YOU HAD THE RIGHT IDEA

YOU HAD THE RIGHT IDEA

You had the right idea, my ghost,
To blithely sail around the world,
With the one that you adored the most,
A daisy chain unfurled.

For now that heaven beckons,
Our priorities seem skewed.
You had the right idea, my ghost,
Before life came unglued.

For now that I have lost to God,
Your playful roguish smile,
Your wit and your infectious charm,
That brightened every mile.
I curse each day that slipped away,
To drudgery and dross,
I long to see your face again,
This treasure I have lost.

I sit and yearn to hear again,
Your husky healing laughter,
That shimmers like the brightest light,
That echoes through the great hereafter
To know again your treasured song,
That echoes loud and lingers long.

You had the right idea, my ghost,
And now we mortals seem like tools,
Hammering away like we had forever,
Helpless pawns and wayward fools.

You had the right idea, my ghost,
For you knew that you were leaving soon,
To take with grace your rightful place,
Amidst the stars and moon.

You had the right idea, my ghost,
To mock and shake your fist at sorrow,
To shove your way to the front of the line,
To live like there was no tomorrow.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2014
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

SUITE OF TEARS

SUITE OF TEARS

Enter, my lover fair, into my suite of tears.
Linger not with hesitation on the threshold.
Taste with me the bitter bile of wasted years,
Let my rooms of saline welcome you into their fold.

I am the proprietor of this house of ill repute,
Whose halls are filled with skeletons
With tongues carved out and mute.
I am the cursed curator of this house of fallen cards,
Whose antique lamps where armies camp,
Lie in broken shards.

Enter, my loving friends, into this room of gloom,
Where the witches scratch their itches,
And apply their foul perfume.
Come with entrance fee in hand,
Pay the high inflated cost,
For space is at a premium,
And he who hesitates is lost.
I am hellbent on collecting rent,
So come and grease my bloodstained hands,
While I sit all bent and broken,
Like rusted contraband.

And fill up my well with tears of your own,
For we are all one in our sorrow.
Enter into my suite of tears,
Give no thought for the morrow.
I am the caretaker of this most divine display,
So let its awful ugliness carry you away.
And though there is a bird bath,
Standing tall in the knee high grass,
It will never wash away your wounds,
Or change how the die is cast.

Enter my lover fair, into my wondrous, pitch dark bower,
For the summer night is dark and damp,
And now is the witching hour.
Bring into my suite of tears,
A vase with the blackest flowers.
Sing to me a silent dirge from days that have grown cold,
And let my rooms of saline welcome you into their fold.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2014
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

JUST TO HOLD YOUR HAND

JUST TO HOLD YOUR HAND

I am looking for answers in the waves of your kindness,
Channeling the spirit that shines forth from your eyes.

I am banking on your goodness, the sweet depth of your mercy,
Savoring the flavor, the blueness of your skies.

Into the ocean bravely I go, splashing around in your foam,
Arms wrapped tight 'round your raging hips,
The calmest feeling I've known.

The sun beams bright upon the waves,
The blimps soar high above the shoreline,
Advertising bargains on beach attire,
Half priced tank tops and knick knacks fine.

Leaping in the ocean, cultivating appetite,
Eating pizza on the boardwalk, anticipating night.

So thrilled to be alone with you as the seagulls soar above,
A heart that glows and overflows in a rush of blinding love.

Here is where I find escape, at the slow end of the day,
When the blessed peace of twilight shines,
Magically through the hotel drapes.
Reflecting off the salty brine.

I smell your skin delicious strong, a mix of sunblock and cologne,
As we fall naked onto hotel sheets and make love as the TV drones.

Afterwards we end the day, a midnight stroll on the soft, cool sand,
Barefoot in the mystic dark, and happy just to hold your hand.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2014
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WHEAT FROM CHAFF

WHEAT FROM CHAFF

I beg of you to look at me,
With blinders on and glasses off.

To burrow past a frozen face
And joints as stiff as ratchets.

To tunnel deep beneath the shakes,
The tremors of my limbs,

The sharpness of my tongue at times
When desperation visits.

And I promise in return to live
As if I were your champion,

To let your barbs dissolve and fade,
Your arrows toss and tumble.

To cast my vision wider,
To embrace a fuller picture,
To see the fine nobility
Obscured beneath your foibles.

To weigh your grand against the petty
And to give your grand the upper hand,

To train my eyes to find the diamonds
Buried in your rough.

To cherish in a dream divine
Your shiny actions gleaming.

To drop the grudges lurking deep
In a black heart's dark recesses.

Like Ruth within the pages 
Of a long-lost nightstand Bible,

I long to follow in your path
And separate the wheat from chaff. 

For in the end when clay dissolves
And all that's left are ashes,

Grace is all that's left behind
And mercy all that matters.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2014
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

SUN SETS OVER THE FERRIS WHEEL

SUN SETS OVER THE FERRIS WHEEL

It's been a sweet amusement,
But I really must be going now.

The clowns are exiting stage left.
The kiddie cars have run off track,
Crashed in a junk heap of midway straw.

I've won the stuffed panda,
Popped all the balloons,
Crammed my belly with the sweet, fatty food.

It's been a sweet amusement,
But I really must be moving on.

The painted horses bob and weave
In grand circular motion.

The Tilt-a-Whirl has sent my tummy
Tunneling in reckless fashion.

Something wells up in my eye,
And all I want to do is cry.

There's something sad about a fair,
Melancholy hovers in the festive air.

As though they doth protest too much.
These grand splashes of happiness,
This counterfeit joy,
When the man sees through the glass clear at last
And has outdistanced the gleeful boy.

We fly so hard to crash back down.
Tomorrow it's another town,
And the carnies pocket the day's receipts,
And sweat away the August heat.

There's a sadness to this life,
That's hard to rise and overcome.
It's been a thrill ride and a half,
But now I hear that distant drum.

And surely you know how I feel,
My fellow travelers of clay,
The sun sets over the ferris wheel,
And it beckons me away.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2014
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED