ON A ROOFTOP IN THE CITY

ON A ROOFTOP IN THE CITY

On a rooftop in the city,
Sun is setting purple-pink and pretty.
Although I know there's little use,
I make a sad, uneasy truce,
With what went on on the second floor.
With life and what has gone before.

On a rooftop, I see stars,
The neon light from bars,
I could drink it all away,
But I think right here I'll stay,
Pondering the fifth floor blues,
Searching for what I can safely keep,
To salvage from the refuse.

It's a noose that I could safely choose,
Just hang like a gangster from some nearby tree,
It's not exactly PTSD, but it's not exactly easy,
To surrender the glories of the past,
To find some sweetness that can last,
In the troubled warmth of this rooftop encasement,
I ponder what went on in the basement.

On a rooftop in the metropolis,
The sky it rivals amethyst,
Suddenly I feel so damn small,
That I could easily chuck it all,
Remembering the seventh floor,
The man who lived there is no more,
With his house of snarling dogs,
And his one potbellied pig,
Who used to dance for me a jig,
When I'd walk triumphant through the door.

I can scarce remember the day of my birth,
Or my reckless sojourn on this earth,
It seems my mental filter
Has veered a bit off kilter
I strain to hear the one way traffic,
Of the bats that fly up in my attic.

It's enough to make me cry,
To lose my foothold and fall from the sky.
I'll sit on this rooftop and wait 'til I die,
Pondering now and maybe later,
What went on in the elevator.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

MILLSTONES OR MILESTONES

MILLSTONES OR MILESTONES

Like an albatross around my neck
That time cannot set free,
A millstone heavy pulls me down,
Into the dregs of insanity.
The millstone of the loss of ease,
Coupled with this odd disease,
That leaves its stain with precision stark.
A stain on the wall for impaired talking,
A stain on the wall for deep cane walking.
A stain on the wall for loss of speech,
Broken trains of thought, derailed and out of reach.

Millstone hiding in my eyes,
In the periphery of my sight.
Memory strikes an awkward pose,
Tolls its bell at midnight.
I still have campfire stories,
Of the past and fractured glories.
I've lived so long I remember the millstones,
Forget the milestones that brought me here,
Awards and promise of a fruitful career.
Spinning records or spinning yarns,
Mr. Comma and his offbeat charms,
They all elude me now,
Where are all the umpires,
Their outraged calls of foul?

Like offbeat notes in a forgotten song,
The millstones echo loud and long,
The milestones drown in the nearest creek,
All I've left are bromides, unhelpful doublespeak.
Cast overboard into the waters,
This albatross around my neck,
These sullen thoughts that go unchecked,
These milestones turned so soggy,
Drowned in the millstone maelstrom,
'Til the brain turns weak and foggy,
All i long for sweet release,
From this unrelenting beast.

From these stains on the wall for impaired talking,
These stains on the wall for deep cane walking.
These stains on the wall for loss of speech.
These boiling hot milestones melting at my feet,
Hopeless and so out of reach.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 

TRACKING THE GROOVES

TRACKING THE GROOVES

Tracking the grooves on an old 45,

Or an old 33 and a third,

Tracking the grooves on a cool stack of vinyl,

The pops and hiss I once heard.

Tracking the grooves, am I showing my age?

It's back to the days of romance,

Record players and gramophones,

And ill fated attempts to slow dance.

I love my digital library and i love my compact discs,

In love with the ease of the click of a mouse,

Makes me feel like a Power Ranger,

Loading three CDs at once

On my illustrious CD changer.

Yet I'm tracking the grooves of my brain's gray matter,

As the substantial nigra sheds its casing,

No more need to dissemble or flatter,

Or to the past go chasing.

The days are gone or never were,

When I could bust a move.

I've nothing left to show you

And little left to prove.

Still I'm tracking the grooves

Of the Solid Gold dancers

And their nostalgic interpretive skills.

The vocal prowess of Dionne Warwick,

Which delighted me and thrilled.

Just climb aboard the Midnight Special,
Everyone's invited there,
Let your hair down for a song,
Assuage away your cares.
If you're really up for a late night berth,
Come join Kirshner's rock concert.
Music played and the genres blurred,
And you could understand the words.

Tracking the grooves to Dick Clark's bandstand.
And Don Cornelius' Soul Train,
That spread their gospel of musical love,
Lifting the heart out of pain.

Tracking my memories, looking backward,

Although it's a bit of a blur,

I'd rather spend days not as they are,

But the way that I wish they still were.

Tracking the grooves to Casey Kasem,

And his legendary counting,

With a hiss and a pop, it was straight to the top,

The pomp and excitement mounting.

Until we reached the number one song

Compelled to tap or sing along.

Alas my days of singing are through

Casey's days of counting are done,

But I still have such sweet memories,

Reliving them such fun.

Tracking the grooves on an old 45,

My parents' Elvis records a cool 78,

Swinging hips on the Sullivan show,

It all just proves i was born too late.

Let's spend some time together,

God forbid we spend the night.

Tracking the grooves of a lover's flesh,

Until the stroke of midnight.

-Bruce Potts

 Copyright 2015

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WINTER GOING

WINTER GOING

Winter going, feeling spent and down and out,
The snowbird he is heading south,
To the Bahamas and his summer house,
Giving my world a reason and rhyme.
I can slip and fall in my own good time.
Life is springing up around me,
Daffodils and pansy lion faces,
The earth has turned upon its axis,
The snowmen have no prophylaxis
Except to disappear, and come again another year,
The earth achieves a better stasis.
Full of life and the resolve not to waste it,
The days and years ahead,
To rise above the sense of dread.

Winter leaving, its renting of clothes,
Its desperate attempts to thwart the rose,
Its season of grieving, its time to impose.
Back to the days of color and kites,
Sailing high above the clouds,
Winter is covered in mystery and shroud.
A visage impenetrable, a sleet and snow parade,
Devoid of blossoms, a sham and a charade,
Winter going, doing a half-assed slow fade.

Winter perishing, gasping for air,
Yielding to summer's wand.
Back to its prison of piety and pettiness,
From which there is no bond.
Bring me summer, bring me spring,
Bring me alas a reason for rejoicing,
A season of lightness and a season of smiles,
The comfort of a tulip and a stiff upper lip,
Chase away my treacherous miles.

Winter going, its prissiness and its pride,
Falling down the rabbit hole, one final fatal ride,
Give it its due, it was ballsy and bloated,
And for a short while on its fumes it still floated,
Leaving its frail and indelible mark.
An old bitter man consumed by his snark.

Winter, it is going, and we put flowers on its grave,
Though it once was a king, now a fool and a knave.
In another year it will be back with its paintbrush of doom,
'Til then let it sleep alone in its tomb.
And for those who mourn it, have no fear,
It will rail and snarl fiercely this time next year.
Like a bad penny, alas, it will be back,
To coat our roads and bridges
Our mountains and ridges
With its slippery vile shellac.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED