CHOICES
The paths are not so finely worn,
I am not fixed and static.
I am no musty relic,
In some forgotten attic.
I awake unto a brand new day,
Not a slave to the same old tapes.
I am not a soul embroidered,
Across unchanging landscapes.
Wonder of wonders I can fly,
And my wings are young and strong,
Flying into the morning sun as graceful as a lark,
For who could know the choices that breathe my name in the dark?
Standing in front of a cold closed door,
But I am not in a hurry.
Time to wait out the waves on the shore,
Not to lay low or to scurry.
But to dial the number to a new future,
Not necessarily better,
Not just to follow the spirit of the law,
But to follow it to the letter.
Never knowing what's on the other side,
A ghost or an embrace.
The future comes and strikes me dumb,
Without a hint or a touch of grace.
I could have sworn that I heard voices,
Ringing in my despot ears,
Turned out it was only choices,
Echoing from far to near.
Beckoning me, beckoning,
To a day of final reckoning.
Choose or have it chosen for you,
Choose or lose it, choose or die,
You are lost without a compass,
Free falling in the windy sky.
Tumbling into the terrible,
Diving into the divine,
I have seen the future
And all its fruits and foibles are mine.
These decisions are a grim and a stark affair,
Who knows what lurks in the future,
Dangling on a tightrope in pale and nauseous air.
Afterwards the joy of resolution,
As you take your fate in hand.
Following your sun even if it leads
To a slow and ghastly quicksand.
Wonder of wonders I can fly,
And my wings are young and strong,
Flying into the morning sun as graceful as a lark,
For who could know the choices that breathe my name in the dark?
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Saturday, September 28, 2013
Saturday, September 21, 2013
BITTERSWEET
BITTERSWEET
This world can be bitter,
The low achieving runt of the litter,
Screaming to be seen and heard.
This world can be sweet,
Parade of roses in your street,
A kind gesture and a loving word.
The world can be pernicious or the world can be quite grand,
The world can deal a full house, or sometimes a bad hand.
But most times it is in between, a most amazing feat,
Most times the world's a combination, we call it bittersweet.
Into the clouds we sail like a dream, with our paltry lives and ransomed souls,
Into the ocean we flounder helplessly, treading water in the foam and the shoals.
The world is a danger, the world is a harbor,
The world is a forest of endangered arbor.
The world is a welcome mat unfolding,
A warm benediction, a malevolent scolding.
Sometimes the sun is a glimmering star,
Landing and falling right where we are,
Sometimes the rain it rages, pouring down in sheets,
But still the world it churns around us, ambivalent and bittersweet.
Time it rushes, the waterfall gushes,
Nothing is forever or free.
Time it can buoy or it can destroy,
The best laid plans of you and me.
The world can be a lighted match,
Torching all it touches.
The world can be a kindly artist,
His brilliant palette and his brushes.
The world can be a hard place, no one's getting out alive,
The world can be a carnival, a thrilling roller coaster ride.
The world can be your oyster, the world can be your pearl.
All its guns a'firing and all its flags unfurled.
The world it is a battlefield, sometimes we are forced to yield.
Sometimes the wounds are fatal, sometimes the wounds are healed.
Sometimes the sweet taste of forgiveness lands upon the tongue,
Sometimes the fickle hand of fate strikes you when you're young.
Sometimes time is a faithful friend, other times a ruthless foe,
But time runs amok no matter what, the curtain falls upon the show.
The world can herald victory, the world can spell defeat.
The world might end in fire or ice, fiery flame or drenching sleet.
The world can be bitter,
Low achieving runt of the litter,
And sometimes life is manna landing at your feet.
Still the world it churns around us, ambivalent and bittersweet.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
This world can be bitter,
The low achieving runt of the litter,
Screaming to be seen and heard.
This world can be sweet,
Parade of roses in your street,
A kind gesture and a loving word.
The world can be pernicious or the world can be quite grand,
The world can deal a full house, or sometimes a bad hand.
But most times it is in between, a most amazing feat,
Most times the world's a combination, we call it bittersweet.
Into the clouds we sail like a dream, with our paltry lives and ransomed souls,
Into the ocean we flounder helplessly, treading water in the foam and the shoals.
The world is a danger, the world is a harbor,
The world is a forest of endangered arbor.
The world is a welcome mat unfolding,
A warm benediction, a malevolent scolding.
Sometimes the sun is a glimmering star,
Landing and falling right where we are,
Sometimes the rain it rages, pouring down in sheets,
But still the world it churns around us, ambivalent and bittersweet.
Time it rushes, the waterfall gushes,
Nothing is forever or free.
Time it can buoy or it can destroy,
The best laid plans of you and me.
The world can be a lighted match,
Torching all it touches.
The world can be a kindly artist,
His brilliant palette and his brushes.
The world can be a hard place, no one's getting out alive,
The world can be a carnival, a thrilling roller coaster ride.
The world can be your oyster, the world can be your pearl.
All its guns a'firing and all its flags unfurled.
The world it is a battlefield, sometimes we are forced to yield.
Sometimes the wounds are fatal, sometimes the wounds are healed.
Sometimes the sweet taste of forgiveness lands upon the tongue,
Sometimes the fickle hand of fate strikes you when you're young.
Sometimes time is a faithful friend, other times a ruthless foe,
But time runs amok no matter what, the curtain falls upon the show.
The world can herald victory, the world can spell defeat.
The world might end in fire or ice, fiery flame or drenching sleet.
The world can be bitter,
Low achieving runt of the litter,
And sometimes life is manna landing at your feet.
Still the world it churns around us, ambivalent and bittersweet.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Saturday, September 14, 2013
LOOKING FOR TOMORROW
LOOKING FOR TOMORROW
Looking for tomorrow, amidst the wreckage of the day,
Here somewhere amidst the trials that life has sent my way.
Looking for a rose that grows not overgrown by thorns,
Sifting through the rubble in a soul that's grown forlorn.
Pleading for an answer, I go crawling on my knees,
Treading water by my boat that's capsized on the seas.
Trying to find a purpose, trying to say yes,
Trying to find a sliver of long lost happiness.
The evening tide is easy, most times the nightfall calms,
Sleep descends like a blessed friend, wraps me in its balm.
I go floating somewhere on a little death, somewhere out in space.
On a cloud of Klonopin, I am lost without a trace.
When morning sends Aurora like a vision across the plains,
I shake off sleep and sometimes weep that day has come again.
Looking for a purpose, now that life is free lance,
Now that I am all alone as day begins its dance.
My love begins his long, hard day, complete with long commute,
And I am here all by myself, with a lonesome attitude,
The brain cells they have died and walking is a chore,
I drive myself short distances, perhaps to the grocery store.
But ennui lurks in every corner, so it's radio and TV,
And music on the stereo, whatever comes to me.
Perhaps the existentialists were right, and life intrinsic has no meaning,
We recreate our own lives daily, once more now with feeling.
So I sit and fill this screen with words, listen to the chirping birds,
Hope that someday someone will take the time to read,
The words that spill onto my page, a massive molten bleed.
Sometimes a trickle, sometimes erupting, like a glorious Mt. Saint Helens.
At times I don't know what to say, at times resort to nonsense.
It's the way I choose of staying sane, confronting every peril and pain,
Each lost and lonely labored breath, leads inexorably to death.
The only question in my mind that spins,
Is how to spend the interim.
I recreate myself each day, with the words I write and the things I say,
Take my daily happy pills and try to forestall sorrow,
Turning over brand new leaves, looking for tomorrow.
Looking for tomorrow, at last my love is home,
A kiss and then a cuddle, and then we lie alone.
Time for the cloud of Klonopin to wrap me in its sheets,
The boat of life it floats ashore and it anchors at my feet.
