WALKING EARLY MORNING
Walking early morning,
The path still wet with dew,
Tank top, shorts and sandals on,
The next best thing to naked,
And the skies still late night blue.
Walking early morning, with waking visions clear,
Traipsing cross these thoroughfares,
These touchstones held so dear.
My restlessness has hurled me out,
Into open arms of dawn.
And cool air sweet a welcome treat,
As birds make merry on the lawn.
Walking early morning, senses toe the line
And drink in all the blessings like intoxicating wine.
The ghosts of souls departed,
Come clamoring to my side.
Light as air, ethereal friends,
Visions sweet to doubting eyes.
The town hall clock chimes 5 a.m.,
I forge ahead, a gentle gait,
The morning sweet and somnolent,
A velvet nectar of escape.
Walking early morning,
A shortcut barefoot through the park,
Keeping counsel with the moon,
And sweet communion with the dark.
-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Friday, January 30, 2015
Wednesday, January 28, 2015
IN THE SACRED MORNING
IN THE SACRED MORNING
In the sacred morning, if you cock your head and listen,
You can hear the dew moist on the grass, silent as it glistens.
And if you ever ponder what became of the likes of me,
Just look to the horizon and feel the touch of the gentle breeze.
And I will be there hovering, somewhere past the point of death,
A rose about to bloom in heaven, a spray of baby's breath,
That lingers on the fencepost, out there in the field,
Like some fierce and fabulous fighter, clutching sword and shield.
In the solemn eventide, I will lie and think of you,
And all the plans we cherished like ships upon the blue.
The emerald and the amethyst clenched in fury like a bully's fist.
And I will read your mind again with the grand telepathy
That used to flow from me to you, a brand of hallowed weaponry,
That warded off our hunger for a life not lived alone,
But sank beneath my willfulness like a haggard, hapless stone.
In the sacred morning, when we rose and broke the trust,
Of old and vetted promises that fell and bit the dust.
I will clutch to my breast the memory of our shining midnight sun,
The remnants of Alaska, when he with the most toys won.
And I will vanish from whence I came, the ether of this cyber world,
My white flag flung upon the field, my once bright vision blurred,
Our clarion song when youth stood strong and blind ambition stirred.
In the sacred morning, when the dove exhales his song,
And the robin treats her young to breakfast in the nest where they belong.
When the freaks and geeks of doublespeak rise to take their bow,
And my eyes turn toward the sunrise and the sacredness of now.
In the sacred morning, this tired old body sheds its skin,
And rises to the heavens to be with all its kin.
But not forgetting where it came from, what it leaves behind,
The stirring art of your wondrous heart that loved me in its time.
-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Monday, January 26, 2015
TURN TO GAUGE THE THUNDER
TURN TO GAUGE THE THUNDER
Turn to gauge the thunder, as the sun sets dimly in the west,
You know you're going under and you hope you've done your best.
Turn to gauge the thunder, is it real or just a test?
For years you've longed for respite, ached for your final rest.
So good to taste the rain begin to gently fall,
To coat the dusty corners of your upturned mouth.
So good to fade and to know you've given it your all,
Turn to gauge the thunder, does it come from north or south?
Is it a false alarm that blows again from off the stern Gulf Coast?
Is it a warning yet or still a watch, an iffy storm at most?
Turn to gauge the thunder from atop the lighthouse tower,
Is it only the beginning or have you met your final hour?
This disease is unpredictable, this disease is like a twister.
A funnel cloud that claps so loud, a bruise or just a blister?
Turn to gauge the thunder, is it time to call the papers,
To send them the obituary that highlights all your capers?
Time to draw the curtains closed and draw all the relations near,
And sink down low into your pillow, then blithely disappear.
Can you feel the rigor mortis or is it just rigidity,
Stiffness of the mundane sort, insipid immobility?
Turn to face the rumblings of icy sleet and hail,
Climb aboard the pirate ship with its torn and tattered sail,
Feel the organ systems go and slowly start to fail.
Turn to gauge the thunder, is the grand Titanic sinking,
Or is it just I'm tired of it all, engaged in wishful thinking?
So hard to know if it's far too late or do I still exaggerate?
Sick to death of this slow demise, this twinge of twisted fate.
The boring strange monotony that cloaks so many of my days,
That lures me back to the land of sleep and the old familiar haze.
Where every dream is of looking for work and falling from a ghastly height,
The interviewer's vacant stare beneath the foul fluorescent light.
The awful sameness of these reveries, that leaves me feeling ill at ease,
And sends me falling, lost and flailing, down these stairs without a railing.
Turn to gauge the thunder, as the sun sets primly in the west.
Know you're going under, and know you've done your best.
Use your head to calculate, is it a watch or a stern warning?
Should you try to stall for time, will you live to see the morning?
Turn to gauge the thunderclaps, fading in and out of naps.
Close your eyes for the surprise, and fold your earthly maps.
-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Turn to gauge the thunder, as the sun sets dimly in the west,
You know you're going under and you hope you've done your best.
Turn to gauge the thunder, is it real or just a test?
For years you've longed for respite, ached for your final rest.
So good to taste the rain begin to gently fall,
To coat the dusty corners of your upturned mouth.
So good to fade and to know you've given it your all,
Turn to gauge the thunder, does it come from north or south?
Is it a false alarm that blows again from off the stern Gulf Coast?
Is it a warning yet or still a watch, an iffy storm at most?
Turn to gauge the thunder from atop the lighthouse tower,
Is it only the beginning or have you met your final hour?
This disease is unpredictable, this disease is like a twister.
A funnel cloud that claps so loud, a bruise or just a blister?
Turn to gauge the thunder, is it time to call the papers,
To send them the obituary that highlights all your capers?
Time to draw the curtains closed and draw all the relations near,
And sink down low into your pillow, then blithely disappear.
Can you feel the rigor mortis or is it just rigidity,
Stiffness of the mundane sort, insipid immobility?
Turn to face the rumblings of icy sleet and hail,
Climb aboard the pirate ship with its torn and tattered sail,
Feel the organ systems go and slowly start to fail.
Turn to gauge the thunder, is the grand Titanic sinking,
Or is it just I'm tired of it all, engaged in wishful thinking?
So hard to know if it's far too late or do I still exaggerate?
Sick to death of this slow demise, this twinge of twisted fate.
The boring strange monotony that cloaks so many of my days,
That lures me back to the land of sleep and the old familiar haze.
Where every dream is of looking for work and falling from a ghastly height,
The interviewer's vacant stare beneath the foul fluorescent light.
The awful sameness of these reveries, that leaves me feeling ill at ease,
And sends me falling, lost and flailing, down these stairs without a railing.
Turn to gauge the thunder, as the sun sets primly in the west.
Know you're going under, and know you've done your best.
Use your head to calculate, is it a watch or a stern warning?
Should you try to stall for time, will you live to see the morning?
Turn to gauge the thunderclaps, fading in and out of naps.
Close your eyes for the surprise, and fold your earthly maps.
-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Friday, January 23, 2015
THE FIRE IS OUT
THE FIRE IS OUT
Bring down all the ladders and wind up all the hose.
The smell of ash is in the air, it permeates my clothes.
Radio the station and say you're coming home,
Notify your superiors with a flourish and a groan.
This building has crumbled to the ground with a grand and glorious shout.
You rescuers can all go home, the fire at last is out.
The flame is smoldering hopelessly below the seared debris,
This strange, disheveled lost abode that used to be the likes of me.
Like an ill wind that comes and bears no good,
My corpse it reeks of burning wood.
I flew too high and crashed head first into the lonesome sun,
And now I am beyond all hope and the help of anyone.
Hang up your hard hats and your gloves,
You troubled men I used to love,
I set my shackled prisoners free.
You no longer bear the burden of shoring up the likes of me.
Just pull your strands of yellow tape, to mark this lonesome scene,
The remnants of a life that soared that time has come between.
Hit the showers, for even you have had enough of ash and soot,
For a man whose sordid lonely dreams are in your way and underfoot.
Close up all your rescue nets, the ladder and the hook,
You were a gallant fighter and you did it by the book.
But even heroes see at last, a ship that's down and sinking fast.
I have met my lonesome match, I have no future but the past.
Nothing new to offer you, but the guillotine and noose,
I capitulate, you've arrived too late, and I must set you loose.
Let go your sirens and your flashing lights, go screaming back into the night,
And leave your rusted fire truck where it died on lover's lane.
An antique apparatus, lackluster and plain.
And leave my body where it fell, a gas mask still in place,
Stretched across the rubric of this ghastly ashen face.
A work horse that has run its course, whose majesty you once did tout,
You rescuers can all go home, the fire at last is out.
-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Bring down all the ladders and wind up all the hose.
The smell of ash is in the air, it permeates my clothes.
Radio the station and say you're coming home,
Notify your superiors with a flourish and a groan.
This building has crumbled to the ground with a grand and glorious shout.
You rescuers can all go home, the fire at last is out.
The flame is smoldering hopelessly below the seared debris,
This strange, disheveled lost abode that used to be the likes of me.
Like an ill wind that comes and bears no good,
My corpse it reeks of burning wood.
I flew too high and crashed head first into the lonesome sun,
And now I am beyond all hope and the help of anyone.
Hang up your hard hats and your gloves,
You troubled men I used to love,
I set my shackled prisoners free.
You no longer bear the burden of shoring up the likes of me.
Just pull your strands of yellow tape, to mark this lonesome scene,
The remnants of a life that soared that time has come between.
Hit the showers, for even you have had enough of ash and soot,
For a man whose sordid lonely dreams are in your way and underfoot.
Close up all your rescue nets, the ladder and the hook,
You were a gallant fighter and you did it by the book.
But even heroes see at last, a ship that's down and sinking fast.
I have met my lonesome match, I have no future but the past.
Nothing new to offer you, but the guillotine and noose,
I capitulate, you've arrived too late, and I must set you loose.
Let go your sirens and your flashing lights, go screaming back into the night,
And leave your rusted fire truck where it died on lover's lane.
An antique apparatus, lackluster and plain.
And leave my body where it fell, a gas mask still in place,
Stretched across the rubric of this ghastly ashen face.
A work horse that has run its course, whose majesty you once did tout,
You rescuers can all go home, the fire at last is out.
-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Wednesday, January 21, 2015
CRIES THAT GO UNHEARD
CRIES THAT GO UNHEARD
No one ever says a word,
Of plaintive cries that go unheard.
The murder of a homeless man,
The shooting of an unarmed teen,
Of violence that erupts unplanned,
The modern urban death machine.
No one dares to tell the tale,
Of the pirate ship with its ugly sail,
Venturing from the harbor of God knows where,
Marooned and cocooned, how thin the air,
Of the passengers and crew once so fair and cared for,
That vanish in the haze and through the trap door.
The lone and dusty trap door of time,
A minute until nothingness,
Out of sight and out of mind.
No one ever talks of morgues
Where corpses lie unclaimed.
Of missing persons lost to ones
Who silently mouth their names.
Once a year we lay a wreath
On the tomb of an unknown soldier.
Each year his parents grieve for him,
Much grayer and much older.
Veterans Day and its pomp and circumstance,
Survivors' sage advice,
Hardly seem to compensate
For the unknown and his sacrifice.
Yet the wars wage on, the soldier dies,
His single mother wails and cries.
No one ever talks of grief disturbed and wild.
Alive in the eyes of a parent who alas survives a child.
No one dares disturb the quiet,
Of the morning after the sobering riot.
The bottle in the alley and its careless broken shards,
The white sheets that adorn the heads, crosses burnt on yards.
The gay man beaten and left for dead
Or ridiculed as a teen in school.
No one speaks in the midst of this,
The citizenry can be so cruel.
The injustices they are seen and heard,
They feed on life like some carrion bird.
But alas, we are a quiet bunch,
The southern belles, the ladies who lunch.
Eyes vacant and dead look straight ahead,
And mum is the only word.
No one mounts a podium,
No one takes a stage,
Except a few brave mavericks
Who dare to turn the page.
Into a new and righteous age,
Where the dead they have their day.
Where the slaughtered gay child and the unclaimed corpse
And the unknown soldier at last have their say.
The change we seek is sometimes weak,
But the day is dawning when at last we speak.
Where someone dares to say a word,
Of plaintive cries that go unheard.
The murder of a homeless man,
The shooting of an unarmed teen,
The violence that erupts unplanned,
The modern urban death machine.
-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No one ever says a word,
Of plaintive cries that go unheard.
The murder of a homeless man,
The shooting of an unarmed teen,
Of violence that erupts unplanned,
The modern urban death machine.
No one dares to tell the tale,
Of the pirate ship with its ugly sail,
Venturing from the harbor of God knows where,
Marooned and cocooned, how thin the air,
Of the passengers and crew once so fair and cared for,
That vanish in the haze and through the trap door.
The lone and dusty trap door of time,
A minute until nothingness,
Out of sight and out of mind.
No one ever talks of morgues
Where corpses lie unclaimed.
Of missing persons lost to ones
Who silently mouth their names.
Once a year we lay a wreath
On the tomb of an unknown soldier.
Each year his parents grieve for him,
Much grayer and much older.
Veterans Day and its pomp and circumstance,
Survivors' sage advice,
Hardly seem to compensate
For the unknown and his sacrifice.
Yet the wars wage on, the soldier dies,
His single mother wails and cries.
No one ever talks of grief disturbed and wild.
Alive in the eyes of a parent who alas survives a child.
No one dares disturb the quiet,
Of the morning after the sobering riot.
The bottle in the alley and its careless broken shards,
The white sheets that adorn the heads, crosses burnt on yards.
The gay man beaten and left for dead
Or ridiculed as a teen in school.
No one speaks in the midst of this,
The citizenry can be so cruel.
The injustices they are seen and heard,
They feed on life like some carrion bird.
But alas, we are a quiet bunch,
The southern belles, the ladies who lunch.
Eyes vacant and dead look straight ahead,
And mum is the only word.
No one mounts a podium,
No one takes a stage,
Except a few brave mavericks
Who dare to turn the page.
Into a new and righteous age,
Where the dead they have their day.
Where the slaughtered gay child and the unclaimed corpse
And the unknown soldier at last have their say.
The change we seek is sometimes weak,
But the day is dawning when at last we speak.
Where someone dares to say a word,
Of plaintive cries that go unheard.
The murder of a homeless man,
The shooting of an unarmed teen,
The violence that erupts unplanned,
The modern urban death machine.
-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Monday, January 19, 2015
SAMSON
SAMSON
Bald Samson walks a barren road,
Regretting all the hair he sold,
To the wicked Delilah, her beauty so stunning.
She got what she wanted with her wiles and her cunning.
The wishing well is all but dry,
Barren in its desert home.
He walks these plains a haunted man,
Whose precious dreams have up and flown.
Cornered by the memories
Of water trickling through the pass,
Samson's throat is cracked and choking
On dreams he prayed would last.
He cannot count on sunny weather,
He cannot hope for placid seas,
In the cruel eye of the hurricane,
Felled by the savage breeze.
The millionaire is penniless,
Rummaging through the dumpster bare
For scraps from which to build a meal,
His hunger permeates the air.
Where once he held her to his breast
As gentle as a desert flower,
Delilah sharp has drawn his blood,
And crimson dreams turn sour.
The canteen spills, the water leaks,
The spirit's moored and tethered.
The sailor's lost and rudderless,
The prisoner's tarred and feathered.
Grief stricken Samson is out of his mind,
When he learns his baldness in the male pattern kind.
He learns that his life is bounded by hours.
He cannot count on lighthouses,
The guards sleep in their towers,
He'd best not hunger for a cure,
The doctors have no powers.
The wishing well is all forlorn,
Samson's head is bald and shorn,
Delilah laughs in the distance, clutching her clippers with glee,
While Samson waits for the noose impatiently.
He swings aloft, he swings alone,
His strength is sinking like a stone,
He walks these plains a haunted soul,
Whose finest days have all but flown.
-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Bald Samson walks a barren road,
Regretting all the hair he sold,
To the wicked Delilah, her beauty so stunning.
She got what she wanted with her wiles and her cunning.
The wishing well is all but dry,
Barren in its desert home.
He walks these plains a haunted man,
Whose precious dreams have up and flown.
Cornered by the memories
Of water trickling through the pass,
Samson's throat is cracked and choking
On dreams he prayed would last.
He cannot count on sunny weather,
He cannot hope for placid seas,
In the cruel eye of the hurricane,
Felled by the savage breeze.
The millionaire is penniless,
Rummaging through the dumpster bare
For scraps from which to build a meal,
His hunger permeates the air.
Where once he held her to his breast
As gentle as a desert flower,
Delilah sharp has drawn his blood,
And crimson dreams turn sour.
The canteen spills, the water leaks,
The spirit's moored and tethered.
The sailor's lost and rudderless,
The prisoner's tarred and feathered.
Grief stricken Samson is out of his mind,
When he learns his baldness in the male pattern kind.
He learns that his life is bounded by hours.
He cannot count on lighthouses,
The guards sleep in their towers,
He'd best not hunger for a cure,
The doctors have no powers.
The wishing well is all forlorn,
Samson's head is bald and shorn,
Delilah laughs in the distance, clutching her clippers with glee,
While Samson waits for the noose impatiently.
He swings aloft, he swings alone,
His strength is sinking like a stone,
He walks these plains a haunted soul,
Whose finest days have all but flown.
-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Friday, January 16, 2015
THESE SWEET DAYS
THESE SWEET DAYS
I never will forget, as long as I live,
These sweet days in love with you,
Here in this bright and happy home,
The precious time we spend alone.
Touched by the beauty of your eyes,
The sunshine in your grin,
That comes as such a sweet surprise,
And turns my losses back to wins.
I never will forget, long as my life lasts,
The never ending well of joy
Into which my coins have cast.
The way in which you've brightened
Every cranny of my soul,
The way you've shouldered all my burdens,
Crushed my demons whole.
Chased down the dream and cracked the case,
A Sherlock to my Watson,
It may be elementary, but it will never be forgotten.
And never think the flame dies low,
It burns forever bright for us.
Though the future seems uncertain,
We are more than flesh and dust.
And I hope that you will not forget,
As long as you may live,
These sweet days in love with me,
Here in this bright and happy home,
All the love I had to give.
I hope the memory sets you free,
And comforts you on nights alone,
Long after my spirit's flown.
-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
I never will forget, as long as I live,
These sweet days in love with you,
Here in this bright and happy home,
The precious time we spend alone.
Touched by the beauty of your eyes,
The sunshine in your grin,
That comes as such a sweet surprise,
And turns my losses back to wins.
I never will forget, long as my life lasts,
The never ending well of joy
Into which my coins have cast.
The way in which you've brightened
Every cranny of my soul,
The way you've shouldered all my burdens,
Crushed my demons whole.
Chased down the dream and cracked the case,
A Sherlock to my Watson,
It may be elementary, but it will never be forgotten.
And never think the flame dies low,
It burns forever bright for us.
Though the future seems uncertain,
We are more than flesh and dust.
And I hope that you will not forget,
As long as you may live,
These sweet days in love with me,
Here in this bright and happy home,
All the love I had to give.
I hope the memory sets you free,
And comforts you on nights alone,
Long after my spirit's flown.
-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Wednesday, January 14, 2015
ODD
ODD
(FOR MY BEBBEE JENI WILLIAMS)
Every day I entertain myself by being just a little odd,
Doing just a little something to anger or ingratiate the gods.
Like going by an alias like Satan or like George,
Also known as Lucifer or the dude from Valley Forge.
Every day I like to spout a bit of syllogistic nonsense,
To leave folks scratching their bewildered heads wondering what I meant.
It livens up the morning and it sharpens up my wit,
And my friends they seem to humor me and don't seem to mind a bit.
Each day I play fast and loose with my strange version of the truth,
Like there's a monster underneath my bed with one lone vicious tooth,
All set to demolish me, an hor d'oeuvre upon a toothpick.
I throw these lies out randomly, hoping one will stick.
