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