THE GIRL NEXT DOOR
The girl next door
Stores her marijuana cigarettes
In her guitar case.
And she dresses liberally
Like a rejuvenated flower child.
She wears psychedelic pants
And she plays funky music
Through stereo speakers
At her weekend barbecues
She has a lot of strange friends
Who wear bandanas
And “Power to the People” tattoos.
And I swear that
The girl next door
Wants to seduce me with her
Revolutionary body
I wait behind
My conservative picket fence
For her strange friends to leave
And I wait for the girl next door
To throw me a peace sign
And to signal me into her mystical world
With a Beatles tune on her six-string
-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
AUTHOR'S nOTE: Just like "The Poetic One", this poem was written around 1982. If it sounds at all familiar to you and you went to JMU during the years 1980 to 1984 you may have read it in the 1982 edition of the JMU literary magazine Chrysalis. Obviously my writing style was quite different then. More free verse, less rhyme, etc. But I still love throwing in some moldy oldies from time to time.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Monday, May 23, 2011
STEM THE RAGING TIDE
STEM THE RAGING TIDE
Storms kick up, like a fetus in the belly.
Sapping what’s left of my phantom strength,
Turning my legs to jelly.
Without your kisses sacred sweet,
The water fills my paper boat
And Fate soon bares its jagged teeth
And grabs me by the throat.
And only you can bring the calm,
And only you can tame the sea,
And turn the skies to crystal clear,
To set the captive free.
Lightning cracks its glittering whip,
A sadomasochistic trip
That leaves its welts and bruises tattooed upon my back,
A strange, grotesque reminder that my life has gone off track.
A train wreck set to happen, a jockey on an errant horse,
A rollercoaster run amok, a missile fired off course.
Only you can take and mold
This helpless and misshapen clay
Into a man of towering strength
And catapult him through the day.
Storms kick up, like a fetus in my belly,
Sapping what’s left of my fractured strength
Turning my limbs to jelly.
The lightning cracks, the thunder roars
And Death waits just outside my door.
But you are there just like before,
Standing steadfast by my side,
To stem the raging tide.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Storms kick up, like a fetus in the belly.
Sapping what’s left of my phantom strength,
Turning my legs to jelly.
Without your kisses sacred sweet,
The water fills my paper boat
And Fate soon bares its jagged teeth
And grabs me by the throat.
And only you can bring the calm,
And only you can tame the sea,
And turn the skies to crystal clear,
To set the captive free.
Lightning cracks its glittering whip,
A sadomasochistic trip
That leaves its welts and bruises tattooed upon my back,
A strange, grotesque reminder that my life has gone off track.
A train wreck set to happen, a jockey on an errant horse,
A rollercoaster run amok, a missile fired off course.
Only you can take and mold
This helpless and misshapen clay
Into a man of towering strength
And catapult him through the day.
Storms kick up, like a fetus in my belly,
Sapping what’s left of my fractured strength
Turning my limbs to jelly.
The lightning cracks, the thunder roars
And Death waits just outside my door.
But you are there just like before,
Standing steadfast by my side,
To stem the raging tide.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Saturday, May 21, 2011
SWIFTLY FALLS THE NIGHT
SWIFTLY FALLS THE NIGHT
Swiftly falls the night,
It burns like a firefly or a street lantern,
Searing my soul with its desolate veil,
Filling my dark heart with its billowing sail.
Swiftly falls the night, and I am lost without you,
Though the moon shines through, awesome and bright.
I skate upon the Milky Way, my life in tattered disarray,
And all my fears come trembling, like streams from a fountainhead.
Numbness fills me head to toe, my senses have gone dead.
Like nails upon a chalkboard, a streak of sudden dread,
And I am helpless, hopeless, doomed,
Trapped inside this lonesome room.
I dream I am estranged from you, the tears they turn to waterfalls,
Cascading down my craggy face, like insects how they crawl.
How they sketch their tale of woe, the wrinkles and the worry lines.
The stars fall naked on my pillow, their luster gone that once did shine.
And somewhere beneath the firmament, amidst this gloom of fallen gold,
You sleep in peace with some new love who has you in his hold.
Swiftly falls the evening, it burns like a comet careening into dust,
And I dream that you are lost to me, our love fades melting into rust.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Swiftly falls the night,
It burns like a firefly or a street lantern,
Searing my soul with its desolate veil,
Filling my dark heart with its billowing sail.
Swiftly falls the night, and I am lost without you,
Though the moon shines through, awesome and bright.
I skate upon the Milky Way, my life in tattered disarray,
And all my fears come trembling, like streams from a fountainhead.
Numbness fills me head to toe, my senses have gone dead.
Like nails upon a chalkboard, a streak of sudden dread,
And I am helpless, hopeless, doomed,
Trapped inside this lonesome room.
I dream I am estranged from you, the tears they turn to waterfalls,
Cascading down my craggy face, like insects how they crawl.
How they sketch their tale of woe, the wrinkles and the worry lines.
The stars fall naked on my pillow, their luster gone that once did shine.
And somewhere beneath the firmament, amidst this gloom of fallen gold,
You sleep in peace with some new love who has you in his hold.
Swiftly falls the evening, it burns like a comet careening into dust,
And I dream that you are lost to me, our love fades melting into rust.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
THE POETIC ONE
THE POETIC ONE
Friend, there was silver in the sculpture of your face,
And there was marble where you sat upon your throne.
You sat and scanned the daily news, the mall crowds
And the lemmings.
