SO GRATEFUL TO HAVE BEEN HERE

SO GRATEFUL TO HAVE BEEN HERE

(A THANKSGIVING POEM)

So grateful to have been here,
To have walked Earth's joyful mile,
To have tasted both the love and fear,
To celebrate the tear and smile.
To have held the hand of many a friend,
To have held my lover sweet and fine,
So grateful to have been here,
For the rose and for the wine.

So grateful to have crossed the threshold,
To days of such sweet elegance,
To be welcomed back into the fold,
Just watch me do my happy dance.
Dyskinetic it may be,
I may not do it perfectly,
And there's a chance that I could fall,
I'll take the chance and risk it all.

The universe has loosed its purse strings,
Like manna falling from the skies,
The eagle soars and spreads its wings,
And like the eagle I will fly.
So grateful to have been here,
Just like Fortune's favorite son,
I've had my share of pain and cheer,
Have tasted both like everyone.

I am richer for the struggle,
I am grateful for the pain,
I have seen the keenest rainbows,
In the sky after a summer rain.
I can tell you life is sweet,
And though I'm sometimes sour,
I boogie to a hopeful beat,
I trust in my own power.

At this time in late November, when we pause in thoughtful mood,
I join the ranks and give my thanks with praise and gratitude.
For more than just a mighty feast, from north to south from west to east.
I say a humble sacred prayer for hearts encumbered everywhere,
For in the midst of fear and strife, there is promise of new life.
Let us seize it while we can, each precious grain of sand
That pours forth from the hourglass, let us taste life while it lasts.

For me life may be winding down,
Who really knows for sure?
All we are promised is the now,
The present moment is the cure.
The antidote to sorrow and to things that could have been,
No one knows the Master's plan, when life begins and ends.

So grateful to have been here, for the elements of style,
For the passion and the fashion alive in every smile.
To have been around for just awhile, to have tasted cool fresh air,
To have known the rush of ecstasy, the downward spiral of despair.
I have known it all and cherished each measured, sacred breath,
When all it has been said and done, I will have tasted death.

I will have crossed to the other side and seen God's precious face,
Joined with those that have passed before me to this special place.
Happier for the lives I touched in my precious time on earth,
Happier still that they touched mine with merriment and mirth.
Richer for the days gone by, for the privilege of a lifetime,
So grateful to have been here, for the rose and for the wine.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

LET THERE BE RAIN

LET THERE BE RAIN

Let there be rain and a respite from pain,
And after the rain always a rainbow,
Painted by leprechauns, colorful sash in tow.
After the rainbow a serene red gold sunset,
In stunning splendor to burn and blaze.
Let the world know that I am not done yet,
Splash some cool creative water
On the dusty dried up well of my days.
On the piercing ice cold fever of my pain,
Swallow up death's victory, let there be rain.

Let there be a mighty storm, to ease the pain of the global warm.
The sad sick humidity that keeps me indoors.
Let me run in the sands of a thousand shores.
In the face of crashing waves,
Teach me the message and meaning of brave.
I am counting on at least a few years more,
Before I see Death in his cloak at my door.
Chase away the doubts and despair of the old,
Teach me the message and meaning of bold,
Let there be thunder and let there be lightning,
I have learned to live with the specter of frightening,
Just keep me safe and keep me sane,
Naked in a drenching rain.

Let me be a leprechaun and let me paint with a broad stroke,
Give me my own nightclub act, and let me write the jokes.
Let me dance in the downpour before it's too late,
Give me a respite from the fear and hate,
Of those too ignorant  to understand.
Let me paint my masterpiece of love,
All across this troubled land.
Though I love the sunshine, as my days they wax and wane,
I want an early autumn, with its leaf enriching rain.

Let there be winds, and let me still have friends,
Friends that will serve as companion and buffer,
Tell me I no longer need to suffer,
The parading and pronouncements of fools.
Let me graduate not a moment too late,
From this stiffening, stifling school.
Let there be wisdom and let there be mercy
And let there be kindness to spare,
Let all of these rain down from the heavens,
To purify this rancid air.

Let there be puffiness and pleasant dreams,
Let there be leprechauns and morphine,
And make me a prisoner in ball and chain,
Just begging for a drop of rain.
Begging for release, for the pain to surcease,
Wrap my body in embraces warm,
Let me wake in heaven to a mighty storm.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013
ALL RIGHTS  RESERVED

IN THE GLIMMER OF MIDNIGHT

IN THE GLIMMER OF MIDNIGHT

In the glimmer of midnight, near the stroke of twelve,
I shall breathe my last, like some sneaky elf,
I will lie so quiet and so frail,
In the sheen of the witching hour,
I will wilt away like a jilted flower,
Letting out my final exhale.

In the glimmer of midnight, I will slip away,
Not waiting for the light of another day.
I will breathe my name to the eternal flame
That burns forever bright,
And then I shall trip stealthily,
Into the arms of the sacred night.

I will not stand on ceremony,
I may not even wake my lover,
Who sleeps unaware beside me,
Tucked beneath the covers.
When it's time to go, no flashing lights,
No sirens and no magistrate,
Most of all no weeping fools,
Begging to resuscitate.

