Friday, August 31, 2012

TOUGH AS NAILS

TOUGH AS NAILS

If I have to pretend for awhile,
I’ll hide these tears as long as I can,
‘Til my sun sets into its finest smile,
Like the light fades low upon the sand.

Until my brain ceases to think,
Until my heart at last it fails.
I may be driven to the brink,
But outside I’m brave
And tough as nails.

Tough as the cold of winter ice
That falls and coats the powdery snow,
How beautiful a sight, how calm, how nice,
Like a glacier on a solid floe.

Like a ship that floats and proudly tilts its sail,
Like a lighthearted Jonas in the belly of the whale,
I salute the crack of lightning, I welcome the hail,
And even as my steps peddle backwards
And my stiffened arms they fend and flail,
I’ll hide from all the searing pain
And weep my tears into the rain,
I’ll be stoic and be tough as nails.

Tough as the nails that will seal my coffin tight,
I will wear my sorrow ‘til tomorrow
Until the sun it shines again to chase away the night.
I will go down in a frenzy and a mighty flurry,
But my friends and lover need not worry,
My end it will be sudden as the day I began,
I will not linger some sad, sniveling man,
Spouting useless bromides and fairy tales.
Like a warrior brave I will go to my grave,
Swallowing the pain, as tough as nails.

I will drink the hemlock proudly,
I will sleep safe and sound and fall to the ground,
In a sweet solemn slumber when the evening pales.
I will know when it’s time to go and I will go as tough as nails.

And if I have to pretend for awhile,
I’ll be cunning as the artful dodger.
Matching wits with Mr. Death,
Like a grand old ancient codger.

Like some great and fine old laborer,
Toting those barges, lifting those bales,
I’ll hide it all inside, behind the billowing sails.
With nary a cut and nary a bruise.  
Like Captain Hook on his crooked cruise,
Swollen with pride and tough as nails.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Saturday, August 18, 2012

SO WARM, SO TRUE, SO GOLDEN

SO WARM, SO TRUE, SO GOLDEN

(FOR KYLE, ON OUR ELEVENTH ANNIVERSARY)

There is nothing magic in numbers,
Except perhaps to a Wall Street hack,
And eleven years seems a long, long time,
In my rear view mirror looking back.

I always knew our love was passion,
I always felt the raging fire,
But now it’s more like a tree-lined street,
With a lone bird singing on the wire.

The sight of you straight from the shower
Can still send my passion over the edge,
But day to day, love’s a sheltering bower,
That calls me away from the ledge.

My demons yell useless, my demons yell jump.
But yours is the voice of reason I heed.
You nurture the wound, get me over the hump,
With the kick in the pants that I need.

Our passion is hot, but our love runs the deepest,
When the road is the roughest and the hill is the steepest.
My only complaint on this sun drenched ride,
Is the lack of time in bed by your side,
Love consummated in spoon.

The touch of your hand is the lay of the land.
And still sends me over the moon,
I’m all the while grateful and wearing a smile,
Mindful of time disappearing too soon.

Work takes you away from me, and love won’t pay the bills,
But to see your face is a touch of grace,
Like flowers are to a windowsill.
And when I hear the garage door open at the end of your long day,
I count my blessings silently that God sent you my way.

I hear your feet caress the stairs,
We share the day its joys and cares,
And in the end what more is there,
Than to look into your eyes and stare.

No, there’s nothing magic in numbers,
But eleven years seems a long, long time,
For your beloved footsteps to coalesce with mine.
I’m happy for the sexual tension and happy for the heat,
I’m happy for the years we’ve passed, the mystery and mystique.
But most of all I’m happy for the lone bird singing,
Upon the fencepost on our tree-lined street,
The flowers laid upon my heart so fragrant and so sweet.

I remind myself on this grand anniversary,
I remind myself eleven years in,
True love is more than a passing fancy.
True love is finding a soul mate and friend
Love is more than just passion and heat,
Love is plush teddy bears that say I love you,
A peck on the lips before sleep.

I’m well aware of how I’m blessed,
Beloved man of grand finesse.
Eleven years of sailing these smooth and rocky seas,
The hourglass it has shattered, suspended in deep freeze.
You have stood by me so gallantly,
Through good times, through disease.
A million kindnesses you give,
Within this storybook we live
I thank you now for all of these,
And know how deeply I’m beholden.
For all the gifts you have given me.
So warm, so true, so golden.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Note: Today is the anniversary of Kyle and me meeting exactly eleven years ago. Love you, my dear, and thank you for being always "so warm, so true, so golden".

Saturday, August 11, 2012

PURPLE WITH PASSION

PURPLE WITH PASSION

Back then I spoke my peace, in sure and measured tones,
Today I speak it haltingly, waving my rainbow flag alone.
Wondering where the party is, those who share my views,
Purple, alas, with passion, those lovely lavender hues.

The church of Christ has all gone home to bake their apple pies,
Afraid of those they do not know, whose views they do despise.
Those awful homosexuals, those devils in disguise.
A nation of haters, toting high their Christian banners.
Forgetting fast the Golden Rule, not to mention manners.

Eating filet of chick with pride, disdain upon his sleeves,
Heaven help the Christian and the victory he achieves.
All at the expense of his nemesis, the dreadful ten percent,
The gay, the lesbian, the differently inclined,
That cannot pierce the barrier of his closed mind,
Basted in hate, perverted and bent,
So sure he’s on the side of Christ,
And what the Savior really meant.
The poor misguided Christian church, drowning in its own malaise,
Is that righteousness upon your sleeve, or a careless dab of mayonnaise?

Back then, I spoke more clearly, but can you hear me now?
My voice needs amplification to carry across the miles.
The miles I still must travel before the blessed sleep,
Across the tired and tough terrain, all up hill and steep.
I could hold my breath just like a child, ‘til I turn black and blue.
And there’d be one less homo in the world.
And that would please the likes of you.

I’ve always loved the sunsets, and I’m heading straight into my own,
Leaving behind a hateful world and the crowd left gathering stones.
And just like Shirley Jackson’s lottery,
I see my neighbor through jaundiced eyes,
His twisted love I do not need, nor his hateful prize.
Love is somehow out of fashion, a child of untenable views,
Black as death is the forlorn future, covered in its Sunday blues.

Still the sunset knows no hate, and the love of God no ending,
And to a heaven welcoming, I modestly kneel bending,
Like the sun fades in the western sky,
My last breath spent in asking why,
Why such fear and judgment,
Before we pierce the firmament?

And if there’s any justice to this life at all.
My spirit it will rise again, once more from the pall.
And I will cross the mighty bar, graceful as a shooting star.
Flaming like a meteor sunset, its colors to imbue,
Purple, alas, with passion, those lovely lavender hues.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Saturday, August 4, 2012

FLOATING ABOVE GROUND

FLOATING ABOVE GROUND

Ever the stickler for the smallest detail,
I listen to the warning sounds,
Like a boat lets out its billowing sail,
Floating like air above the ground.

I am not in heaven nor in hell,
But between the two, caught in the crossfire,
Of my angels and demons that wish me well.
That leave me to traverse this high wire.

I traverse it at my leisure, lost among the ashes,
Of the cities that once gave me pleasure,
The memories that live as brilliant flashes.
They burn and then the flame it ebbs,
Not knowing the road, its curves and its bends.
Like the intricacies of a spider web,
The Teflon hold of my foes and my friends,
Burning the candle at both ends.

I flew too high and peaked too soon,
My soul it plummets from the height of the moon,
And lands somewhere in foreign soil,
Engulfed in a merciless trap
My only pay for all my toil is falling off the map.

Where no one calls and no one comforts,
They dare not to inquire,
Whether my travels have yielded heavenly bliss
Or the torment and terror of hellfire.

Never the gambling man, ever the miser,
Always the foolish and never the wiser,
I wait in my torrential bucket of rain,
My hot coal crazy of emasculating pain,
Crying out for just the cusp of an answer,
The worm in my brain, the cogwheel, the cancer.

I hover so quietly you can barely hear,
My eyes well too quietly to release a tear,
But I am crying on my knees,
Weeping for the man I used to be
Before the devastation blunt and brittle,
That wounds complete my selfish pride
And all my dreams belittles.

I hovered so quietly, you scarce could hear me disappear,
Into the firelight of a lost horizon, into the tortured hemisphere.
I disappeared without a trace, without a wayward sound,
Lost in space between heaven and earth,
Floating above ground.

-Bruce Potts
Coopyright 2012
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...