Saturday, December 31, 2011

HELLO, BABY NEW YEAR

HELLO, BABY NEW YEAR

Hello, baby new year, you’ve arrived so sneaky fast,
And truth be told, you are looking suspiciously like the last.
I need a brand new symphony to chase my blues away,
And not the same tired orchestra and the same old notes you play.

Hello, baby new year, let us smack you on your fresh behind,
And give you room to breathe in this specious peace of mind.
If the world is sinking perilously, there is little you can do,
Despite all the legions and minions depending on you.

We have come to the fold, to the bend in the road,
Where solutions are not easy and sometimes cruel,
Not enough food, not enough love, and precious little fuel.
So spin in your dust and cry if you must,
Then cut the cord, it’s earth bound or bust.

Will you grow up to have a job in this spurious economy?
Will you curse being born in the land of the free?
Hello, baby new year, used to the luxury and designer label,
Living way beyond your means, with no food on the table.

But at least you’ll have your cell phone and your Game Boy
And your Play Station, to set your spirit soaring.
And with the Kardashians and the Jersey Housewives,
Your life will not be boring.

Yet I wonder what we’re teaching you, and if it all makes any sense,
With so few people in the world of integrity and conscience.
When Paris Hilton matters more than starvation in the streets,
When the homeless matter less than what goes on between the sheets.
When gays are free to marry, but not their own sex,
While we lap up all the details of Britney and her ex.

Hello, baby new year, it’s a strange and wild predicament,
That into this world at this time you’ve been sent.
When the confetti has been thrown and we’re left to fend alone.
It’s no wonder we end up so broken and bent.
So pardon me my bitterness, when you’re grown you’ll understand,
How such cynical times breed such a cynical man.

Hello, baby new year, sorry for the world we’ve left you,
But it’s your turn now to shake this up, you freakin’ little buttercup,
So please grow up and make us proud, but could you cry a bit less loud.
For I drank too much to celebrate and must sleep off this nasty headache.
Goodbye, baby new year, a fond farewell to you,
And please don’t bother daddy until New Year’s Day is through.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Saturday, December 17, 2011

TRIPPING ON JOY

TRIPPING ON JOY

Funny thing happened the other day,
As I was going my merry way,
A good friend of mine, a delightful old bat,
Stubbed her old toe on a kitchen floor mat.

It was a Christmas floor mat in front of a sink.
And the old bat, alas, had had too much to drink,
And like a child by herself all absorbed in her toy,
The old bat went merrily tripping on joy.

The floor mat was engraved with that very word,
As innocuous a word as has ever been heard.
It’s lots of times, not just Christmas day.
We seem to get mired in our own rigid way.
And are blind to the blessings that fall in our lap,
The warmth of good friends and a good stocking cap.

Let us try to remember and never forget,
The friendship of others, the kisses so wet,
That rain down upon us like snowflakes from the sky,
With each breath we take, we soar and we fly,
The dog’s sacred bark, the newborn’s first cry.

And it is all such a wonder, a sight to behold,
In the barren dead of winter, in the bitter cold.
We must always remember, it is always our choice,
To wallow in misery or to up and rejoice.

To reach for the heavens or to plumb the ocean floor,
To curse the darkness and cry evermore,
Or to light a candle in the night, and row our boat to shore.

Funny thing happened the other day,
As I was minding my own what was,
A good friend of mine who was slightly buzzed,
A wild old woman, a wily sort,
Stubbed her toe with a salty retort.

But like any good girl or any good boy.
She picked herself up and got on with her day.
Tipping the universe, tripping on joy,
Stumbling along on her drunken way.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Note: A big thanks to Christie, Chad, Jeni, Linda, John, Julie, and Wilson for an incredible Saturday afternoon that helped inspire this piece, which is a bit of truth and a bit of nonsense. The "old bat" was not drunk, nor did she curse. She barely even tripped. But she did trip slightly and the floor mat WAS a beautiful floor mat with JOY emblazoned on it. I just couldn't help myself.

Saturday, December 10, 2011

ROBBING PETER

ROBBING PETER

As I heave and sigh, closer to the final inning,
No longer sure of borrowed time, nor sure of new beginnings,
May I just say now that I’m sick of it all,
Sick of robbing Peter just to pay Paul.

Tired of killing Father Time
And stalking Mr. Death.
Tired of promises that do not rhyme,
That leave me lost, bereft of breath.

Tired of books that help me cope
With this dashing designer disease.

Tired of bromides and false hope,
This mountain won’t be climbed with ease.

Tired of pep talks from Michael J. Fox,
Tired of dreaming of a cure,

I want to mount my soapbox now,
To slaughter every sacred cow.
To set the record straight and pure.

I want to give birth to a litter of the bitters.
To shake my fist at progress,
To rant and rave at DBS.

Sick to death of being patient.
And though it isn’t anyone’s fault,
I am sick to death of impotence
And sick to death of Zoloft.

Sick of the pain and destruction.
Left by Mr. Parkinson.
Ready to give up hope-ah,
To throw away my levodopa.
And let us not forget, its kissing cousin Sinemet.

And tear out the freakin’ battery in my chest,
Damn the electrodes, full steam ahead,
Show me to my dainty sick bed.

Bring me lots of chocolate, it’s the only solution.
Kill me some lamb and bring me some mutton,
I will eat and drink and die a merry glutton.

As I gasp and breathe my last,
There’s one thing you should know,
These were just some random ramblings
From my one man Parkinsonian show.
A bored bombastic body and a withered tired old soul.

And did I happen to mention that I’m tired of it all,
Sick of Robbing Peter just to pay Paul?
Sick to death of losing balance,
Sick of the inevitable fall.

And now that I have had my say, I shall mosey on my merry way,
Shuffling like an idiot who’s stubborn as an ox,
With all due apologies to Michael J. Fox.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Note: I meant this poem to be taken seriously, but also a bit tongue in cheek. I hope I don't have to explain the debt of gratitude we all owe the wonderful Michael J. Fox. He is most definitely a hero of mine, and I do not at all intend my mention of him in this piece to be in the least bit disparaging or disrespectful.

Saturday, December 3, 2011

DANCING ON THE BORDERLINE

DANCING ON THE BORDERLINE

Tonight I am one of the lost souls,
Dancing on the borderline.
Confused about this strange America.
Cornucopia of the brave and fine.

Tonight I stand with the discarded,
Floating on a barge in the open sea,
Bewildered by the stern crossed arms,
That used to open and welcome me.

Dancing, dancing on the waves,
Fleeing the tyranny and the devastation.
The turmoil of my native land,
The burnt out shacks, the shifting sand,
The lonesome degradation.

And we are not that far apart,
Though you have hardened your rebel hearts.
And the troubles that have befallen me,
Run far deeper than a tax on tea.

I am talking a wild and a dangerous ride,
Hunger pangs and genocide.

How can we be rivals,
My only crime survival.
And yours in all your wisdom
Is only tunnel vision.

But your tunnel vision is killing me.
I would clean your toilets if only you’d agree,
You and your Statue of Liberty.

Yet still I wait in these shadows alone,
Far away from the place I used to call home,
And my heart is shattered and cracked,
My bridges are burned, I can never go back.

And though you say you cannot accept more,
More of the dispossessed, downtrodden and poor.
I am running out of time, still dancing on your borderline,
Confused about this strange America,
Cornucopia of the brave and fine.

-Bruce Potts
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...