Friday, December 31, 2010

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

Tuesday, December 28, 2010

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

Saturday, December 18, 2010

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

Wednesday, December 8, 2010

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

Saturday, December 4, 2010

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

SERENADE OF TWILIGHT

SERENADE OF TWILIGHT

SERENADE OF TWILIGHT The stars in your eyes, love, I tried them on for size. They shone as bright as diamonds, how they mesmerized. And when...