When I go, it will be quietly,
Because I lived a quiet man,
And let it just be said of me,
I lived this life as best one can.
One foot in the terrestrial,
One wing in the celestial.
Time to set the second wing free,
And mount the chariot to the skies,
That now has come for me.

Into the glimmer of midnight quick my soul,
Before I change my mind,
And burn with the jagged memory,
Of those I leave behind.
Into the magic, God's hedge of protection,
Surround me as I quickly go.
But those that now I leave behind,
Never doubt how I loved you so.

Do not try to bring me back,
Don't hold my nose and breathe me air,
Or pound my chest with paddles.
Just let me dance through the window,
Into the brilliant starlight fair.
With all the sprites and all the angels,
Alas I shall move free,
No more the fate of uneven gait,
No more falls for me.

In the glimmer of midnight, let me slip away while sleeping,
While entertaining the glean of a quieting dream,
To drown out any sound of weeping.
Then lift me without hesitating,
Most blessed God of levitating,
Into your loving arms,
Lift my body tired and frail,
Blaze across the skies a trail.
Receive my praise, accept my alms,
And catch my final exhale.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

MAYBE I SHOULD PLAY AROUND

MAYBE I SHOULD PLAY AROUND

Maybe I should play around, just to shake the kinks out,
Let the words coalesce like a sacred holy mess,
Begin again, paint in colors that shout,
Like some lost and obscene clown,
Maybe I should play around,
Red bulbous nose and pointy shoes.
Forget I was born to sing the blues,
Play a little ragtime instead.
Nothing more and nothing less,
Than to mess a little with your head.

Mountains in my mirror and seashore in my ears,
Maybe I should play around, forget my petty fears.
Dance atop the roof of my home,
Dangerous and all alone,
Throw the words like Pollack threw his paint,
Let them land just where they will,
In the backyard, on the windowsill,
Let them tear and let them taint.
Maybe I should play around,
Come upon a brand new rhyme,
Break barriers of sight and sound,
The sepulchers of time.

Maybe there's no here from there,
I'm a madman on a wordless tear,
Fueled on by a heady wine,
Maybe I'll run out of signs,
Like a buoy on a nameless pier,
Who points the way to an atmosphere,
Where the theme is party down.
Maybe I should just lay low,
Maybe I should play around.

The words they come less easy,
Like a lonely sad parade,
The notes they blow less breezy,
Like ocean winds cascade.
And should you feel a lot less brave,
Accosted by some deadly wave,
All you do is cough up time,
Choking on a teaspoonful
Of the most delicious brine.

Maybe I should play around,
Until I reach my happy place.
A place where no one's lost or down,
A life that's full of grace.
Maybe i should play around,
With a harmonica and blues.
A big 'ole hat like Belushi and Akroyd,
Just play around until I annoy,
While wearin' my blue suede shoes.

In between today and dead,
Play a little blues instead,
Nod my head and just say yes,
Nothing more and nothing less,
Drop the downer, ditch the dread,
Just mess a little with your head.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

FIFTY AND HOLDING

FIFTY AND  HOLDING

Last year I turned 51, this year I am 52,
An inauspicious milestone that just won't do,
Life is streaming faster than high speed Internet,
And age is just a number I would just as soon forget.

Try as I like, I cannot stop time,
From covering me up with its gruel and its grime,
Churning me up like sewage or refuse,
Fodder for old jokes, harbinger of blues.

So if anyone asks I've stopped having birthdays,
I'm just walking around demented and dazed,
I'm still in the game, playing not folding.
It's just I've decided to be 50 and holding.

Age is just a number, that's what they tell me,
Along with the other rubbish they sell me.
I should have put an end to my birthdays at 30,
They're really not worth all the fuss and the worry.
So Geraldo can post shirtless pictures at 70,
Claiming it's the new sixty,
How clever of him, how cunning, how cheeky, 
I'll keep my shirt on, if it's all the same,
I've never been studly or known for my ass,
And my abs are as dull as a clipped blade of grass.
Half a century was all I expected at first,
Now I fear the absolute worst,
That if I'm not careful, I'll live to be stately,
And live to the ripe old age they call eighty,
A drooling irreverent irrelevant old fool,
Racing my wheelchair on the track after school.
Wandering to God knows where,
And wreaking all kinds of havoc on stairs.

Even now when I walk, I walk with a limp,
Am called sir by the young ones, those impudent imps,
My speech it is slurred as a drunken sailor,
My pants need the constant eye of a tailor.
So put the world on notice, from now on time stands still,
Like a Hollywood starlet, I shall lie, yes, I will.
I will wear the tragicomic mask of paper mache,
And die at the ripe age of 50 someday.
No matter the age on the pesky certificate of birth,
A nice half century I have spent on this earth.
So my teeth need no capping, no filling, no molding,
I will die in the past, always fifty and holding.

Last year I turned 51, this year 52,
When running fingers through my scalp,
I swear I smelled the mildew.
Life is streaming faster than my high speed Internet,
And age is just a number I would just as soon forget.
So if you must remember me and mark my natal day,
I beg you be judicious and look the other way.
Please address your cards and letters, I think it would be nifty,
To the dear delusional friend of mine who thinks he is still fifty.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED