SHOUT OF DAWN

SHOUT OF DAWN

Wake up, my love, for you were lost,

On a wild and reckless sea were tossed.

I have heard your forlorn tears revolving in my dreams,

Shaking me to my very core, like some strange Pandora's box.

And I alas am not afraid for I am mighty and I am huge,

I am Aurora, your light, passion and refuge,

Counting off the days that pass on your calendars and clocks.

I say to the sun, let's have some fun,

Before the brand new day's begun.

Let us whistle a mischievous tune

And play a nasty trick on the moon.

Let's shoot him in the eye,

Knock him from the sky.

Stage a coup, play all the parts,

Shoot him with a quiver of darts,

It's an offer that you can't refuse,

To shake off my divine goddess blues.

The moon he'll take vengeance in 24 hours,

When we're tired and disgruntled, at the ebb of our powers,

He'll zap us away and in time we'll get ours.

He'll vanish us from sweet light's fountain,

Send us careening beneath purple mountains.

Puffing up his moonly chest, full of his mighty worth.

But for now, let's wave our magic wands,

And daintily light the lamp of the earth.

The moon may not know it, for i don't often show it,
But I am the victor and the spoils they are mine.
Like the dew on the lawn my signature spawn,
The wineskins they issue a new native wine.
Drunk on his glory the moon slinks away,
The dark night is vanished into the new day.
The moon all in all is a cowardly chap,
Who runs from the sound of my mighty bitch slap.

The moon is but a vainglorious fool,
Dark with mischief and quite unschooled.
We're smarter and much faster,
Our wings they flutter gracefully, pools of alabaster.
The darkness it cannot, shall not last,
Just a relic from a worn out past.
The hills echo with promise and shiver with fever,
So light your final candle with your hand upon the lever.
And chase away the demons, screaming to the abyss.
Your marksman's aim is always true, there's no way you can miss.

Wake up, you lost ones, and get a move on,

Listen to the new day's song, heed the shout of dawn.

I drive my chariot loud and proud, across your troubled skies,

Creating a new and brighter day with my alchemy and dyes.

Though it all appears so useless, life is more than what it seems,

I have heard your forlorn tears revolving in my dreams.

I am Aurora, hear to grant your fondest wishes.

I shower you with warm, sweet light,

I summon you with gentle, golden kisses.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2013

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

TORCH FOR CHRISTMAS

TORCH FOR CHRISTMAS

I carry a torch for Christmas,
The splendor of the Christ child,
The wisemen and the shepherds,
Joseph and the virgin mild.

I carry a torch for Christmas,
For what the day conveys,
A holy day of mystery,
More than ancient history,
The joy that comes unfiltered
In the hymns the organ plays,
A warmth and light that brightens the darkest winter days. 
The sweet sound that resounds in the carols children sing,
I carry a torch for Christmas,
Its angels on the wing.

I carry a torch for Christmas,
The lighted houses on display,
The bustling streets, the rushing feet,
Of shoppers on their way,
The reindeer on the rooftops,
The sacred and profane.
I carry a torch for Christmas,
That my heart cannot contain.
The joy it rushes brimming forth
The antidote to pain,
I carry a torch for Christmas and its light fills every street
And fills the care worn visages of the strangers that I meet.

The parties and the antics,
The friendships and the gifts.
Traditions passed and then renewed,
As the sands of life they slide and shift,
Through each precious passing year.
The cookies and the Christmas feast,
The inner calm and cheer.

I carry a torch for mindfulness of all that God has given.
The mansion he has built for us, the splendor of his heaven.
I carry alone my Christmas torch and sometimes I feel small,
Surrounded by the glorious wonder of it all.
Until the Christmas bells they ring, all over the land,
Through the cities and the countries,
Through the snow and desert sand.
And I say a prayer for soldiers and those too sick to celebrate,
I say a prayer for the dying, for whom Christmas comes too late.

I carry a torch for Christmas, a love for this festive season,
My love it goes not unrequited, my love it has its reasons.
To be alive a miracle, and joy from near to far.
I carry a torch for Christmas, the legend of the star.
The wisemen and the shepherds who followed its deep shine,
To where there lay an infant, so tiny and so fine,
A child who'd calm the raging seas, turn water into wine.

I carry a torch for Christmas and all of humankind,
That just one day we'll all join hands and all be of one mind.
I carry a torch for Christmas, that man may feel his worth,
And know the thrill that courses
Through a day of peace on earth.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

NOT TO BE FORGOTTEN

NOT TO BE FORGOTTEN

I tried to be a hero, but got strangled by the cape,
Tried to be a writer, to whip those words in shape.
I tried to be a good man, but my image was besotted,
Tried to be a gardener but my fruits and veggies rotted.

I tried to be a light in darkness, but my flame blew out and died,
Tried to always tell the truth, they never caught me in a lie,
For four long years I labored, churning out the verse,
And I never missed a single week, for better or for worse.
I tilled my Facebook page with passion,
Filled with the beauty of pictures and fashion.
Tried never to let the fruit of my labor become disgraced or rotten,
It was the lengths I went to not to be forgotten.

I found out it was all for naught, this fierce and tender battle I fought,
I was not the man I thought I was, my reputation sold and bought,
Now I sit all forlorn, solemnly pondering mortality,
And I want to ask this wretched world just what the hell was wrong with me.

I tried to be a teacher once, the students did not learn,
I tried to be permissive, the next time I tried stern,
Neither made my pupils like me or mind me in the least.
I was at best a joke to them, my class a raucous beast,
A wild and woolly mammoth that alas I could not tame,
If they still remember me, I'm sure it's with disdain.

I tried my hand at radio, did what I thought was a decent show,
Let a big city programmer break my spirit and drive me from the overnights,
Let him fill me with self-doubt, with his pointed critiques and his slights.
I got a job proofreading transcripts, did radio on the weekends,
Said goodbye to the extravaganza and all of my midnight friends.
But no one really missed me on the radio, at the end of the day I was again alone,
Thirty-eight with the world as a weight that sank me like a stone.
An overachiever in high school and college, had never held hands or been kissed,
Until I found my man and settled down, did I finally get my wish.
The same year that i found my love, I also found disease,
One long in the making, brain cells dying over time,
Perhaps Fate had it in for me, I could feel the bells in the distance chime.
Somehow though I kept my nose to the grindstone and plowed on through the storm,
My only real success in life was the love that kept me warm.

I tried to be a lover and I think I found my calling,
After years of dragging this carcass around,
After the false starts and the stalling.
Still I want to change the world, to keep myself from falling.
To rise again with pen in hand and trusty keyboard lying in wait,
I want to be more than flesh and blood that will soon fade and dissipate.
I want to be a hero, but I will never soar with this flapping cape,
I want to be a poet, but will never whip these words in shape;
So let the fruits of my love for you live in your heart forever,
My poems will wither away and die, my repartee not clever.
Let me take refuge in your arms and in your heart once I am gone;
Let my name be on your lips with the coming of the final dawn.
Try never to let the fruits of our love be tarnished or grow rotten,
It's the new lengths I will go to not to be forgotten.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Note: My autobiography, condensed and set to rhyme!  This poem may seem a downer, but actually all the false starts and what I thought at the time were disappointments led me to the life I lead today. My old radio friends and mentors Debra Leigh and Sue Herlihy-Dischel are still a presence in my life. So are my two cherished friends Suzanne Lee and Jeni Williams from my proofreading days, who I have celebrated in verse on this blog. Life is as good as it can be with Parkinson's disease. And of course, I have my partner Kyle, who I dedicate this poem to. The glass is definitely more than half full.

MUDDIED STREAMS AND BLOODIED RIVERS

MUDDIED STREAMS AND BLOODIED RIVERS

Life these days is a muddied stream,

In which I paddle a reckless canoe.

Love to me is a torn, bloodied river,

False lover who once was true.

Intimacy, dagger in the back of already sleepless nights,

Diagnosis heartbreak and heading south,

Changing landscapes and canceled flights,

Questions answered in the negative

Before they leave the upturned mouth.

Muddied streams and bloodied rivers,

Emptied dreams that make you shiver.

Worrisome worlds that spit in the face,

Secrets that spin, nosediving into space.

Unfound lovers that grope for you,

In the midst of rubble and debris,

Ripped reckless fever that sputters with loss,

Burns like an ulcer inside of me

See the clown with the funny shoes,

Tweak his red rubber ball nose,

Awkwardly dressed for the winter snows.

Time has expired for merriment and glee.

Life these days is a sour, unsettling cream,

Love these days is a shrill and desperate plea.

Life today is a muddied stream,

A worn down broken excuse for a dream.

Love to me is a strange bloodied river,

A poisoned arrow shot straight from the quiver.

Heartbreak that rips and tears at the seams.

I say not again to the anguish,

Keep your distance I plead to the rain,

But the anguish it roars and the rain clouds soar.

The rafters collapse, and with them the timbers of the heart again,

Into the abyss of the lonely trash tin,

The ashes of a self-destructive soul,

Treading water in the lonely shoals.

My soul it shivers as it tastes the violence,

What can't be cured must be endured in silence.

Uncertainty hovers in the safety of bedcovers,

Lurks in the vocal cords of street hounds,

Useless as yesterday's coffee grounds,

The grainy shifting sand of mortal sorrow,

Walking a dead man with torn umbrella

Towards the storms of a ravaged tomorrow.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2013

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Note: This was originally written 1983-ish, hence the hint of romance betrayed. Today I look at this poem as a treatise on the losses that come with an incurable, sometimes difficult to treat disease.