I fall asleep in a bed of roses alas untouched by thorns,
Sifting through my dreams that fall, noisy as a newborn.
It's sometimes a cloud of sleep benign, sometimes a nap of nightmares,
The soil of the subconscious sends terror up the stairs.
Up the stairs and sometimes creeping stealthily up the spine,
A most malicious mauling by a troupe of valentines.
Pleading for an answer, to send the demons on their way,
It's a tricky exorcism, fraught with much dismay.
It's getting harder to find that purpose, harder to say yes,
Stubbornly I sift and cling to my sliver of happiness.
Amidst the autumn of my life that echoes fast its sorrow,
Turning over every leaf, looking for tomorrow.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Looking for tomorrow, amidst the wreckage of the day,
Here somewhere amidst the trials that life has sent my way.
Looking for a rose that grows not overgrown by thorns,
Sifting through the rubble in a soul that's grown forlorn.
Pleading for an answer, I go crawling on my knees,
Treading water by my boat that's capsized on the seas.
Trying to find a purpose, trying to say yes,
Trying to find a sliver of long lost happiness.
The evening tide is easy, most times the nightfall calms,
Sleep descends like a blessed friend, wraps me in its balm.
I go floating somewhere on a little death, somewhere out in space.
On a cloud of Klonopin, I am lost without a trace.
When morning sends Aurora like a vision across the plains,
I shake off sleep and sometimes weep that day has come again.
Looking for a purpose, now that life is free lance,
Now that I am all alone as day begins its dance.
My love begins his long, hard day, complete with long commute,
And I am here all by myself, with a lonesome attitude,
The brain cells they have died and walking is a chore,
I drive myself short distances, perhaps to the grocery store.
But ennui lurks in every corner, so it's radio and TV,
And music on the stereo, whatever comes to me.
Perhaps the existentialists were right, and life intrinsic has no meaning,
We recreate our own lives daily, once more now with feeling.
So I sit and fill this screen with words, listen to the chirping birds,
Hope that someday someone will take the time to read,
The words that spill onto my page, a massive molten bleed.
Sometimes a trickle, sometimes erupting, like a glorious Mt. Saint Helens.
At times I don't know what to say, at times resort to nonsense.
It's the way I choose of staying sane, confronting every peril and pain,
Each lost and lonely labored breath, leads inexorably to death.
The only question in my mind that spins,
Is how to spend the interim.
I recreate myself each day, with the words I write and the things I say,
Take my daily happy pills and try to forestall sorrow,
Turning over brand new leaves, looking for tomorrow.
Looking for tomorrow, at last my love is home,
A kiss and then a cuddle, and then we lie alone.
Time for the cloud of Klonopin to wrap me in its sheets,
The boat of life it floats ashore and it anchors at my feet.
I fall asleep in a bed of roses alas untouched by thorns,
Sifting through my dreams that fall, noisy as a newborn.
It's sometimes a cloud of sleep benign, sometimes a nap of nightmares,
The soil of the subconscious sends terror up the stairs.
Up the stairs and sometimes creeping stealthily up the spine,
A most malicious mauling by a troupe of valentines.
Pleading for an answer, to send the demons on their way,
It's a tricky exorcism, fraught with much dismay.
It's getting harder to find that purpose, harder to say yes,
Stubbornly I sift and cling to my sliver of happiness.
Amidst the autumn of my life that echoes fast its sorrow,
Turning over every leaf, looking for tomorrow.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Saturday, September 7, 2013
PROPHETS AND SEERS
PROPHETS AND SEERS
All you prophets and you seers,
Come again some other year.
Go and cry into your beers,
I'll take my chances living here.
Ten years ago, quiet and demure,
You bowed your heads and said I'd be cured.
Five years ago if you'd looked in my eyes,
You'd have predicted my demise.
I can no longer stand your perfumes and crystals,
Your finely aimed creative missiles,
Your tired, dazed rumors of the end.
Go away false prophets all.
I no longer count you as a friend.
I do not like your charlatan robes,
I do not like your pixie dust.
Your delusions and your sleight of hand,
I can no longer trust.
Leave me with a pack of hungry wolves,
At least with them I'm clear,
Where I stand dyed in the wool,
Let all your spells just disappear.
You are so cunning and so quick,
You lay on your wisdom cool and thick,
But I think I know much better,
What to know and to expect.
Your magic spell's a fetter,
Your sorcery imperfect.
All you prophets and you seers,
Predicting it all for sport.
I used to think you were worthy peers,
Considered you a reputable sort.
Now I find you quite a grind to try to comprehend,
Your gold is badly tarnished and your hearts comprised of tin.
You dance for me like Jezebel, messengers sent straight from hell,
You charlatans and cheaters with promises certain,
You are not kindly wizards, just idle men behind the curtain.
Your words they cascade over me, hissing their wanton rhyme.
Thank you all so very much, but I'll live and die in my own sweet time.
All you prophets and you seers, go hang with a self made noose.
Free me from your tyranny and set your prisoner loose.
I will overturn your tables, shred your deck of Tarot cards,
Crash your precious crystal balls into a million tiny shards.
Into my dungeon you have foolishly flown,
I am Samson with his hair regrown.
I will have my victory dance and I will have my recompense,
You will be my pawns by break of dawn, quietly doing penance.
All you purveyors of heartache and hope,
Go quietly away from here,
You are nothing but rogues and upstarts,
Wily witch doctors with wooden hearts.
Putting forth a talisman like an offering in the quicksand.
Go and cry into your beers,
Crocodile tears bitter and blue.
I have had enough of you,
Prophets and seers, peddlers of fear,
I'll take my chances living here.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
All you prophets and you seers,
Come again some other year.
Go and cry into your beers,
I'll take my chances living here.
Ten years ago, quiet and demure,
You bowed your heads and said I'd be cured.
Five years ago if you'd looked in my eyes,
You'd have predicted my demise.
I can no longer stand your perfumes and crystals,
Your finely aimed creative missiles,
Your tired, dazed rumors of the end.
Go away false prophets all.
I no longer count you as a friend.
I do not like your charlatan robes,
I do not like your pixie dust.
Your delusions and your sleight of hand,
I can no longer trust.
Leave me with a pack of hungry wolves,
At least with them I'm clear,
Where I stand dyed in the wool,
Let all your spells just disappear.
You are so cunning and so quick,
You lay on your wisdom cool and thick,
But I think I know much better,
What to know and to expect.
Your magic spell's a fetter,
Your sorcery imperfect.
All you prophets and you seers,
Predicting it all for sport.
I used to think you were worthy peers,
Considered you a reputable sort.
Now I find you quite a grind to try to comprehend,
Your gold is badly tarnished and your hearts comprised of tin.
You dance for me like Jezebel, messengers sent straight from hell,
You charlatans and cheaters with promises certain,
You are not kindly wizards, just idle men behind the curtain.
Your words they cascade over me, hissing their wanton rhyme.
Thank you all so very much, but I'll live and die in my own sweet time.
All you prophets and you seers, go hang with a self made noose.
Free me from your tyranny and set your prisoner loose.
I will overturn your tables, shred your deck of Tarot cards,
Crash your precious crystal balls into a million tiny shards.
Into my dungeon you have foolishly flown,
I am Samson with his hair regrown.
I will have my victory dance and I will have my recompense,
You will be my pawns by break of dawn, quietly doing penance.
All you purveyors of heartache and hope,
Go quietly away from here,
You are nothing but rogues and upstarts,
Wily witch doctors with wooden hearts.
Putting forth a talisman like an offering in the quicksand.
Go and cry into your beers,
Crocodile tears bitter and blue.
I have had enough of you,
Prophets and seers, peddlers of fear,
I'll take my chances living here.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
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