And friend, there was mystery in the fade of your jeans,
The way you held yourself and your silent walk,
The way you scowled when I asked what’s up,
Or made a bad pun, in desperate attempts at poesy.
I thought I knew you oh so very well.
I thought I felt your hand in mine
And that you knew a secret
I thought I’d kept so cunningly.
A secret that was lost on you, so deep and cavernous
From the first time that I saw you, I thought you the poetic one
And searched my mind to find the words to weave a web around us.
And soon I found our ideal ones with sculpted face
and silver thrones,
Can terrify and drive away and make us hold our hasty tongues.
And oh my sweet Thoreau, I could have shown you a way
Unknown to USA Today,
And whispered a whole teeming host
Of feelings that were lost on the Washington Post.
I could have told you strange news,
That would have knocked you off your jogging shoes
And immobilized your sweats.
News that would have pained and panicked you
That would have shattered dreams,
News that would have ransomed trust.
From the first time that I saw you, I thought you the poetic one
And searched my mind to try to find the words to weave a web around us.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I wrote this poem for a guy I knew back in college. He was a very "artsy" English major sort, but he seemed almost sexless in a way, sort of an "untouchable". I've changed a line or two in it and made some revisions, but basically it's just one of those pining after someone you can't have type of poems.
Friend, there was silver in the sculpture of your face,
And there was marble where you sat upon your throne.
You sat and scanned the daily news, the mall crowds
And the lemmings.
And friend, there was mystery in the fade of your jeans,
The way you held yourself and your silent walk,
The way you scowled when I asked what’s up,
Or made a bad pun, in desperate attempts at poesy.
I thought I knew you oh so very well.
I thought I felt your hand in mine
And that you knew a secret
I thought I’d kept so cunningly.
A secret that was lost on you, so deep and cavernous
From the first time that I saw you, I thought you the poetic one
And searched my mind to find the words to weave a web around us.
And soon I found our ideal ones with sculpted face
and silver thrones,
Can terrify and drive away and make us hold our hasty tongues.
And oh my sweet Thoreau, I could have shown you a way
Unknown to USA Today,
And whispered a whole teeming host
Of feelings that were lost on the Washington Post.
I could have told you strange news,
That would have knocked you off your jogging shoes
And immobilized your sweats.
News that would have pained and panicked you
That would have shattered dreams,
News that would have ransomed trust.
From the first time that I saw you, I thought you the poetic one
And searched my mind to try to find the words to weave a web around us.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I wrote this poem for a guy I knew back in college. He was a very "artsy" English major sort, but he seemed almost sexless in a way, sort of an "untouchable". I've changed a line or two in it and made some revisions, but basically it's just one of those pining after someone you can't have type of poems.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
HOLD YOURSELF TOGETHER
HOLD YOURSELF TOGETHER
You see your life darkly, a cloudy, murky mess,
A jumper perched upon the ledge,
A soul that begs forgiveness.
You hold yourself together with paper clips and twine,
Your prayer of supplication hangs choking on the vine.
Lost within the desert sands, you drink the chalice dry
And murmur soft your SOS as the bitter end draws nigh.
So many moonlit kisses have faded from your lips
And mourners come with roses black to place upon your crypt.
You hold yourself together, with scotch tape and with dreams,
Your gold purse it is ripping and tearing at the seams.
The lovers they have all turned strange, the friends have turned their backs.
Your life is like a drifter, along the railroad tracks,
Mourning what you once possessed, cursing what you lack.
So many sunlit Sundays spent hanging at the park,
Are now just distant memories that taunt you in the dark.
You hold yourself together with silk threads and with yarn,
Your hope a bloody hostage beheaded in the dawn.
The sad decapitation of your cloistered, monkish plans
That died a swift and brutish death alone on foreign sands.
Some say the human spirit’s a brave, resilient sort,
I say the spirit’s fragile, life is brittle, broken, short.
You are among the lost and lonely, dejected and downcast,
Your life a sullen nightmare that was never meant to last.
You walk the last mile gladly, despair beyond belief.
A rat that’s lost within the maze, a suicide in stark relief.
You hold yourself together, a cloudy, murky mess,
A forsaken man with one last stand, a soul that begs forgiveness.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
You see your life darkly, a cloudy, murky mess,
A jumper perched upon the ledge,
A soul that begs forgiveness.
You hold yourself together with paper clips and twine,
Your prayer of supplication hangs choking on the vine.
Lost within the desert sands, you drink the chalice dry
And murmur soft your SOS as the bitter end draws nigh.
So many moonlit kisses have faded from your lips
And mourners come with roses black to place upon your crypt.
You hold yourself together, with scotch tape and with dreams,
Your gold purse it is ripping and tearing at the seams.
The lovers they have all turned strange, the friends have turned their backs.
Your life is like a drifter, along the railroad tracks,
Mourning what you once possessed, cursing what you lack.
So many sunlit Sundays spent hanging at the park,
Are now just distant memories that taunt you in the dark.
You hold yourself together with silk threads and with yarn,
Your hope a bloody hostage beheaded in the dawn.
The sad decapitation of your cloistered, monkish plans
That died a swift and brutish death alone on foreign sands.
Some say the human spirit’s a brave, resilient sort,
I say the spirit’s fragile, life is brittle, broken, short.
You are among the lost and lonely, dejected and downcast,
Your life a sullen nightmare that was never meant to last.
You walk the last mile gladly, despair beyond belief.
A rat that’s lost within the maze, a suicide in stark relief.
You hold yourself together, a cloudy, murky mess,
A forsaken man with one last stand, a soul that begs forgiveness.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
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