APPARITIONS

APPARITIONS

I see apparitions,

People and things not really there,

Like the fat man in our dining room,

Sitting on our one good chair.

Beside him sits his fine wife Mabel,

Who has emptied the contents of her purse 

Upon the dining room table,

Probably hoping to find a cough drop or a piece of candy,

A Werther's original would sure come in handy.

And where are the waiters with the starters and drinks?

My, but I'm tired and could use the forty winks!

 I pass the fat man and Mabel on my way to my room

 Where I find an old lady sitting at a loom.

She doesn't look up from her weaving,

So I pick up the novel I've been reading,

Continuing where I left off.                       

When morning came, the old crone was still weaving,

Showing no intention of leaving.

And another shady figure had arrived in my room,

A girl barely eighteen, carrying an infant in her arms,

Her presence set off all kinds of alarms,

I pulled a CD from my music shelf, thinking it would calm,

For music has been such a healing balm,

It wasn't metal music, nor was it steel

It was "Come In From The Rain" by Captain and Tennille.

The young girl had written insulting words on the CD case,

A list of grievances against me she would not say to my face

My partner knocked, then came into my room,

I told him all about the girl and the old crone at the loom

The fat man and Mabel at the dining room table,

The defacement of the CD case.

You are seeing things not here, my partner said,

Patting me fondly on the head.

It was not mitosis nor osmosis,

It was Parkinson's psychosis,

A phenomenon occurring in the late stage of disease,

With wild hallucinations and delusions if you please,

So I now see apparitions,

People and things not really there, 

Like the fat man in our dining room,

Sitting in our one good chair.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2026

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

MY FRIEND

MY FRIEND 

Stoical and true, stalwart as a towering statue

Found in some European park,

My friend stands over me,

Protecting the thin layers of my onion-skin soul.

And I love my friend,

Because he is so gallant and understanding,

Immovable in his caring,

Like a mother who glues herself to her newborn,

He glues his thoughts of poetry and flowers 

To the fabric of the puzzle we have built,

Forged in fire with clasped hands, the interlocking pieces.

And I love my friend because he showers lilacs and lamplight,

Across the patched surface of my world weary head.

Making the path through the thorns and thistles,

Aglow with the warmth of summer flame.

Stoical and true,

Stalwart as a great statue,

My friend stands over me, 

Protecting the thin layers of my onion-skin soul.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2026

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

BIRDS AT PLAY

BIRDS AT PLAY

Birds at play on the lawn,

With their worms and their twigs and their chirping.

Birds at work in the trees,

With their spouses, their young, and their merriment.

Birds at play, in the world of the Spring,

With their pecking, trilling, and hopping.

Doing their specialized form of be-bopping

To the music of the sunny blue.

Birds at play,

Cheering the way,

For the lives of me and you,

The robin with his red breast trills a happy tune,

While the nightingale comes after dark to serenade the moon.

Birds at play in their treetop flats,

Devouring worms, avoiding cats.

Birds at play in the trees, ignoring human folly,

Making daydreams come alive, our waking moments jolly.

Birds at play on the lawn,

With their worms and their twigs and their chirping.

'

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2026

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

PAJAMAS WITH FEET IN THEM

PAJAMAS WITH FEET IN THEM 

Falling in love with you

Has been like falling in the mud with white pants on.

You preach to me your Sunday morning sermon of dissent.

My heart collapses 

In the soiled, smoldering ashes of a ruined house.

I fell in love with you who did not know me

And I played my lonely come-on game

Only to awaken to a cold shower on a winter morning.

Losing you

Is like losing a goldfish down the drain.

Lost love empties into lost time.

Oil spills on the sea

Make everything bleak and distant.

I am crying on my own shoulder,

Leaviing when everyone else is staying,

Missing the last train,

Touching someeone's hand for the last time,

Traipsing over land mines of despair and fear,

Hopelessly lost in yesteryear,

Sleeping alone, in pajamas with feet in them.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2026

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

This poem was probably written in high school and belongs to my vast catalogue of lovelorn poems . I didn't find true love until I was 38 and met Kyle, my partner of nearly 25 years. So if I can find true love, there's hope for everybody.

I WISH FOR THE STARS

 I WISH FOR THE STARS

I wish for the stars,

The stars hanging in your heart.

I wish for the silence,

The silence of your glance.

I want you in my arms,

Not for my wandering.

I will stay stone awed

By your place in my bosom.

I weep for your happiness,

Under midnight's raucous cloak.

I fly in the face of you,

In love with the smoke rings.

I wish for the stars,

That you sprinkle in my dreams.

I wish for the fragrance,

Of all my life in you.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2026

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

CEILINGS

CEILINGS

I wove tapestries on  a thousand ceilings 

That night when you lay reckless in my fingertips and thoughts.

I used for inspiration the feelings 

That sprang along the passageways.

I played loud love songs into the afghan 

You once wrapped around your body, 

When this bed was our bed.

And these ceilings in these rooms were our ceilings.

I sang torch songs long after reasonable hours,

And when the sun went down, I wove to the light of candles.

 I dreamed tempestuous patterns, sighed exacting withered sighs.

I thought one too many carousels of celebration,

One too many thoughts of us in motion.

I wove psychedelic screams in all the corridors.

I wove heartbreak in a funk above the fireplace.

I wove you in every naked semblance of a man.

I wove until my heart collapsed from heat exhaustion in the desert.

i wove tapestries on a thousand ceilings.

I wove screeching loud love songs into the afghan.

And after I had woven the night white,

I ate breakfast on a dirty plate of Tuesdays.

Bruce Potts

Copyright 2026

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Note:  This is a poem of unrequited love from the archives, that I wrote either in high school or college

RADIO

RADIO 

Radio,

Play your songs.

You've been such a kind friend

To someone like me, just trying to hold on

I like you smooth disc jockeys

And I like those Top 40 hits that you repeat,

Every four hours or so.

They make me feel awake and alive. 

I even like your commercials 

With that glossy ad man's jive.

I like your weather reports

The sunny way you look at life

Through sunny microphones

 I like your traffic reporters

That lead us safely home.

How I love you smooth disc jockeys,

And your sweet Top 40 songs.

Radio, keep playing strong.

You've been such a kind friend

To someone like me,

Just trying to hold on.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2026

ALL RGHTS RESERVED