Saturday, July 28, 2012

BRAIN GESTAPO MOUNTING STAIRS

BRAIN GESTAPO MOUNTING STAIRS

The cells are dying left and right,
Even as I sit to type, they vanish in thin air.
Never to return to me,
The brain Gestapo mounting stairs.

The secondary symptoms,
Pain that shoots up and down the back,
The dyskinesias from the meds,
They throw the DBS off track.

This disease evil as Hitler,
How fitting that it struck him down,
In the prime of his misspent life,
With his mistress Eva Braun.

The cells are dying in my brain,
A tortured unrelenting rain,
A private concentration camp,
Where movement slows and muscles cramp.

And each day drawing closer, like a river to the sea,
Each day heralds helplessness and immobility.
And when I smile it’s behind a mask that few can even see,
I am not a navel gazer or a sucker for self pity.

But I live with a monster invading my body,
Washing up like a tsunami on my brain’s helpless shore.
Nothing to do but pop the pills like candy,
And writhe like Chubby Checker, a strange version of the twist,
The doctors tell me less is more, and I struggle to make sense of this.

I am, alas, a lucky man, my wits still with me twelve years in,
And there are folks far worse than me who have stood where I now stand,
This barren space, this desolate place, these grains of shifting sand.
This disease is like some society lady, noisily putting on airs,
Back to the days of the thought police, the brain Gestapo mounting stairs.

A mother ship with no place to land, but someplace hard when I fall.
Less and less a presence in the affairs of my world.
My universe the size of these ceilings and walls
Meanwhile my right side is stymied and paralyzed,
My left it is not far behind,
I’d like to rent a space machine,
And mosey back in time.

Back when I moved more freely and knew what I know now,
The movement I once took for granted could rise again and bow.
But all I can do is wait by the gate for the rest of the brain to disintegrate,
And cherish the good days as they sneak up unawares,
Like the evil Hitler in his prime,
His brain Gestapo mounting stairs.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Saturday, July 14, 2012

HOLD ON TIGHT FOR ONE MORE DAY

HOLD ON TIGHT FOR ONE MORE DAY

I am not a stupid man, I see the writing on the wall,
Mankind has glimpsed mortality since the Garden and the Fall.
Since Eve took a bite of the apple, and Adam joined her in her folly,
And the serpent crawled on his belly and hissed,
We have lived with this knowledge and this strange melancholy.

Each day it is harder to talk and to type, to walk and to carry it on,
I am grateful to come to the end of the cycle when all of my troubles are gone.
And I still feel surprise when I wake to a sunrise and find myself still here.
As the dark of night passes into morning sweet and dear.
With another new dawn with the dew on the lawn, another twenty-four,
To hold my lover, to breathe, to talk, to walk my dyskinetic walk,
To feel fresh air upon my face and to taste the ocean spray.
To drain the dwindling coffers of what this life may offer,
To hold on tight for one more day.

I am not a cockeyed optimist, racing for a midnight cure,
I take it one day at a time, progressively unsure,
How long I can suffer the slings and arrows,
How long I can join in the frenetic dance,
My forehead is lined with creases and furrows,
My life is a game of random chance.

I harbor no grandiose scheme or dreams, for I gave them up for Lent.
My spirit sings for simpler things, my energies are spent.
Sometimes it is quite enough to while away an hour,
Stiff as a statue in some picturesque park,
In sweet communion with the flowers.
To breathe in the fragrance, the tendrils and the tree bark,
To feel the sunshine descend on my face like a prayer,
Not craving more than just to be there,
Still a part of the struggle, still with a horse in this fight,
A bloody boxer just not ready for the fading of the light.

I am grateful for life, for hope, and for friends,
For the little small blessings on which this life depends.
I am thankful for daydreams, for hope and for grace,
For each special soul, for each sacred place.
I am at the railway station, luggage in my hand,
Nothing in my pockets but a hobo’s grain of sand.
My heart is wide open, bursting at the seams,
My mind is racing wildly, blithely chasing daydreams.

I know not my departure time, I’m not sure I care to know,
Just for today my ticket is punched, and the earth it revels in its show.
I am always more holy than just flesh and bone,
I shall mix, alas, with the sand and the foam.
Away my spirit will gallantly fly, with the galaxies will play.
I close my eyes meanwhile and smile and hold on tight for one more day.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Saturday, July 7, 2012

JUBILATION JADED

JUBILATION JADED

Amidst these rumblings of a cure,
This crumbling of the research dollar,
The stiffness it is choking and sure,
Gripping my neck like a dog collar.

Forgive me if I sorely lack,
The energy for a victory dance,
The pain shoots like devils through my back,
Their pitchforks at the ready, I scarcely have a chance.
It’s treacherous waters into which I have waded,
My hope has dissolved, my jubilation jaded.

Amidst this dance of dreams and hope,
I struggle in my way to cope,
At times I struggle through undaunted.
At times this body’s a house that’s haunted,
The grisly bears encircle it,
Like Pooh bear circles the jar of honey,
I play the sacrificial game,
I pretend the weather’s sunny,
While the telethons and the walkathons
Compete for my dwindling money.

I believe in progress and for a long time thought the best,
Put aside my reservations, locked them away in my hope chest.
I’ve lost my faith in doctors who stand around and hem and haw,
I dedicate my brain to science when the undertaker calls.

Forget the victory parade,
Complete with fife and drum,
I’m not sure I will be here to watch it when it comes.
An inefficient spectator of life in all its glory,
I was 38 when diagnosed,
Have heard the cure in ten years story.
And now I’m fifty years of age
And have turned the half a century page.
Hope has receded, like my hairline it’s faded,
Joy is hard to come by and jubilation’s jaded.
Not ready to rocket ship into my grave,
Not ready to be helped to my wheelchair,
But I’m not a fool or a courtly knave,
Unschooled and unaware.

Amidst these rumblings of a cure,
The scientific logic sound,
The motivation good and pure.
I admit I’ve come a bit unwound.

I must admit I’m a bit bemused,
Much more than just a little confused.
The brain is not an easy thing, to isolate and analyze,
Stem cells, they may be the answer,
To clear these murky skies.

Amidst these rumblings of a cure,
I put my faith in whatever comes,
I’m a poet and not a scientist,
When all is said and done.
So I’ll open up my wallet
And throw down my last few dollars,
While disease, it seizes my throat like a vise,
Gripping my neck like a dog collar.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 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...