I have a friend named Baby or bebbee as she is known to me.
She has been with me through many a strange and sad calamity.
In fact so many calamities her real name should be Jane,
Though she swears that it is Jeni, or Martha when she's strange.
Sometimes she eats too much ice cream and it freezes up her brain.
I don't know why I tell you this, you must pinkie swear to keep it quiet.
Lest you anger my friend bebbee and start a mini-riot.
Every day I try to stretch my mind and commit some merry goof.
Some wicked bit of nonsense talk, some mindless little spoof.
It keeps the smile lines busy and holds back useless tears,
It keeps the wolf outside the door, stalking other prey than me,
It makes for a merry constitution, like a morning glass of sherry.
Some days I dress like Mr. Peanut and carry a cane for no reason,
As I stroll about my neighborhood in this or any season.
Some days I spy a pink elephant and have to run and hide,
Lest I suffer the weight of a horrible fate and be peeled and eaten alive.
Every day I entertain myself by being just a little odd,
Doing just a little something to anger or ingratiate the gods.
Like going by an alias like Satan or like George,
Also known as Lucifer or the dude from Valley Forge.
You should try it in your own life, we're like two peas in a pod,
And there's nothing ever really wrong with being a little odd.
-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Monday, January 12, 2015
I LOVED IT ALL
I LOVED IT ALL
In the end I didn't talk so well, had a strange aversion to the phone.
I spent my time taking stock, in my quiet room alone.
In the end I didn't walk so good, I would not leave home without a cane.
Some might say I just gave up, surrendering to relentless pain.
In the end I shuffled when I walked, awkward and a bit confused.
A little scattered in my focus, little more than a burnt out fuse.
But like some grateful orphan child the universe took in,
I wrapped my arms around the pain and claimed it as my friend.
And though I teetered on the edge and in the end would fall,
I swear until my final day I cherished life and I loved it all.
I loved it all, for it was life, the only life I'd ever known,
Into every nook and cranny, a brilliant light had shown.
Sometimes life got scary, sometimes life would reek.
In the end it was an effort to form my words and speak.
But I still had nimble fingers when the pills they did their thing.
And I could document my life in words and emails to my friends.
I could write my life in colors bright, and beg forgiveness for my sins.
There were times I was short-tempered and a tad loose with my tongue.
Not as kind and thoughtful as perhaps when I was young.
There were times when I was selfish, there were times I was headstrong.
I swear I had my moments when all I did seemed wrong.
But I danced if only in my dreams, in real life dance a fractured scheme.
And in my dreams my muscles soared, the milk of human kindness poured.
And at times my mind it wondered if I'd touched a single soul,
With my poems or with my paltry gifts, and that wondering almost ate me whole.
But I rose each day from my broken sleep or the rare nights sleep crept like a log,
And I found a sign from God's design that shone a light through time's dense fog.
Through the doubts and the down and outs that cast upon my soul this pall,
I cherished every ray of light and in my soul I loved them all.
I held my lover oh so tight and relished all the kindred souls.
I held the sun just like a weapon, in these trembling hands,
And vanquished night and saw the light as it tripped across these shifting sands.
In the end I saw the wonder in each vexing circumstance,
Each scattered random act of kindness, each new second chance.
Each new day of treasured bliss, each benefit of the doubt,
Each vestige of this pilgrimage, the loves, the hates, the ins, the outs.
And though hope teetered on the edge, not once did it tumble, not once did it fall.
In the end time was my sacred friend, I savored life and I loved it all.
-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
In the end I didn't talk so well, had a strange aversion to the phone.
I spent my time taking stock, in my quiet room alone.
In the end I didn't walk so good, I would not leave home without a cane.
Some might say I just gave up, surrendering to relentless pain.
In the end I shuffled when I walked, awkward and a bit confused.
A little scattered in my focus, little more than a burnt out fuse.
But like some grateful orphan child the universe took in,
I wrapped my arms around the pain and claimed it as my friend.
And though I teetered on the edge and in the end would fall,
I swear until my final day I cherished life and I loved it all.
I loved it all, for it was life, the only life I'd ever known,
Into every nook and cranny, a brilliant light had shown.
Sometimes life got scary, sometimes life would reek.
In the end it was an effort to form my words and speak.
But I still had nimble fingers when the pills they did their thing.
And I could document my life in words and emails to my friends.
I could write my life in colors bright, and beg forgiveness for my sins.
There were times I was short-tempered and a tad loose with my tongue.
Not as kind and thoughtful as perhaps when I was young.
There were times when I was selfish, there were times I was headstrong.
I swear I had my moments when all I did seemed wrong.
But I danced if only in my dreams, in real life dance a fractured scheme.
And in my dreams my muscles soared, the milk of human kindness poured.
And at times my mind it wondered if I'd touched a single soul,
With my poems or with my paltry gifts, and that wondering almost ate me whole.
But I rose each day from my broken sleep or the rare nights sleep crept like a log,
And I found a sign from God's design that shone a light through time's dense fog.
Through the doubts and the down and outs that cast upon my soul this pall,
I cherished every ray of light and in my soul I loved them all.
I held my lover oh so tight and relished all the kindred souls.
I held the sun just like a weapon, in these trembling hands,
And vanquished night and saw the light as it tripped across these shifting sands.
In the end I saw the wonder in each vexing circumstance,
Each scattered random act of kindness, each new second chance.
Each new day of treasured bliss, each benefit of the doubt,
Each vestige of this pilgrimage, the loves, the hates, the ins, the outs.
And though hope teetered on the edge, not once did it tumble, not once did it fall.
In the end time was my sacred friend, I savored life and I loved it all.
-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Friday, January 9, 2015
CUT-THROAT
CUT-THROAT
Blindfold me and lead me upwards to the chamber of my doom,
A hanging judge, a swinging noose, a waiting burial tomb.
You will claim this song's too somber to merit a reply,
And lead me to the forest, leave me there to die.
But you are cut-throat, you are vicious, and your bullets lace the sky.
Tie my wrists and tie my ankles oh so very tight,
And swing your noose beneath my neck, the periphery of my sight.
Mock me with your promises and your lies of recompense,
Then slay me like a dragon, oh fond one with your death mints.
You are surly, you are evil, though you wear your coat of fur,
And you surely must remember how you used to sit and purr,
And praise me your lone wordsmith in a land of deaf and dumb,
You are cold and merciless and my blood it coats your tongue.
I cannot swim against your tide, my breast stroke it cannot sustain,
Jab your scissors in my eyes and watch the aqueous humor rain.
Take me underneath your wing, for I cannot speak and I cannot sing.
Shoot your cannon in the air and taunt me with your wheelchair.
I am shuffling, I am lame, I can't remember my own name.
You are callous, you are cut-throat, you're the one to blame.
Tell me I am hateful, tell me I am cruel,
But I cannot any longer stay to be your motley fool,
Blinded by the lessons in your sordid little school,
Sinking in your quicksand, your muddy perilous pool.
Blindfold me and torture me with your chains and with your whips,
Taunt me like a dominatrix with your bloodshot little hips.
You will say I am too somber, but your lips they curl and lie,
You are cut-throat, you are vicious, and your bullets lace the sky.
-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Blindfold me and lead me upwards to the chamber of my doom,
A hanging judge, a swinging noose, a waiting burial tomb.
You will claim this song's too somber to merit a reply,
And lead me to the forest, leave me there to die.
But you are cut-throat, you are vicious, and your bullets lace the sky.
Tie my wrists and tie my ankles oh so very tight,
And swing your noose beneath my neck, the periphery of my sight.
Mock me with your promises and your lies of recompense,
Then slay me like a dragon, oh fond one with your death mints.
You are surly, you are evil, though you wear your coat of fur,
And you surely must remember how you used to sit and purr,
And praise me your lone wordsmith in a land of deaf and dumb,
You are cold and merciless and my blood it coats your tongue.
I cannot swim against your tide, my breast stroke it cannot sustain,
Jab your scissors in my eyes and watch the aqueous humor rain.
Take me underneath your wing, for I cannot speak and I cannot sing.
Shoot your cannon in the air and taunt me with your wheelchair.
I am shuffling, I am lame, I can't remember my own name.
You are callous, you are cut-throat, you're the one to blame.
Tell me I am hateful, tell me I am cruel,
But I cannot any longer stay to be your motley fool,
Blinded by the lessons in your sordid little school,
Sinking in your quicksand, your muddy perilous pool.
Blindfold me and torture me with your chains and with your whips,
Taunt me like a dominatrix with your bloodshot little hips.
You will say I am too somber, but your lips they curl and lie,
You are cut-throat, you are vicious, and your bullets lace the sky.
-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Wednesday, January 7, 2015
WOLF AT THE DOOR
WOLF AT THE DOOR
There's a wolf in waiting at my door,
Ever so slightly he whines at the moon.
In the midst of strife, in the twilight of my life,
His song is discordant and out of tune.
This mighty excuse for a canine,
Whose moans resemble a whine,
I guess he means to threaten me,
In all his churlish devilry.
But I have come to know him well,
To worship at his evil altar,
To tempt him with the smell of blood
As my steps they flail and falter.
There's a wolf in waiting at my door,
Baring fangs and pacing the floor.
I tempt him with a sacrifice,
The flesh and bone they do entice.
I tell him I'm not ready yet,
But will be soon and do not fret.
For human life, it is short and staggers,
Like a drunkard felled by demon daggers,
That slice like phantoms in the dark,
Snuffing out the slightest spark.
The wolf just smiles in disbelief
And bares his nasty yellow teeth.
And lunges hard against the wood,
In this God forsaken space
Where my feet once stood.
The wolf is impatient, carnivorous, cruel,
And man is a petulant, self-involved fool,
Secure in his knowledge there is always more time,
Sure of survival, skating thin on a dime.
Cutting down the wondrous trees he once planted,
Taking his friends and his lovers for granted.
Meanwhile the wolf shows signs of distress,
Tired of his relentless waiting,
Tired of whining, now he bays,
Relentlessly he taunts and haunts me,
Twenty-four hours a day.
The wolf is always at my door,
And will be now forevermore.
Baring his teeth, sharpening his grotesque nails,
Tightening his grip on this sinking ship,
Ripping a hole in the flapping sails.
-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
There's a wolf in waiting at my door,
Ever so slightly he whines at the moon.
In the midst of strife, in the twilight of my life,
His song is discordant and out of tune.
This mighty excuse for a canine,
Whose moans resemble a whine,
I guess he means to threaten me,
In all his churlish devilry.
But I have come to know him well,
To worship at his evil altar,
To tempt him with the smell of blood
As my steps they flail and falter.
There's a wolf in waiting at my door,
Baring fangs and pacing the floor.
I tempt him with a sacrifice,
The flesh and bone they do entice.
I tell him I'm not ready yet,
But will be soon and do not fret.
For human life, it is short and staggers,
Like a drunkard felled by demon daggers,
That slice like phantoms in the dark,
Snuffing out the slightest spark.
The wolf just smiles in disbelief
And bares his nasty yellow teeth.
And lunges hard against the wood,
In this God forsaken space
Where my feet once stood.
The wolf is impatient, carnivorous, cruel,
And man is a petulant, self-involved fool,
Secure in his knowledge there is always more time,
Sure of survival, skating thin on a dime.
Cutting down the wondrous trees he once planted,
Taking his friends and his lovers for granted.
Meanwhile the wolf shows signs of distress,
Tired of his relentless waiting,
Tired of whining, now he bays,
Relentlessly he taunts and haunts me,
Twenty-four hours a day.
The wolf is always at my door,
And will be now forevermore.
Baring his teeth, sharpening his grotesque nails,
Tightening his grip on this sinking ship,
Ripping a hole in the flapping sails.
-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Monday, January 5, 2015
TREAD LIGHTLY, TREAD SOFTLY
TREAD LIGHTLY, TREAD SOFTLY
Tread lightly, tread softly,
Where my heart is concerned,
It's been trampled on, pulled apart,
Spat upon, burned,
By fair-weather friends who flitter through,
Then change their minds and flee.
They do not like my politics,
My sexuality.
Like cunning magpies,
They forge their way in,
Then take to the sky in droves.
They love the sinner, hate the sin,
How dare they stoop to condescend,
It's Anita Bryant all over again,
Queen of the orange groves.
Tread lightly, tread softly,
I'm a man with nothing to lose,
And so I dare to speak for those
Who can't afford to choose.
I owe my own allegiance
To nothing but my truth,
I take my fight into the streets,
And into the voting booth.
So what if I worry about my dear gay brethren,
Who carry the weight of the rainbow flag,
And all it has come to mean.
So what if I have a queer agenda
Hidden up my sleeve?
I'll go to my grave willingly
For the things that I believe.
Tread lightly, tread softly,
For my heart is more glass than stone,
And can shatter in a million pieces,
When a cold, cruel word is thrown.
For all my swagger and my bluster,
I'm really fighting gallantly,
While all my imperfections
Cluster all around me.
Tread lightly, tread softly,
My heart's a tad bit bitter,
The low achieving runt of the litter.
How do i harm you by speaking my peace,
And really how dare you say I can't marry?
Just another boulder for this weak heart to carry.
Tread lightly, tread softly,
And do your best to understand,
Walk a mile in my well worn shoes
Before you judge this man.
We choose who we love like the color of our eyes,
It is somewhere in the DNA, it is written in the skies,
So much ado about an inborn trait, and such a torturous ride,
The bullying, the terror, the all too frequent suicide.
These words are the naked truth,
Read them well, my dear gay youth.
For they will try to destroy your faith,
With their Scripture sanctioned hate.
But it is they not you who will be judged,
Your only crime is to dare to love,
And love is never wrong when it is given faithfully,
To one who loves you in return,
The way my man loves me.
Come and let us build a world without such fear and enmity,
Where gay and straight step up to the plate,
And fight for the right to be free.
To hold and cherish, love and honor, and marry who they please.
In the meantime mind your thoughts and tongues,
Careful what you say.
Tread lightly, tread softly, there are hearts strewn in your way.
-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Tread lightly, tread softly,
Where my heart is concerned,
It's been trampled on, pulled apart,
Spat upon, burned,
By fair-weather friends who flitter through,
Then change their minds and flee.
They do not like my politics,
My sexuality.
Like cunning magpies,
They forge their way in,
Then take to the sky in droves.
They love the sinner, hate the sin,
How dare they stoop to condescend,
It's Anita Bryant all over again,
Queen of the orange groves.
Tread lightly, tread softly,
I'm a man with nothing to lose,
And so I dare to speak for those
Who can't afford to choose.
I owe my own allegiance
To nothing but my truth,
I take my fight into the streets,
And into the voting booth.
So what if I worry about my dear gay brethren,
Who carry the weight of the rainbow flag,
And all it has come to mean.
So what if I have a queer agenda
Hidden up my sleeve?
I'll go to my grave willingly
For the things that I believe.
Tread lightly, tread softly,
For my heart is more glass than stone,
And can shatter in a million pieces,
When a cold, cruel word is thrown.
For all my swagger and my bluster,
I'm really fighting gallantly,
While all my imperfections
Cluster all around me.
Tread lightly, tread softly,
My heart's a tad bit bitter,
The low achieving runt of the litter.
How do i harm you by speaking my peace,
And really how dare you say I can't marry?
Just another boulder for this weak heart to carry.
Tread lightly, tread softly,
And do your best to understand,
Walk a mile in my well worn shoes
Before you judge this man.
We choose who we love like the color of our eyes,
It is somewhere in the DNA, it is written in the skies,
So much ado about an inborn trait, and such a torturous ride,
The bullying, the terror, the all too frequent suicide.
These words are the naked truth,
Read them well, my dear gay youth.
For they will try to destroy your faith,
With their Scripture sanctioned hate.
But it is they not you who will be judged,
Your only crime is to dare to love,
And love is never wrong when it is given faithfully,
To one who loves you in return,
The way my man loves me.
Come and let us build a world without such fear and enmity,
Where gay and straight step up to the plate,
And fight for the right to be free.
To hold and cherish, love and honor, and marry who they please.
In the meantime mind your thoughts and tongues,
Careful what you say.
Tread lightly, tread softly, there are hearts strewn in your way.
-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Friday, January 2, 2015
POSTCARD FROM THE LEDGE
POSTCARD FROM THE LEDGE
(FOR GAY YOUTH)
It gets better if you wait awhile,
The flood gates open, then you smile.
The bully and the terrorist
Give way to an amethyst.
The shining man of all your dreams,
Waits patiently behind the scenes.
So put away the razors,
Put away the hangman's noose,
Hitch your wagon to a star,
Rejoice, be young and footloose.
It gets better if you be yourself
With a great big exclamation.
And let the madmen mutter
Their words of condemnation.
For the time will come when good fortune pours
Its sweetness softly into yours.
When hate and fear turn into dust,
Since time began, it's been ever thus.
And living well's the best revenge,
In this or any season.
Take pity on the sons of bitches
Who hate without a reason,
I speak from my own history,
Which surely you can trust.
A past where all the bastards dared
Yell faggot from the school bus.
When I knew that I was different
And that I did not belong.
Yet still I knew that deep within
Was a new and glorious song.
Then college and the roommates
Who gave me the cold shoulder,
And I felt a lot like Sisyphus
Weighed down by his boulder.
Frozen out and living in a silent, scornful hell,
Until I met likeminded souls,
Who smiled at me and wished me well,
Who took me underneath their wing,
And taught my spirit how to sing.
It gets better if you give it time.
Fast forward now to out at work,
To a lover so divine.
Who wrapped my wounds in silver threads,
The man with whom I now reside.
Fast forward past the bigotry,
Fast forward through the tears,
Fast forward through what now seem an avalanche of years.
Such a waste to end it all with a twitch of a trigger finger,
Better just to wait it out, ignore the slings and zingers.
It gets better if you wait awhile,
The flood gates open, then you smile.
Put away the razors, put away the noose,
Put away all errant thoughts, rejoice, be young and footloose.
If your life ends, the bastards win.
So thumb your nose at all of those
Who dare to push you o'er the edge,
And live to be a man like me,
To write your postcard from the ledge.
-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
(FOR GAY YOUTH)
It gets better if you wait awhile,
The flood gates open, then you smile.
The bully and the terrorist
Give way to an amethyst.
The shining man of all your dreams,
Waits patiently behind the scenes.
So put away the razors,
Put away the hangman's noose,
Hitch your wagon to a star,
Rejoice, be young and footloose.
It gets better if you be yourself
With a great big exclamation.
And let the madmen mutter
Their words of condemnation.
For the time will come when good fortune pours
Its sweetness softly into yours.
When hate and fear turn into dust,
Since time began, it's been ever thus.
And living well's the best revenge,
In this or any season.
Take pity on the sons of bitches
Who hate without a reason,
I speak from my own history,
Which surely you can trust.
A past where all the bastards dared
Yell faggot from the school bus.
When I knew that I was different
And that I did not belong.
Yet still I knew that deep within
Was a new and glorious song.
Then college and the roommates
Who gave me the cold shoulder,
And I felt a lot like Sisyphus
Weighed down by his boulder.
Frozen out and living in a silent, scornful hell,
Until I met likeminded souls,
Who smiled at me and wished me well,
Who took me underneath their wing,
And taught my spirit how to sing.
It gets better if you give it time.
Fast forward now to out at work,
To a lover so divine.
Who wrapped my wounds in silver threads,
The man with whom I now reside.
Fast forward past the bigotry,
Fast forward through the tears,
Fast forward through what now seem an avalanche of years.
Such a waste to end it all with a twitch of a trigger finger,
Better just to wait it out, ignore the slings and zingers.
It gets better if you wait awhile,
The flood gates open, then you smile.
Put away the razors, put away the noose,
Put away all errant thoughts, rejoice, be young and footloose.
If your life ends, the bastards win.
So thumb your nose at all of those
Who dare to push you o'er the edge,
And live to be a man like me,
To write your postcard from the ledge.
-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
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