HAD A WEIRD DREAM

HAD A WEIRD DREAM

Had a weird dream

Got lost in the woods at a funeral.

The rain it poured.

The sun it didn't shine.

Don't know if the funeral

Was someone else's or mine.

Had a weird dream,

The same one really.

I know that may sound kind of silly.

Lost my car in a parking lot

Some five hundred or so miles long,

That was one hell of a camouflaged parking spot,

I must have parked it very wrong.

Or perhaps my feeble mind forgot.

Helped a young man and his girlfriend

Find their car when I found mine at last,

Only to find myself low on gas.

Not only was the dream scary,

The dream was downright strange,

There was one lone alpaca,

Who sat up, shook my hand,

And addressed me by my name.

He was no help with the cars though,

For he was too distraught,

It was a funeral after all,

And he was laden with sorrow.

He is a pack animal first and foremost,

Perhaps an usher at the funeral,

A minister or a host.

He sat there and wept,

While we slipped away on the road to ruin,

Come back to me with a meaning,

My dear sweet Carl Jung.

Had a weird dream

Got lost in the woods at a funeral.

Sure wish the rain had stopped and the sun had shone,

That I hadn't felt so all alone.

Wish I knew what it was all about,

For it's left me feeling down and out.

Perhaps even a bit annoyed,

Ideas, Mr. Sigmund Freud?

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2015

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

JUST SLEEP

JUST SLEEP

Now and again I want to just sleep.
Sleep like a baby awash in the womb,
Sleep like a dead man alone in his tomb,
While the world and all its busy minions
All around me scurry, in some goddamned hurry,
Climb their mountains steep.
Like some glorious has been,
Whose life has met a nasty end,
Like a spoiled child 'neath the Christmas tree,
Denied one last surprise,
I want my end to come quietly,
Eternal rest to touch my eyes with slumber,
No one to bother or encumber
With these salty, shady tears,
Mark my words and mark my years,
With a single granite stone.
Mark my final days,
With a dark and dismal haze.

Let me like the ivy around the tombstone creep,
Mark the spot like the ring of the oak,
Like some guarded prophecy
The soothsayer bespoke.
Let me like a garland
Wrap my body around the sky,
Leaving you alone to ponder
The wherefore and the why.
Shrug it off, shake it off,
Like a garment you no longer deign to keep,
Welcome me to the land,
That soft and velvet sand
Of bright cascading sleep.

Sleep that covers the bitter torn eyes,
Eyes that close in a soft velvet line,
Sleep that will burn a body to ash,
Sleep like a demon this earthly party crash,
Sleep like a harlot assured of her guilt,
After all her last secrets are spilt,
Nowadays I seem to fail every test,
And all I want is sleep now and rest.
Sleep like a baby awash in the womb,
Hormones and toxins await me.
In some great primordial soup,
That has thrown me for a loop.

Sleep like a dead man alone in the tomb,
With the ghost of predestination,
Already planning the next incarnation.
There is stiffness and failure in every breath.
So much stiffness and failure and yet,
In between the burial and the purple shroud,
The will to rise again screams loud.
Maybe I will be okay, hold on for yet another day,
To rise again tomorrow, take my pills that quell the sorrow.

'Til then just close these tired eyes and feel the misty tears
That arise and pool from somewhere deep.
Close my eyes to the precious final years,
Close my eyes and like a waterfall weep,
Dim all the lights and just sleep.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

RIB CAGE CRACKED ON STAIRS

RIB CAGE CRACKED ON STAIRS

Falling, falling, out of time,
Out of sight, then out of mind.
We all have a cross to bear,
Mine's a rib cage cracked on stairs.

Everywhere I go, I stumble,
Recklessly i slip and tumble,
In the winter, in the snow,
In the springtime, in the grass,
Watch me as I bust my ass.

Falling, falling like a star,
From the heavens tossed so far,
Look for me in every beanstalk.
But you'll likely find me on the sidewalk.
Moaning, groaning, struggling to rise,
A newborn colt who needs a nudge,
Just help me up but please don't judge.

Falling, falling, down the slope,
Lost amidst a flowered hillside,
When you fall from high and aloft,
It helps to find a landing soft.
Sweet the smell of the wildflowers,
As I await the savior,
Who will lead me from these desperate hours,
Showing me some favor.

Falling, falling into your sweet arms,
Falling victim to your charms.
Alone with you at close of day.
I stumble yet I find my way.
You hold me close, you bind my wounds,
Here inside this quiet room.
Falling, falling sweet as sin,
Falling deep in love again.

Falling, falling, drifting far,
From some lost forsaken star,
We all have a cross to bear
Mine's a rib cage cracked on stairs.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

TODAY I NEED TO CRY

 TODAY I  NEED TO CRY

Sometimes I just need to cry,
Pay no heed to the teardrop
That is forming in my eye.
Leave me to my lonely room,
A radio playing a lonely tune,
Across my dark and vagrant sky.
I could not even tell you why,
But today I need to cry.

Sometimes I need to fume and fuss,
To behave just like a sourpuss.
Best not to mess with me when I'm like this,
Stay on your side of the dark abyss
Into which I'm falling.
Do not mess with the mission of a motionless man,
Who is following his calling.

Sometimes I just need to wail,
To curse and cavort, to let out my sail,
To wobble my way far from dry land,
To fall with bare feet into the hot sand,
Like a baby colt in the desert sun.
Sometimes I just need to wail,
Beyond earshot of anyone.

Sometimes I just need to drown,
In an ocean of my own damn salt.
If I should cry myself to death,
Heaving out my final breath,
You mustn't think it your fault.
Give me room to move about,
To hissy fit, to scream and shout.
If I should drown in my own emotion,
There are far worse ways to die,
There is no tonic or no magic potion,
Just give me leave to fly.
Into the heavens, into the stratosphere,
If only for a day to be anywhere but here.
Stuck inside a stubborn body who does not care to move,
Perhaps I have a stubborn streak of which you don't approve.

Just turn out the light and close the door,
Leave me to this padded room,
A radio that comforts with some tune of long lost sorrow.
My tarnished thoughts turn toward the morrow,
Toward the sweet by and by.
I could not even tell you why,
But today i need to cry.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

MICROCOSM

MICROCOSM

I am just a microcosm,

Of the larger world I see,

All my thoughts and recollections,

They echo back to me.

The world is just a macrocosm,

Reflecting back my truth,

My thoughts are ancient myths colliding,

My life it stands as proof.

The world is but the tv screen,

Upon which I project.

All my scarlet dreams and fears,

The imagination interjects.

When I close my eyes to sleep,

When I laugh and when I weep,

I am just a phantom,

These joys and miseries I keep.

I am the captain and I am the master.

Ever changing in my evolving,

Like the earth around the sun revolving,

The light a shade of alabaster,

The better self is calling.

If illness is a teacher.

Then I hope to learn my lesson well,

Like the waves they crash against the shore.

And the winds they start to swell.

The ocean it is in my mind,

The winds in my imagination,

Microcosm of the fire and ice,

Echo of the final conflagration.

I come and go in stillness,

I come and go in peace,

May peace come to the larger world,

May my inner wars surcease,

For so with every man and woman,

So with every child,

The outer world may seem desolate,

More than a little wild.

But close your eyes and find your garden,

Listen to your breath,

Seek ye love and seek ye pardon,

From this den of death.

For you are just a microcosm.

And you control the screen

You are the director,

And you can steal the scene.

The world is just a macrocosm,

Reflecting back your truth,

Your thoughts are ancient myths colliding,

Your life it stands as proof.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2015

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

HUMBLE MUMBLES

HUMBLE MUMBLES

I dread it coming, the horizon I see,
Where I am only merely,
The shadow of what used to be.
When my words shrink from the page,
Turning into humble mumbles
That require interpretation.
When my mind shrinks from lofty heights,
When I resemble lowly vegetation.
When I can no longer stand and hang the moon,
When my heartstrings are as broken,
As a guitar discordant and out of tune.
As ivories that tickle a sad melancholic rhapsody,
A travesty in black and blue.

Today the bruises gather,
A stray one on the ankle,
Another on the knee.
I must say that it rankles,
That I know not where I got them.
I guess I've banged this body around carelessly,
A shadow of what it used to be,
It falls and fails, lets out its sails,
Goes forth ambitiously,
But badly underestimates,
The strength of the sounding sea.

We shrink the present down to molecules.
We romanticize and canonize the past.
Covering it in plastic like the living room couch.
Or else we pick it apart with perfect hindsight,
Until we turn quite down in the mouth.
We shout regrets, eschew contentment.
Until it all goes south,
And we rewrite our history,
Mired in unfathomable mysteries.

God help me, for I have no pride,
And I'm slipping over that great divide.
The time that stains my barren hands,
Revolves in the wind like shifting sands.
On the precipice between life and death I stand,
Stranger in a hollow land,
Trapped here for eternity,
A shadow of what used to be.
All is as it should be in the end.
And all I leave are humble mumbles,
Twisting in a garish wind.

Bruce Potts
Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

INDISPENSABLE

INDISPENSABLE

(FOR KYLE, ON OUR
14th ANNIVERSARY)

In this desperate age of love,
Fidelity out of fashion,
When partners change and rearrange,
When they claim they've lost the passion.
When love is tossed aside,
Dented and denied,
When marriage vows mean nothing
But grains of shifting sand.
It is then I come to realize I'm quite the lucky man.

In this day of thriving lawsuits,
Where love's reduced to money and things,
Life's random odd pursuits.
When everything it has its price,
When everything's compensable.
When employers love to tell you
You are far from indispensable.
A number on a pay scale,
It's good to know that the truest of loves,
Is never up for sale.

Untold harm is done by lovers,
Who care much more for a quick cheap thrill
And a romp beneath the covers.
When sex is all we care to see,
And not true intimacy.
We toss our partner on the trash heap,
Along with the vows we pledged to keep.

I'm glad I've a man who understands
That life is not a one night stand,
That forever means a lifetime,
Of walking hand in hand.

I shake my head in wild dismay,
At so many couples gone astray,
Love so easily thrown away,
Lives in utter disarray.

And yes, we all live longer now,
And yes, there are exceptions,
Yet there is still so much of love,
That can be saved and salvaged,
By a shift in our perceptions.
So let me raise a glass and toast,
The few role models standing,
For those who've overcome the most,
Through patient understanding.
Who know now how to overcome,
Life's desperate slings and arrows,
Who cling to each other all the more,
As the road begins to narrow.

It is fourteen years I've been with you,
Through the good and through the bad.
I cannot bear to even think,
It sometimes make me scared and sad,
To imagine a future without you there,
Your funny face, your words of care.
To leave would be a silly move.
As if I had some grudge to prove.
An unjust reward for someone so sweet,
That God has laid right at my feet.
You are my sun, you are my moon.
It would be quite indefensible,
For you are as the air I breathe.
Fresh and indispensable.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

MEDITATION

MEDITATION

In the early morning hours,
Cross-legged and hungry for truth,
Having thrown away tomorrow
In the bloom of misspent youth.

What is there left to the motionless man,
But to sit in the twilight and harmonize with birds,
To see the sun rise o'er the mountains,
A picture worth a thousand words.

In the early morning hours,
Sometimes I am grateful,
For the Parkinson's that slowed me down,
And for the dew that glistens.
For the blessings that fall all around,
To the man who sits and listens.

Clearing the mind of its daily clutter
With a poem or meditation,
That God sends down like manna,
A useful recreation.

What is there left to enjoy in life,
When one starts to tumble and fall,
Beyond the help of science,
The darkness of it all.

Clearing the mind of errant thoughts,
A slate wiped clean of fears and faults,
A free pass for a brand new day,
Hustle and bustle all for naught.

Especially sweet on a day for lovers,
When you can curl beside me,
Sex a meditation too,
When you come and gently ride me.

What is there left for the motionless man,
Than to cling so tight to a lover's skin,
And pass the day most lovingly,
In the grip of original sin.

In the early morning hours.
Alone and lifted out of trouble,
The future still a blank check,
i float in this peaceful bubble.

I find it enough to just be alive
Alone in the sunrise, lifted out of time.
I find myself surprisingly, softly wishing,
For another day on this spinning ball,
Prayers to the God I know who's listening,
A million thank you's for it all.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESRVED

MORNING

MORNING

Morning, when i wake to find you,
Breathing still beside me,
I send a grateful prayer to heaven,
And my lesser self derides me.
For being such a faithless man,
For believing that the shifting sand,
Could pull you from my orbit.

For years I wandered aimlessly,
Lovers mere illusions,
Fairies, gnomes and blithesome sprites,
That flitted through my dreams at night. 
And I in sweet collusion,
Joined in the confusion.

Morning when I wake to see you,
Hair all tousled and divine.
Warm and tender tactile treasure,
A gift in flesh divinely measured,
To the height of my delight.

The sunrise flickers through the window,
Gratefully I kiss your spine,
Spooning in this carnival,
Cotton candy sweet in time.
Flesh and blood you lie beside me,
Far more fitting than a dream,
Every inhale, every exhale,
Rise and fall, you never fail.
Never fail to lift and cushion,
Never fail to answer prayers,
Mornings when I wake and see,
Your face upon the pillow there.

Morning when I wake and see you,
And watch your chest as it gently heaves
For fourteen years it has been this way,
Lying here silently, watching you breathe
May this love be the pastoral scene.
The way you hoped that it could be
As sprites and fairies swirl around us,
As magic fills our waking dreams.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

THE BODY REMEMBERS

THE BODY REMEMBERS

The body remembers every last insult,
Every little ache and pain,
The body holds tight to its breast,
Every last pouring down of rain.

The body in memory takes great pride,
In remembering its painful circular ride,
Its crazy Tilt-a-Whirl through time,
The body remembers its old mistakes,
Each misdemeanor and each petty crime,
The many false starts and the many bad breaks.

Luckily, the body can be dealt a glancing blow,
When paused in meditation to remember the Soul,
For the Great I am, the great blank slate,
Patiently sits and patiently waits,
For the body to wear out and weep itself to sleep.

The soul remembers it was here before,
Comforts the body in all of its uproar,
Stills each storm clutched still warm.
In the body's stern embrace.
The soul throws cold water in the body's face,
Stuns it into submission,
Forgives its sins of omission.
Lives to be the body's fortress,
Its cool, detached defender,
Holds it close, so sweet and tender,
Until its sorrow and regrets,
The body soon forgets.

Then, alas, when the body's through,
And sheds its skin of woe is me,
The soul reclines on a grassy incline,
Lives on forever content to be,
What the body could not see.

On that hill the soul it thrives,
Looking inward, still alive,
The stone of death rolled away,
Forgotten in the light of day.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

LIGHTNING FRAMED BY WINDOW

LIGHTNING FRAMED BY WINDOW

Sitting in a window, unadorned by shade,
Ghosts of past dreams reappear,
Like witches haunt the hollow glade,
In the comfort of this dusky room,
Dry for now and warm,
I sit and wait my destiny,
In the coming summer storm.

The wind it hollers vengeance,
The rain in torrents comes,
Threatening to wash away,
The thunder how it drums.
Flying through the summer rain,
Like a hapless birthday wish,
Comes every kind of living stain,
A blight of fowl and fish,
I see the sharks loom menacing,
The crayfish and the minnow,
Parading by in a ship of fools,
Lightning framed by window.

The thought comes that perhaps I should,
Remove myself from the windowsill.
But alas transfixed like stone or wood,
I stay completely still.
While a Noah's ark of two and two,
Floats outside in the ramshackle rain,
I swear I have all but given up,
To the siren song of a reckless pain.

A pain that haunts my dreams at night,
Like an orphan or a widow,
Strikes what's left, heaves a violent cleft,
This lightning framed by window.
It seeps through all the pipes and cracks,
Thunder rips at my inner core,
Not a wish or a thought held dear,
Spared by this awful thunderbolt,
This fowl and fitful fathomless fear,
That crashes 'round my lifeboat.

I call for you on the other shore,
To lead me to dry land,
But you shrug, you cannot hear me
I can at last no longer stand,
Ripped apart in terror, seam by anxious seam,
I struggle to awaken but it's real and not a dream.
The storm it overpowers, trampling all my will.
My thoughts go crashing through my head,
Pitch black the room to a breathless crescendo.
As water cracks the hapless spread
Of lightning framed by window.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

PRAY FOR INSPIRATION

PRAY FOR INSPIRATION

Pray for inspiration,
There are murderers at large,
Pray for safety, pray for strength,
For all of those in charge.

Pray for wisdom, pray for solace,
It's a long hard road to hoe,
Whether scattered mercies,
Or those that fall like manna,
Gently like the snow,
Softly from the skies,
Pray for inspiration,
Before the light it fades and dies.

Pray to God for inspiration,
There's very little left,
We've sent it fleeing to the mountains,
Where it sits and moans bereft.
Desecrating the fountains where it perches.
We scared it half to death,
When we shot up all the churches.

Pray for a scrap of good intention,
Pray to finish with an honorable mention,
As you near the finish line,
Numb your pain with a shot to the brain,
Of whiskey or the strongest wine.

Pray for peace, my fellow travelers,
The will to carry on,
Pray to see another sunrise,
With your weary, jaded eyes,
A new and shining dawn.
Close your eyes and feast,
On some great precious treat.
Forego the sin and begin again,
Seek forgiveness sweet.

Pray for inspiration,
And an end to sword and shield,
Cool your heels, be a man that feels,
Like a pilgrim face the east,
Fight the dreaded beast,
Labor in the vineyard sweet,
Pray for inspiration,
To rebuild on agile feet,
This tender city we once knew,
This golden hopefulness we slew.

Pray for inspiration, for man, for woman,
For black and for white,
To heal this large and gaping wound,
We shall escape this long cruel night,
Find our way to glory, someday soon.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

LEPRECHAUNS

LEPRECHAUNS

For my partner it's a day tour,
Steeped in ancient history,
The fabled Giant's causeway.
The stunning cliffs of Moher.
The old familiar mystery
Of a land rich to explore.
For me another hotel room,
Nothing less and nothing more.

My only request strong coffee each morning,
And a sandwich each day for my strength.
Music to play on my Amazon cloud,
To enjoy and indulge in at length.
In my mind I visit Yeats's grave,
The shores of Connemara,
If, alas, my muscles would behave,
I'd be more than just a stowaway.
Salmon and eggs at the Bittersweet Cafe,
Lunch at the Queen of Tarts, 
Delectable, divine displays of the culinary arts.

Days of repose and music at the Harding Hotel,
Leisurely I passed the time,
And listened to the Christchurch bells
As on the hour they chimed.
The drinking far into the night
At Darkey Kelly's pub.
The sounds of live music playing,
In the din of raucous clubs.

Still this is Ireland, land of rainbows,
With pots of gold in between,
And it's only fair that while here on this green,
Leprechauns should dance in my dreams.

Leprechauns in floppy hats,
Jumping like Jehoshaphat,
Wake up, they say, the day is yours,
Do with it what you may,
Whether rainbow seeker or daytime sleeper,
The lessons are yours for the learning,
The tide of history turning.

Leprechauns preening in front of mirrors,
Leprechauns drawing ever nearer,
Leprechauns asking what-cha doin', 
Skating on the road to ruin,
Leprechauns asking with a nod and a wink,
Leprechauns leaping in the bathroom sink.

I too am a leprechaun, leaping in one place,
These fantasies are of my making,
A Parkinsonian with a frozen face,
Whether still or occasionally shaking..
My only request to be left alone,
With a sandwich, my coffee and tunes,
Still this is Ireland and at night in my dreams,
The leprechauns lightly leap over the moon.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

KINDNESS OF STRANGERS

KINDNESS OF STRANGERS

At Dulles Airport so many friendly travelers,
Curious to know our story, where we're headed, where we're from,
A grandmotherly type, a Dr. Ruth lookalike,
Headed for a wedding in Paris, with a stopover in Dublin,
Anxious for a pub crawl and a night of harmless fun.

I was brought to this place in a wheelchair,
By a kind and attentive man,
My stutter he seemed to understand,
I'm hoping he's paid well for his time,
Putting folks at ease,
With extra points for interpreting.
My broken Parkinsonese.
His humming and good humor
Make me less self-conscious,
Make the trip a zip, bordering on burdenless.

Then when I try to stand to walk to the boarding area,
I find myself starting to fall,
A young man from India comes to my rescue,
A man I've never met at all.
He takes my hand in his and guides me by the arm,
Leads me to the entrance of the plane,
With a kind of old world charm.
His concern it seems instinctual, like something born and bred,
Something drilled into him long ago, or from some chivalrous book he read,
And memorized each page, at a very tender age.

Where once I would have shunned the help,
With a motherlode of protestation,
I'm now at the stage where I disavow the dangers,
And have come to believe in the kindness of strangers.
It rings in my ears, seems ever so true,
The kindness of strangers, the kindness of you.

Then when we touch down in Ireland, 
A young and amiable college student
Pilots me in my wheelchair.
Past the point of teenage cool,
He asks my partner where he's going, what's his itinerary,
Leads me right to the baggage carousel,
Then to the money exchange machine.
It is there that we part with a prayer in my heart,
And an Irish blessing for this kind young man,
For my partner who loves me and understands,
Shouldering all of our luggage,
My needs and limitations as a traveler in a strange land.

The scene replays over and over, on our way back home,
A red headed Irishman who spoke to nearly everyone,
While piloting my wheelchair through the Dublin airport,
Lively and delightful, ever the good sport.
Back at Dulles the same royal treatment, 
This web of kindness weaved,
So much so that I believe,
I've arrived at the stage where I disavow the danger,
Put all my trust in the kindness of strangers,
It rings in my ears, seems ever so true,
The kindness of strangers, the kindness of you.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

STARK RAVING MAD

STARK RAVING MAD

One of these very days,
In the not too distant future,
My mind a bit left hanging,
By some nasty stubborn suture,
That some hapless doctor left behind,
So tragically and sad.
It is on such a very day,
I shall go stark raving mad.

You will know this when you see it,
All my cunning to employ,
I will take on the persona
Of a gloating, grinning cowboy.
With no compunction or irony,
I will become quite rowdy,
Loose with my lasso I shall be,
From my lips a chorus of howdy
Shall issue forth quite loudly,
And I shall bare my nasty teeth
That I have long kept hidden,
And they shall form a sight to see,
An obscene gap toothed grin.

It is not that I disdain the cowboy,           
They are some of my best friends.
I'm practically on a first name basis
With three or four of them.
But in my past life I could not pull off,
The smiling and how do's,
Riding the range seemed all too strange,
And its charms I did refuse.

But once you see the teeth you'll know,
And my garish cowboy hat,
The slides down to obscure the features.
Of the homeliest of God's creatures,
You shall know it straight, right off the bat.
Much worse I'll wear my hat indoors,
My cowboy boots to bed,
You'll really start to gather
That I'm a bit touched in the head.

But I'll really be quite harmless,
Kind of a buffoon,
Although I may just condescend,
To shoot up a pretend saloon.
Do not be disheartened though,
Or dare to cowardly weep.
For the only violence I will entertain,
Will be in my disordered sleep.
I'll be harmless in my turning and tossing,
In my sleep may even take up flossing,
But not too much so as not to destroy
The horror to bequeath,
To the crowds that fall victim to my wiles,
And the stupid smiles from my insipid teeth.

Cowboy boots, check,
Demented toothy grin,
The unrestrained howdies
Will issue forth quite loudly,
My buddy and my friend.
it is then you'll know with certainty,
That my fortune has overturned,
It is then you'll know of my stubborn suture,
And how cautery can burn.
It is then you'll know the end is near and you can be quite glad,
That I have unreservedly gone stark raving mad.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

PLEA TO A LOVER

PLEA TO  A LOVER

Please come,
Minister to me when the night is deep,
And my body sweats in a broken sleep.

Please come,
Read my last words like a ravished fan,
Who cannot see how banal I am.

Please come,
Reassure with a warm embrace,
Not some rare startled look on your face.

And when you go,
Please cover me in kisses
And a warm bedspread,
Pulled lovingly over my twitching head.

And do all this with the requisite feeling,
As my spirit takes leave to dance on the ceiling,
Out the window to mingle with the saints,
Leaving behind a rich palette,
Of vivid watercolor paints.

The painting of us in Italy,
The frieze of us in France,
The fun we had in Ireland,
The jig I tried to dance.

Please don't regret a moment,
A second of our bliss,
I know I ask a lot of you,
But please remember this.

I was and am your biggest fan,
You held me in the palm of your hand.
You had the power to make me swoon,
I always thought you hung the moon,
And always you did so with the requisite ease,
So come tiptoe softly to me
And tenderly comfort me please.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

ANGER POISONS

ANGER POISONS

Anger poisons like hemlock tea,
Which is quite all right for Socrates,
Not so much for a man like me.

I am angry at my body,
How dare they desert me,
The muscles in my time of need?
I am angry at my fingers once so nimble,
That now uncertainly hunt and peck,
Anger flares like a forest fire,
Flaming and unchecked.

What, alas, happens to an anger unresolved?
It hangs in the air, a bitter mystery not evolved,
Anger is turned outward and the world it is chilled,
Anger turned inward relentlessly kills.
Anger when swallowed turns the soul hollow,
A nauseous, lonesome bitter pill.

I march like a soldier engulfed in flame,
Now and again I give my feelings a name.
Despite meditation, the comforting words on a gilded page,
There are times all I feel is a bitter, numbing rage.
It snarls and it simmers, to a nasty boil,
No compensation for its toil.

Anger poisons, but is hard to spit out,
Thus it leaves a cold bitter taste in my mouth,
Hanging on like the righteous bitch that it is,
Never vacationing in the tropical south,
Still I wait desperately, trying to break free,
Of this poisonous, perilous hemlock tea,
Quite all right for Socrates,
Not so much for a man like me.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED