LAZY BIRD

LAZY BIRD

My God, you are a lazy bird,
Hopping around outside my door.

Always having the last word,
Knowing you’s been such a bore.

You no good chirping lazy bird,
Last to head south for the winter.
Whatsa matter you, what’s your beef,
Or does your claw just have a splinter?

My languid piece of bone and feather,
This cannot be your kind of weather.

Head on south and torture
Some other sour old man,

And don’t stay here and mess with me,
Just because you can.

Oh my little lazy bird,
In you my secret I’ll confide,
I long to fly away, though it sounds absurd,
For something in my heart has died.

Something unattainable, so fragile it got broken,
And perhaps you are a metaphor
For all the words I’ve left unspoken.

All the dreams that have soiled my brain,
The blinding snow, the driving rain,
The plane that crashed, the derailed train.

Perhaps I need your stern rebuke,
Perhaps I doth protest too much,
And hating you is just a fluke.

A passing fancy and a whimsy,
A diversion fleeting and so flimsy.
Perhaps I’m just a grounded fool,
Who envies anything that moves.

My God, you are a lazy bird,
Allow me to remove your sty,
And take me with you when you go,
And teach me how to fly.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

TRANSCENDENTAL HOLIDAY

TRANSCENDENTAL HOLIDAY

With any luck this day we’re happy,
Blessings many and troubles few.
With the grace of God has come abundance,
Raining down with the morning dew.

With luck today, our fences are mended,
No emotional land mines haunt us.
With any luck we have befriended,
And pardoned those who have broken our trust.

And all that's left within our hearts
For the earth and all its multitudes,
Is an all consuming state of grace,
A mix of awe and gratitude.

Just to be here on this spinning earth,
A miracle in flesh and blood,
A healthy sense of our own self worth,
Engulfing us in a holy flood.
A flood of sweetness and emotion,
Flowing like a river to the raging ocean.

With loved ones in from near and far,
We welcome them to the wondrous table,
Each one brings what he is able.
With no gifts or tinsel or madcap spending,
Just football games and a big parade
And a feast that seems unending.

With any luck, we are blessed with much,
The glow of health and the divine touch.
Thankful for the breath of life,
And the awesome joy of living.
Joining hands around the table
In a glorious thanksgiving.

With any luck today we are mindful,
Of the pure unsullied way
The sheer and sheltered goodness
Of this transcendental holiday.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

PROVERB

PROVERB

You came and taught me lessons,
On a day when it was raining.

When I was quite the neophyte,
An amethyst in training.

You came and taught me lessons,
And at first I did not listen.

‘Til the stars in your eyes they mesmerized,
And my world at last it glistened.

You became the soundtrack
And the backbeat to my days.
Like Groucho’s duck, my stroke of luck,
The secret word, the phrase that pays.
Plus any other hackneyed cliché
That you would care to send my way.

You were the genius unspoken, the subway token,
The late night flight to a much better place.
You were the spirit and the spark,
A talisman that ended the tailspin.
An artful dodger that snuffed out the dark.

You came and taught me lessons,
You asked nothing in return,
But you threw your arms around me,
And all my bridges burned.

In the black smoke swirling, I could see the phoenix rise,
Into the clear and cool blue ocean of your eyes.
And in there I have splashed about,
A student in your summer school.
And you have played the wise guy to my motley fool.

Where once my mouth was a leaky faucet,
Where once my brain was in a rush,
You have soothed the raging bull
And all my teardrops gently hushed.

You came and taught me lessons,
Together we have spanned the globe,
Me in my clothing of rags and wonder,
And you in your splendid robe.

You will be the one for me,
And you will write the final word,
Your wisdom it gleams silently,
Like a sweet enduring proverb.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

FALLEN BY THE WAY

FALLEN BY THE WAY

It seems these days I’m fumbling,
Reaching for my lost North Star.

The golden meteor of my heart,
Falls to the earth after shooting so far.

And troubles like a mountain
On my shoulders dance and play.

Like children singing London Bridge,
And fallen by the way.

It seems these days I’m wistful,
And longing for my youth.

When my footsteps trod so strong and sure,
And my dreams they shone like diamonds.
Unsullied and so pure.

Before time came with its one, two punch,
And left me shipwrecked on the bay.

Before my life unraveled like a wanton, careless thread,
Spooling out and thrashing about,
Going for broke and left for dead,
A pawn in someone’s passion play,
Stranded fallen by the way.

My love, you may have rescued me,
For some brief point in time.
But the planets they are spinning
And my broken axis misaligned.
And I love you like a drunkard,
Lapping up his wine.
‘til the grapes hang sour and spoiled,
And rotting on the vine.

We can dance around it and ignore it though we may.
But I am bound for the heavens blue, and numbered are my days.
The archer draws and aims for my heart,
His quiver of arrows like a monster preys
And dances on my bedpost, fallen by the way.

I’m running out of chances, dreaming of old times,
The grand and golden heady rush.
Before my soul was bent and crushed.

Before my troubles like a mountain
Came to dance and play.
Like children singing London Bridge,
And fallen by the way.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

JUST YOU AND ME AND THE COMFORTER

JUST YOU AND ME AND THE COMFORTER

Cold and icy winter morning, roads as slick as glass,
Stuck at home for the duration as the snow keeps falling fast.

This bedroom that we know so well, a haven from the storm.
A past that does not melt away but strengthens at the core.

It never fails to amaze, the bright and wondrous way,
The way in which you hold me and love me in this time.
The way in which you see the world, the way your hand caresses mine.
The way in which you navigate the stormy seas we sail along,
The way you turn each wayward day into a gentle song.

Freezing air that coats the spirit, that turns the blue sky gray,
Just you and me and the comforter, warm on a winter’s day.

The snow it pours for what seems like years,
And the tears and sorrows multiply.
But do not mourn for the sun appears,
Like a welcome stranger in the sky.

The arctic air it freezes, and tosses us around,
We lose the things we thought we gained,
They fall like lead to the stony ground.
But always there is your skin so smooth,
I’ve memorized the outline.
I know each curve and ligature of your body so divine.

Here in all our warmth and glory, shrouded in this peace,
This cozy blanket over us, this undemanding fleece.
It never fails to soothe and comfort, your love it still astounds,
So let the snow do what it will with its gently falling sounds.

Sometimes the world in its wounded fury hurls us to the earth.
We long to find our lovely Eden, land of our rebirth.
But for now tonight your love’s enough to hold me in its sway.
Just you and me and the comforter at the close of another day.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED