Saturday, July 30, 2011

IT'S ONLY MORNING

IT’S ONLY MORNING

It’s only precious morning, sneaking across the plains.
An early dose of sunrise, a smattering of rain.

I rise to taste the maiden dew that sits in silence on the grass
And build my dreams of innocence on days and moments past.

It’s only gentle morning with its quiet, subtle cheer,
That wakes me to the happiness of friends that gather near.

It’s only morning, sight for sore eyes, dreaming of a time.
When young and old will count as bold
Her deep and delicate designs.

It’s only morning, like a wet nurse to my aching heart,
Ministering to the fragments true,
The remnants of what once was art.

Sing her praises loud and long, buried ‘neath the blackbird’s song,
And raise the eyes to search the sky, while hopes and dreams go flying by.

It’s only gentle morning and nothing really left to fear,
The empty pockets of the lost, this strange and desolate hemisphere.
It’s only morning, that falls from heaven like a wayward leaf,
Reminding us that time is short and life so very brief.

We hold to life with precious might, we sometimes sink beneath its weight,
We drink the chalice ‘til its dry, until the palate satiates.
Until we get an inkling, until we get a clue,
Of both the wisdom age can bring and the damage time can do.

For now the good outweighs the bad and so we wake and so we rise,
As Aurora drives her chariot across these golden skies.
And as my love and I, we watch the sun come sweeping ‘cross the plains,
We reminisce on days of bliss, the coolness of a morning rain.

-Bruce Potts
Copyrighit 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Saturday, July 23, 2011

PICTURE PERFECT

PICTURE PERFECT

Picture perfect day, the sun hangs high above me,
In the early morning still, pretending that it loves me.
But soon to burn and blister,
Every miss and mister.
Sun of the Deist God my forefathers once worshiped,
The eagle’s talons have been weakened,
Its wings now pruned and clipped.
Believing in nothing but nature and its proud and brutal force,
We limp along, weak and injured,
Our small lives run their meager course.

This is where I break with you, founding fathers of this dream,
For nature is a fickle friend with diabolic schemes.
My god is not of the flooding rains, nor the monstrous hurricane,
But the god of kindness and good will, who walks amongst us still.

Picture perfect day, the sun hangs high above me,
But so alas do UV rays and polluted air to breathe,
This Deist God, this monstrous creep,
Tsunamis that murder while nations sleep.
You cannot be a god of mine.
My God lives inside my heart,
His body bread, his spirit wine.
And all his mysteries and his might,
Will be revealed in his good time.
My God is not of nature, not of man,
My God is a god of love, my God understands.
And when at last we are all called home,
And retrace the tracks on earth we trod,
The plan it will be etched in the rugged stone,
God’s footprints next to ours in this murky earthen sod.

Picture perfect day, when the blind can see and the deaf can hear.
When the mourners are comforted, in their lonesome song of tears.
When I can walk without a limp, and speak without a hitch
When the carpenter comes back for me with his canvas and his cross-stitch.
Picture perfect day, when the whole world stands in peace,
When guns and bombs are laid aside, when war and hatred cease.
When the eagle is silenced by the sweetness of the dove,
When the world alas awakens to the Beauty of His love.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Saturday, July 16, 2011

DRIFTWOOD

DRIFTWOOD

There are days for sailing
Where girls with ample breasts
Succeed at diverting you

From the sad business
Of life inside your skin

Drift along, son,
Like some
green, bewildered apprentice

The beaches welcome you
With warm sand and sensuous foam

The days teem with make believe

City lasses,
disguised as island natives,
Feed you tropical fruit beneath the palms

There are days for sailing virgin thoughts
Into a lover’s waiting ear-

There are days for watching
the driftwood float ashore.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Saturday, July 9, 2011

BLEEDING LAVENDER

BLEEDING LAVENDER

In the sweet cocoon of evening,
I lay my head slow on your shoulder.

And night holds still to a pregnant pause
To smash the hourglass and rain down the sand.

And my love bleeds lavender,
color of the springtime flowers.

I swim in the magic and wonder,
The forgetfulness of these precious hours.

You lie in a bubble beside me,
Your arms on my shoulders,

A gentle squeeze that pushes through
The sundry aches and pains of day.

My worries like a bag of boulders quickly melt away.

And my dreams sing lavender, all the pastel marvel,
The magic dewdrops on the flowers.

I breathe the heady fragrance of this romance that is ours.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Saturday, July 2, 2011

BITTER

BITTER

Bitter is my blackened heart, to ponder what’s at stake,
I drink the poison hungrily, it leaves an aftertaste.

What little I held to my breast as sacred and as true,
Dissolves into the setting sun, horizons gray that once were blue.

The bastards are mute, they choke on the words,
They cannot say for better or worse.

Their silence up and slaps my face,
And love, a sad, cheap real estate depreciates quickly.

Bitter is my wretched soul, issuing condemnation.
It leaves no room to wiggle, it demonstrates no levity,
It stagnates in the dirty pool of life in all its brevity.

The bastards go on with their dreaming,
Futures sure and brightly gleaming.

Sons of bitches dare to thrive and mock me in my sad decline.

The bastards slight me with their whimsy,
All their slick evasions flimsy,
Shallow as a kiddie pool I recklessly dove into.

Bitter is my sawed off spirit, an awful swift assassin,
Hopefulness a musty relic, fallen out of fashion.

The mirror cracks, the cancer spreads, the web is all but woven.
I stand upon the precipice, where nothing is forgiven.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2011
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...