MINNEAPOLIS

MINNEAPOLIS

Oh, Minneapolis

You were never made for this,

Mayhem, violence in your streets,

Heightened fears and heightened heartbeats. 

Changing hearts and changing minds

Can sometimes take a long, long time.

Sometimes it isn't nice,

To protest when your foe is ICE,

Renee Good and Alex Pretti have become your rallying cry,

As innocent people are snatched from their homes and accusations fly.

Are you an American, do you deserve to be here?

Answer all our questions, or we'll make you disappear.

Oh, Minneapolis, 

You were never made for this.

Renee shot three times in the face,

Because she didn't know her place.

Alex shot ten timess, bleeding out on the concrete,

The coarseness of senseless death in the street.

Just watch the tapes, they do not lie.

You scream your lungs out asking why,

Shaking your fist at an uncaring sky.

Well, tell me now, Mr. Trump and Mr. Miller,

How does it feel to be a killer?

No warm blood in those cold, cold veins.

ICE is the way you convey your disdain

What's it like Misters Trump and Miller,

Knowing you are ruthless killers?

As surely as the agents who fired the guns,

You are as guilty as anyone.

Oh, Minneapolis,

Raise your fists

 In nonviolent peaceful protest

I pray you someday heal from this,

That you continue to resist.

That you rise above the enmity,

God bless your valiant, gallant city.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2026

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

CONSTELLATIONS

CONSTELLATIONS

Where exactly is it we go when we die

Does the soul linger on, hovering above the operating table

The hospice room, the car crash,

The slashing of the knife, the crack of the pistol,

Cognizant of its surroundings?

Does the spirit stay behind to comfort the mourners.

Counseling them in their abject grief

Hoping to provide a little succor or sustenance?

Or does the spirit simply fly away. 

Knowing it is time,

Saying so long and farewell

Disappearing into the ether or blinding white light,

With loved ones who have gone before 

Inviting them to a fine initiation banquet

In a land where the streets are paved with gold?

Perhaps the spirit transmigrates into another corporal form,

Eager to perfect itself with another life, another body

Fervently hoping for the grace to finally get it right.

Or perhaps the dead hang out with the 88 constellations

That hang high in the heavens, sometimes hard to see,

Obscured by clouds or the smog of our cities

Like Orion The Hunter, Andromeda, Queen of Ethiopia

Cancer the Crab, Scorpio the Scorpion, and Pisces the Fish

Or one of the other 83 that reside in that realm

Perhaps the dead look down at us from the vastness of space.

Mystical stars, ensconced in a clear autumn sky.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2025

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

I LONG TO BE PROLIFIC

I LONG TO BE PROLIFIC 

I long to be prolific, it would give me such a lift

To write my life in silhouette just like Taylor Swift.

Whose poetic word play I admire

I'd love to set people's hearts afire as only Taylor can

To turn out copious verses written in longhand

My God that gal is wordy, for a woman in her 30s

I long to be prolific, it would teach me such a lesson

To be as creative as Willie Nelson,

A man in his 90s, with two new records in the span of a year.

I can manage only one rhyme a month in my writing nook here.

With Parkinson's and failing eyesight I creep along in languid pace.

Struggling to even finish the race.

I long to be prolific with the amazing grace of Judy Collins.

Still writing, making records and touring even in her 80s

Even writing books with themes and topics weighty,

For most of my life she has always been there,

Lifting me from trouble and the depths of despair.

Making music since '61, the year Ithat I was born,

Soothing souls, fighting injustice, healing the forlorn

tt would make me happy truly, to be prolific as Judy.

Well, I wouldn't say I'm a "tortured" poet and i surely am no showgirl

But it would give my soul a lift to turn the poems out quicker.

As I spin my poison pen in my charming chair of wicker

Feeling despondent, morose and moody,

That I can't be prolific, like Taylor, Willie ,and Judy.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2025

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

ENAMORED

ENAMORED

(For Kyle on our 24th year anniversary)

Like a stream in a desert, arid and warm,

Rain cooling the earth with a brisk summer storm,

Grace and beauty flowing, making all things new,

I am enamored, so enamored with you.

Like the dew in the morning that sweetens the grass,

Like a quick gulp of whiskey from a small shot glass.  

Like the well tailored man of great style and class.

You have made me one of your chosen few

And I am enamored, so enamored with you.

As the lifeguard is to a clear blue pool,

Like the student who's loyal to his school,

Like a wise king welcomes the motley fool,

You have kindly welcomed me too,

And I am enamored, so enamored with you.

Like a clown in a circus paving the way,

To a happy, bright, splendiferous day,

Like sunlight is to an arbor,

Like a ship is to a harbor.

Like a lighthouse guides the sailors, ever tried and true

You have gallantly guided me too

And I am enamored, so enamored with you.

Like a town crier with his proclamations

Ending each one with an exclamation,

We have been together now 24 years,

Had quite a few laughs and a smattering of tears,

You are my every mystery and my every clue,

You fill my heart with happiness, as all good lovers do

And I am enamored, so enamored with you. 

 -Bruce Potts

Copyright 2025

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

VACANCY

 VACANCY

These days I just can't concentrate,

My thoughts shot down like beer cans on a fencepost,

Suicide bombers falling to the ground,

Making a lost and lonely sound that only I can hear.

