(I think I’m getting manic, an incurable romantic.)

And the hair on you, soft against my palms,
Like upholstery on a sleek foreign job.

So glad you’re here, I’m feeling neat,
With sweaty palms and sweaty feet,
And such a fine good lookin’ soul
Like you in the passenger seat.

Let’s put this bed on speed control and cruise without a care,
And crash into the hapless moon, a classic case of laissez-faire.

Engine roars, my heart’s kickin’,
I’m not lonely, this love’s stickin’.
Feel the combustion, sweet man, pull your body tighter.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

YOUR OVERWHELMING KINDNESS

YOUR OVERWHELMING KINDNESS

Your smile it lights the tunnels dark
My heart in anguish burrows through.

I see it in the crystal ball,
The words you say, the deeds you do.

Sometimes I’m lost in tunnel vision,
Other times just suffer blindness.
But most times I’m just blown away
By your overwhelming kindness.

On the threshold of the storm that sprays
The rain upon the old front porch.
The thunder roars, the lightning cracks,
Framing my life in its fiery torch.

Sometimes I’m caught in the swiftest downpours,
Sometimes felled by the vengeful sky,
Until your overwhelming kisses
Bring comfort by and by.

Wildflowers bright in fragrant meadows,
Swirling vistas, dreamscapes fair.
The late night walks arm in arm
Down some enchanted thoroughfare.

The roses blooming at Versailles,
The rainbows nestled in your eyes.
The tunes you whistle as you drive,
Reverberate in sweet surprise
Along the paths we’ve traveled.
I stand awestruck before you,
Life’s mysteries unraveled.

Through the deep expanse of time,
Through the long and sleepless nights,
I cling to you my one sure thing,
With an undiminished appetite.

Your smile it lights the compass dark
My heart in vain negotiates.
Your eyes reflecting pools of light
That tame the fickle hand of Fate.

Sometimes I stumble past you,
In a fog of utter blindness.
But the mist soon clears and it reappears,
Your overwhelming kindness.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WHATEVER WAITS AROUND THE BEND

WHATEVER WAITS AROUND THE BEND
(FOR KYLE, FOR VALENTINE‘S)

Oh my dear, oh how I love you
And how you rip the clouds to shreds,
And how you mend the tattered day,
With your magic healing threads.

How you meet me on the edge,
And coax me down from off the ledge.
How you’ve come and rescued me,
Like a grateful Lazarus from the dead.

In these times of turmoil, in these days that try the soul,
You’re a good stiff drink of moonshine,
A cup of coffee strong and bold.

Oh my dear, how I treasure you,
For you are my grace and hopefulness,
You dam the torrent of my tears,
And cause the flood to crest.
You fill me like a home-cooked meal
And take away my weariness.

Like a distant star on the horizon,
You herald lonely sorrow’s end.
When the sad times come and beat their drum,
You are my best and only friend.

Oh my dear, how I adore you,
My baubles you have to turned to treasure
And you have changed my straw to gold
With mercy deep and dreams to keep,
And laughter in good measure.

In these times of illness, in these times of woe,
You hold me tight in the dark of night
And promise not to let me go.

And you and I will write the chapter
From now until the ever after.
You will be the healing balm that lasts from now until the end,
Whatever lurks in the darkest corner,
Whatever waits around the bend.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

THE GALLANT WAR TO STAY UPRIGHT

THE GALLANT WAR TO STAY UPRIGHT

Creaking joints they tell a tale
Of a man whose life is up for sale.
For sale to the highest bidder
For whom the price is right.

Creaking joints they tell the story,
Tearing holes in the black of night.
Limbs that will not move with ease,
A brain awash in its disease.
Daily he must fight the fight,
The gallant war to stay upright.

Falling can be deadly, falling is not cheap.
The ER bill can cripple, wreak havoc with his sleep.

Creaking joints are stiff and rigid
And if he falls the ribs will crack.
Nothing like a sudden stumble,
To leave him flat upon his back.

And if he falls and hits his head,
The blood it spurts like a water hose.
Ruining his new wool coat,
Soiling all his favorite clothes.

Creaking joints they tell a tale,
A bionic man, a walking freak show,
Terrorizing in travail,
Slipping on the ice and snow.

Creaking joints about to give,
The struggle he must face to live.
Day by day he rises and tries with all his might,
To defy the odds of gravity,
The gallant war to stay upright.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

DRIFTING FAR

DRIFTING FAR

Getting oh so close to heaven,
Oh, so close but no cigar.

I have wandered aimlessly, following your star.

Star that always leads to sorrow,
Falls to pain and a sad tomorrow.

Leaves me struck by lightning,
The desperate and the frightened ones,
They join me in my vigilance.
Dodging threats and epithets
In a strange St. Vitus dance,

Praying for a better day,
A rising sun, a second chance.

Getting oh so close to freedom,
Oh so close but no bouquet,
Tripping on the petals you scattered in my way,

Only black and bitter roses that you left me in your wake,
The werewolf meets his silver cross,
The vampire finds his stake.

Getting oh so close to winning,
Oh, so close, yet not the gold.

The silver and the bronze await me,
Yet they leave me strangely cold.

Getting oh so close to heaven,
Oh so close but no cigar,

Sailing on my sea of tears,
Alone and drifting far.


-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED