FORSAKE THE FALSE RAINBOW
I hold my rainbow close to my heart,
Yet closer still to my head.
Near to the brain where my hair used to part,
No more drinks of water, no more the lure of bread.
I hold my rainbow of visions floating beyond the sun,
Tired of this fractured fighting,
All is well inside this sighting,
The grim metallic prism of a gun.
I can see it clearly, my form on the floor,
My despair splattered like the blood on the walls.
I make my concessions to funeral processions,
The quiet of dimly lit burial halls.
I hold my rainbow here in my wrists,
Like two unwrapped packages with bow and sash.
Just take some pills and make a fist,
And take a long and luscious slash.
Those who say I had ice water flowing through these veins,
Could scrape the ice from off the floor, secure that they were right.
Where those who say I was a blue blood oblivious to pain,
Could hold their strange hypothesis to the new day and its light.
And those who claim I was good as gold would finally see the truth,
I was made of only flesh and blood and here’s your living proof.
And those who thought I was purple with passion,
Could scrape their way through the mosaic of my blood,
And look for flints of lavender on the ground where once I stood.
Some will say I died a broken man, and some will say it served me right,
That I had a queer agenda and was one unhappy shade of gay,
Some will say I embraced the end, rushing toward that blinding light,
Some will claim I was a bitter fool, who had to end his life his way.
I hold my rainbow close to my heart,
I treasure its beat alive in my breast.
Perhaps I am doomed before I start,
Life a bitchy proctor with its twisted little tests.
Heed what I am saying and read on to the end,
This fracture of faith is a passing weight,
It is not a stalwart or a happy friend.
In the end it is only me who knows what my true colors are,
And it is only me who knows my sunshine and my stars.
They say beware the vicious dog, they say beware false prophets,
Some voices ringing in my head are just as best forgotten.
Time to drink and time for joy, time to end the fast,
To give the pain its proper due then leave it in the past.
I swear I know not what I do, my world’s a broken mess.
Sometimes I’d love to take a repast in the waters of forgetfulness.
Yet even in my darkest hour, even in my frailest season,
I must find a sheltering bower, search my soul for a reason.
Find something bigger than myself to steel my bravery,
Throw off these shackles and these chains that speak of slavery.
Gather to my bosom all the colors I possess,
Hold them as a talisman against encroaching darkness.
Be it the comforting arms of a lover, or some greater higher goal
Shake off the malaise that has clouded my days, devoured my better soul.
Put down my gun and my trusty blades,
Say goodbye to the lure of nightshade.
Beware the devil in disguise, apparition without a soul,
Forego the fire to self destruct, forsake the false rainbow.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
NOTE: While this poem is not encouraging suicide (in fact suicide is the "false rainbow" referred to in the title) Parkinson's patients, myself included, often suffer incredible
depression. So do gays and lesbians, another segment of my audience, due to societal pressures and prejudice. If you feel vulnerable and need a nonjudgmental ear, please call the National Suicide Hotline at 1-800-273-8255.
Saturday, September 29, 2012
Saturday, September 22, 2012
FUN STUFF
FUN STUFF
Where has all the fun stuff gone,
Like pink flamingos on the lawn?
Drive-in movies and making out,
And little teapots short and stout.
Where are all the revelries,
Where is all the wonder?
They’ve gone the way of my failing health,
Blithely torn asunder.
They groan beneath my sagging wealth,
A pocketbook struck by thunder.
And the crack of closeup lightning,
Reveals each silly blunder.
Where has all the fun stuff flown,
Into the package of wreckage strewn,
The mile high club that I didn’t join then,
I certainly can’t take up now.
Though a midair romp is no big sin,
Just in and out is my solemn vow.
I need my restrooms for voiding and rest
And not to satisfy lovers’ requests.
Where is all the happy verse,
The readers want to know.
Why such a wuss and a gloomy guss,
We came here expecting a vaudeville show!
You’ll have to bring glasses versed in 3D,
To see the hapless side of me.
The stumbling here and everywhere,
The tumbling on the flight of stairs
The web cam set on Bruce I Am,
Is what you’ll long to see.
And I’ll do a giddy happy dance,
An honorary Black Eyed Pea.
Where alas is my ship of fools,
My happy courtyard jester?
He lies in pain, in the foyer slain,
His wounds they bleed and fester.
I can barely crack an egg,
Yet you long for me to crack a smile?
The fun stuff and the folly is going out of style.
And with the fun stuff goes the laughter,
Though I still crack jokes at my own expense,
But like smoke it rises to the rafters,
And mixes with the heady incense.
Where is the fun stuff when you need it,
Like the joys of medicinal hashish weed,
My attitude could sure improve,
And gradually get back up to speed.
Surely a toke or two of the demon pot,
Could calm the pain of what I’ve got.
But alas I am like Auntie Em,
I mustn’t go against the law,
For that would make me one of them,
The stoners and the potheads all.
Where has all the fun stuff gone,
The chinchilla and the pet rock?
I am quite the sour puss,
As I pause to take my stock.
But I still have my sardonic wit
That I bring out on demand.
So jump ye reader to your feet,
And give me quite the hand.
Where has all the fun stuff gone,
The pink flamingos on the lawn?
The Geico gecko and the pig that goes wee?
You don’t even have to ask
Just take a look behind the mask,
In the corner by the calamity,
Snorting loudly, chuckling merrily,
It shouldn't be that hard to see,
The fun stuff’s still inside of me.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Where has all the fun stuff gone,
Like pink flamingos on the lawn?
Drive-in movies and making out,
And little teapots short and stout.
Where are all the revelries,
Where is all the wonder?
They’ve gone the way of my failing health,
Blithely torn asunder.
They groan beneath my sagging wealth,
A pocketbook struck by thunder.
And the crack of closeup lightning,
Reveals each silly blunder.
Where has all the fun stuff flown,
Into the package of wreckage strewn,
The mile high club that I didn’t join then,
I certainly can’t take up now.
Though a midair romp is no big sin,
Just in and out is my solemn vow.
I need my restrooms for voiding and rest
And not to satisfy lovers’ requests.
Where is all the happy verse,
The readers want to know.
Why such a wuss and a gloomy guss,
We came here expecting a vaudeville show!
You’ll have to bring glasses versed in 3D,
To see the hapless side of me.
The stumbling here and everywhere,
The tumbling on the flight of stairs
The web cam set on Bruce I Am,
Is what you’ll long to see.
And I’ll do a giddy happy dance,
An honorary Black Eyed Pea.
Where alas is my ship of fools,
My happy courtyard jester?
He lies in pain, in the foyer slain,
His wounds they bleed and fester.
I can barely crack an egg,
Yet you long for me to crack a smile?
The fun stuff and the folly is going out of style.
And with the fun stuff goes the laughter,
Though I still crack jokes at my own expense,
But like smoke it rises to the rafters,
And mixes with the heady incense.
Where is the fun stuff when you need it,
Like the joys of medicinal hashish weed,
My attitude could sure improve,
And gradually get back up to speed.
Surely a toke or two of the demon pot,
Could calm the pain of what I’ve got.
But alas I am like Auntie Em,
I mustn’t go against the law,
For that would make me one of them,
The stoners and the potheads all.
Where has all the fun stuff gone,
The chinchilla and the pet rock?
I am quite the sour puss,
As I pause to take my stock.
But I still have my sardonic wit
That I bring out on demand.
So jump ye reader to your feet,
And give me quite the hand.
Where has all the fun stuff gone,
The pink flamingos on the lawn?
The Geico gecko and the pig that goes wee?
You don’t even have to ask
Just take a look behind the mask,
In the corner by the calamity,
Snorting loudly, chuckling merrily,
It shouldn't be that hard to see,
The fun stuff’s still inside of me.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Saturday, September 15, 2012
RESTLESS SPIRIT
RESTLESS SPIRIT
My body’s a prison with iron wrought bars,
My spirit’s a skylight that leads me to stars,
Over the black velvet darkness I fly,
The heavens alight and unfold to my eyes.
Spirit is colorless, odorless, spirit moves free,
Unlike the landlocked woebegone me.
I can get torn and tossed over all I have lost,
Or soar with the saints and the Trinity,
It’s Father, Son and Holy Ghost,
The fruits of the spirit I treasure the most,
They are the beacons of light on my journey.
And give me the grace to make music and sing,
To ride the unicorn to Saturn’s wing,
To join the bright planets and the whirling constellations,
To make this restless spirit yield to innovation.
To not fight on past the point of no return,
To gather up the dusty lessons I’ve learned,
And mount my flaming steed to the burning skies,
To answer the saints and their beckoning cries.
To not be afraid of the land past the rainbow,
To gather my courage in droves,
And walk with the Savior in his garden of flowers
At my life’s great epic close.
To go skinny dipping through the stars,
To shed this earthly cloak,
And vanish like ether in a wooden wisp of smoke.
Goodbye to the earth below, goodbye to those who loved me.
I join the Boatman in his schooner, sailing toward eternity.
Out beyond the glorious sunset, and those purplish clouds at close of day,
Nothing left to keep me here, nothing standing in my way.
Goodbye to my lover, I will miss you most of all,
And all the tender mercies that from your lips did fall.
The feel of your flesh and the taste of your kiss,
That lent to me your golden bliss,
Your touch oh how it tingled, my skin it did enthrall.
But we all know it’s time to go,
Into that cool, bright tunnel of air,
Where all the spirits that have gone before,
Beckon me to join them there.
And to shed this body of wrought iron bars,
To break through the skylight that leads to the stars.
Over the black velvet darkness I’ll fly,
Where the heavens alight and unfold to my eyes.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
My body’s a prison with iron wrought bars,
My spirit’s a skylight that leads me to stars,
Over the black velvet darkness I fly,
The heavens alight and unfold to my eyes.
Spirit is colorless, odorless, spirit moves free,
Unlike the landlocked woebegone me.
I can get torn and tossed over all I have lost,
Or soar with the saints and the Trinity,
It’s Father, Son and Holy Ghost,
The fruits of the spirit I treasure the most,
They are the beacons of light on my journey.
And give me the grace to make music and sing,
To ride the unicorn to Saturn’s wing,
To join the bright planets and the whirling constellations,
To make this restless spirit yield to innovation.
To not fight on past the point of no return,
To gather up the dusty lessons I’ve learned,
And mount my flaming steed to the burning skies,
To answer the saints and their beckoning cries.
To not be afraid of the land past the rainbow,
To gather my courage in droves,
And walk with the Savior in his garden of flowers
At my life’s great epic close.
To go skinny dipping through the stars,
To shed this earthly cloak,
And vanish like ether in a wooden wisp of smoke.
Goodbye to the earth below, goodbye to those who loved me.
I join the Boatman in his schooner, sailing toward eternity.
Out beyond the glorious sunset, and those purplish clouds at close of day,
Nothing left to keep me here, nothing standing in my way.
Goodbye to my lover, I will miss you most of all,
And all the tender mercies that from your lips did fall.
The feel of your flesh and the taste of your kiss,
That lent to me your golden bliss,
Your touch oh how it tingled, my skin it did enthrall.
But we all know it’s time to go,
Into that cool, bright tunnel of air,
Where all the spirits that have gone before,
Beckon me to join them there.
And to shed this body of wrought iron bars,
To break through the skylight that leads to the stars.
Over the black velvet darkness I’ll fly,
Where the heavens alight and unfold to my eyes.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Saturday, September 8, 2012
DARE TO TOUCH
DARE TO TOUCH
So many prohibitions in this picky world,
So many should’s and do not’s,
As the white flag comes unfurled.
The white flag of surrender
Flies everywhere you go,
From Mona Lisa in the Louvre,
To the art of Michelangelo.
I guess I understand it, for art lives on forever,
If not for eternity until the twelfth of never.
Keep it safe for future views,
Preserve the brightness of the hues.
Every line of the Mona Lisa’s face
And the Sistine Chapel’s holy grace.
Don’t feed the deer or animals in the zoo,
And please beware the big black bear
Whatever else you do.
I understand these warnings too.
They serve quite well both me and you.
Protecting nature from us fools,
Like kids on field trips with their schools.
Adults who stray from the beaten path,
Alas to feel the torment of the grizzly’s awesome wrath.
But we are in a relationship, and hopefully not a zoo,
And I am but a mortal man, standing here before you.
I beg you and beseech you, I am not Michelangelo,
And I am not da Vinci, you’ve no need to break my code.
I am not a grizzly poised to eat you in the park,
I just long to feel your loving hands caress me in the dark.
Perhaps I’m old before my time,
Perhaps you feel you’ve bagged your prey.
I know you’re tired and weary
And that work consumes your day.
I know perhaps I’m stern and scary
With this grave Parkinsonian mask,
But by all means look and by all means touch,
You shouldn’t even have to ask.
So many prohibitions, sex should just be hetero,
So many should’s and do not’s that a good man could implode.
I am like America, I long to be explored,
Come to me, my brave Columbus, and lick my every pore.
Put me under the microscope, I long so to be seen,
Peruse me with the gusto of your favorite magazine.
It’s flesh on flesh I long for, your touch and your embrace,
To feel the coarseness of your beard as it sweeps across my face.
I need some tongue to keep me young, and though it’s fallen out of fashion,
I need some steam to fuel my dreams, I need a little passion.
I am not Sheldon Cooper, I’m no fussy Felix Unger,
I am a dead man walking, with a strange sad case of skin hunger.
I need to feel the lock of your lips, I miss it all so much.
Come to me, beloved man, look at me and dare to touch.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
So many prohibitions in this picky world,
So many should’s and do not’s,
As the white flag comes unfurled.
The white flag of surrender
Flies everywhere you go,
From Mona Lisa in the Louvre,
To the art of Michelangelo.
I guess I understand it, for art lives on forever,
If not for eternity until the twelfth of never.
Keep it safe for future views,
Preserve the brightness of the hues.
Every line of the Mona Lisa’s face
And the Sistine Chapel’s holy grace.
Don’t feed the deer or animals in the zoo,
And please beware the big black bear
Whatever else you do.
I understand these warnings too.
They serve quite well both me and you.
Protecting nature from us fools,
Like kids on field trips with their schools.
Adults who stray from the beaten path,
Alas to feel the torment of the grizzly’s awesome wrath.
But we are in a relationship, and hopefully not a zoo,
And I am but a mortal man, standing here before you.
I beg you and beseech you, I am not Michelangelo,
And I am not da Vinci, you’ve no need to break my code.
I am not a grizzly poised to eat you in the park,
I just long to feel your loving hands caress me in the dark.
Perhaps I’m old before my time,
Perhaps you feel you’ve bagged your prey.
I know you’re tired and weary
And that work consumes your day.
I know perhaps I’m stern and scary
With this grave Parkinsonian mask,
But by all means look and by all means touch,
You shouldn’t even have to ask.
So many prohibitions, sex should just be hetero,
So many should’s and do not’s that a good man could implode.
I am like America, I long to be explored,
Come to me, my brave Columbus, and lick my every pore.
Put me under the microscope, I long so to be seen,
Peruse me with the gusto of your favorite magazine.
It’s flesh on flesh I long for, your touch and your embrace,
To feel the coarseness of your beard as it sweeps across my face.
I need some tongue to keep me young, and though it’s fallen out of fashion,
I need some steam to fuel my dreams, I need a little passion.
I am not Sheldon Cooper, I’m no fussy Felix Unger,
I am a dead man walking, with a strange sad case of skin hunger.
I need to feel the lock of your lips, I miss it all so much.
Come to me, beloved man, look at me and dare to touch.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
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