Afraid of giving in to the false god of fear

But, oh, it does get lonely, and in the night I scream,

Awakened by a nightmare or a waking dream.

Wondering if I am wearing that infamous Parkinson's mask

Too tired to really care too much, too proud maybe to ask.

I'm like a vanquished soldier or a broken, bent oak tree,

Like a ghost that haunts an old hotel, adorned in vacancy.

 

I find myself half blind, squinting at my screen

Blurry the words, they tease and teem

Have several different eye diseases,

But I don't know what they mean,

Corneal epithelial basement membrane,

Did I spend too much time downstairs?

Saltzmann's nodular dystrophy of both eyes,

No wonder I get stares.

Irregular astigmatism of both eyes,

I should win some kind of prize.

Nuclear sclerosis of both eyes too.

I know it sounds like it's a lot, but what's a boy to do?

Like some deluded dreamer beneath the hickory tree

My eyes stare blankly straight ahead, awash in vacancy.

These days my nerves are worn and frayed,

I shun the sun and crave the shade 

lf someone doesn't like me, that's cool

I have Iess time to suffer fools,

I'll just pull up stakes and go my way,

Try to celebrate each day. 

Floating above the scorched hot ground,

Breaking ancient barriers of sound.

I still have dignity, still have my pride,

In a world where hopes and dreams collide.

I'm stolid and solid and in my heart I know I have the key,

To open up this ghost hotel, to fill this vacancy.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2025

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Note:  I am under the care of an ophthalmologist for the above mentioned eye issues.

OH JOY, UNBRIDLED JOY

OH JOY, UNBRIDLED JOY

Oh joy, unbridled joy, to be born in this day and age.

The earth it sings to you and me, its wisdom strong and sage.                    

Your future could go either way on this your next trip through,

Whatever lives you have lived before right now ere lost to you.

Your heart your only compass will tell you what to do.

Steeped in fabled wisdom, the Chef prepares his stew.

Oh joy, unbridled joy, to live out in the world,

Your footsteps treading brave new paths,

The desert sands they simmer and swirl,

The oceans flaunt their oyster pearls,

Many mysteries lurk in this sainted salty brine,

The path unfolds before you, the golden sunlight shines and shimmers,

The moon and stars they sparkle, at eventide they waltz and glimmer.

Like a mobile around a baby's cradle, steady, sure it twirls,

The years they come and the years they pass, nothing golden ever lasts.

Into each life comes a little pain, some drenching rain falls down,

Testing out your mettle with a strange discordant sound.

On you venture undeterred, you find your life's sweet calling,

With manna from heaven falling, you feed your hungry soul,

You find friends and lovers, you surrender control,

You dream, deduce and reproduce, you sometimes play it fast and loose,

On your shoulders you carry the weight of the scales,

Dreams die and diminish and sometimes they disappear,

As the plrate ships let out their sails,

You stand in strange astonishment and wonder what you're doing here.

Why the pirates they peruse and plunder and secret away your treasure

Hiding from you your passion, your purpose and your pleasure.

Oh joy, sweet joy, at last you have turned old,

The winters and autumns also have their charms

When truth and authenticity are the gifts that fill our arms.

We gather at  the coffee house to share our aches and pains,

Illness comes, infirmities thin our waning ranks,

For each extra day of life we prayerfully give thanks.

Finally into the atmosphere. at last we die and disappear,

Floating as pure spirit in the august holy winds,

Living lifted out of time, the cycle it begins again.

Grace has been achieved at last, its shining light reflected,

At last we stand at God's right hand, our spirits now perfected.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2025

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WAGE PEACE FIERCELY

 WAGE PEACE FIERCELY

The consciousness of peace floats, almost unnoticed,

Over greed and industry, and their vain splashy showing

The consciousness of peace                

Concerned only with strong, silent knowing.

Not worried about displays of might,

Extolling quietly the good and the right

Peaceful resistance not bombs, to fill the skies at night

The consciousness of war is proud and boastful.

Grandiose showa of dazzling strength and power,

The torture and the war crimes, the trampling of the flowers,

The consciousness of war is enamored of its might,

Parading on display on the streets of D.C., of North Korea, of the U.S.S.R.

The consciousness of war shoots missiles under cover of night.

Destroying hospitals and schools, the bastions of the innocent, 

Women, children and the elderly, are felled by its armaments.

Blood soaked streets that reek with carnage and the stale odor of smoke,

Noxious fumes that strangle and choke.

War prisoners tortured within inches of their lives

Making widows and widowers of husbands and wives.

The consciousness of war sometimes is necessary,

To defend against Fascism and all in its path

After much consideration and doing the math,

After much deliberation in situation rooms and Parliaments,

Not undertaken lightly by ambitious greedy malcontents,

Clamoring for newfound status and acquisition of land,

The consciousness of war haunts gentle forests and desert sands.

Consciousness of war too easily gains the upper hand.

Meanwhile the consciousness of peace longs for its day,

Circling quietly above the noise and the fray.

A viable choice is that of nonviolence,

Peace eschews the torrid twins of revenge and recompense.

What say you, discouraged earth, recipients of the scourge of battle,

As cannons fire, missiles fall and dreaded sabers rattle?

The blood of the wounded, maimed and dead echo in chorus, 

Imploring you consider, heed us absolutely.

And wage peace fiercely, calmly, resolutely.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2025

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED