HERE LIES

HERE LIES

Here lies the poet,

You loved him and you know it

Loved how he could read your mind 

And lift your spirit out of time,

Splashing bright colors, word pictures on the page,

Words thet fit for the hell of it, filled with wisdom sage.

And it was hard for the poet in his latter days,

When his typing slowed to a languid crawl,

When he entered his slow and clunky phase,

Perfecting the art of the backwards fall,

Still he would rise and attempt to shine,

Filling the days with roses and rhyme.

He carried on as best he could,

Feeling embattled and misunderstood.

Here lies the grammarian,

Who could be quite contrarian,

Who carried the rules of grammar around,

Steadfast he would stand his ground.

Who knew the difference between y-o-u-r and y-o-u'r-e

And wrote it on the chalkboard for everyone to see.

Who knew the difference between t-h-e-i-r, t-h-e-r-e, and t-h-e-y'r-e

The difference between p-a-s-t and p-a-s-s-e-d,

The bane ol all the court transcribers,

He never meant to be,

He did not like the drama, of being Mr. Comma,

But alas he learned to swallow his pride and take it all in stride.

Here lies the grammarian,

Who could be quite contrarian,

Who knew the difference between sit and set.

A man you know you'll not forget.

For all his wisdom and his fire,

He set the bar a little higher

And perhaps his grammar obsession,

Sometimes left the wrong impression.

And he became somewhat listless in his latter days.

When the sun beat down in a bitter rage, 

He hung onto his grammar rules as long as he could,

Feeling embattled and misunderstood.

Here lies the musicologist,

Who knew songs and stories, hand over fist.

Who played classic hits on the radio,

And tried his best to do a good show.

Who knew the songs and all their stanzas,

On the overnight extravaganza.

Here lies the musicologist.

Whose knowledge shown like an amethyst.

Who could I.D. a song by just two or three notes,

Over 600 Cds in his collection to boast.

Here lies the musicologist who loved Judy Collins,

Her high notes and survivor sense, earned his honest compliments.

He became somewhat tone deaf in his latter days.

They say that the hearing is the last sense to go.

He held onto his hearing as long as he could,

Feeling embattled and misunderstood.

Here lies the poet. the grammarian, the musicologist,

We have gathered here to say goodbye, to commit his spirit to the sky.

And as he makes his way toward heaven, may all his frailties be forgiven

Whatever title you remember him by most,

He is now a spirit and a friendly ghost.

So leave this place, live your lives and seize this precious day,

And leave the man who was three in one to up and fly away.

-Bruce Potts  

Copyright 2026

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

SURPRISES

SURPRISES  

Yellow faced sky and those pinkish clouds of day

That always gather before the sunset sinks and fades,

Reflecting into the murk of a lackadaisical river.

Children with fat faces

Watch their reflections 

Bulge in the rippling waves.

Snowmen romp in the ninety degree heat

And the dead are holding 

Relay races in the cemeteries.

The mice are eating cats

And the vampires turn into bats

And fly into the sunshine 

Away from the security ot their dark, hollow caves.

And under a smiling shady tree,

I read a letter from my lover

Written in teardrops and crayons

That says 'I love you, I'm coming on the evening flight"

Wine-faced sky, my love's returning,

Surprises light approaching night.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2026

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

DAYS OF SILVER

DAYS OF SILVER

(FOR KYLE, ON OUR 25th ANNIVERSARY)

These joyful days of silver I'm so proud to spend with you,

25 years ago you came and chased away my blues,

Parkinson's had just arrived and you became my dopamine,

A smart and dashing dynamo, a slender tender love machine. 

Off we went flying on our magic carpet ride,

Of concerts and travel and love true and tried.

We walked the streets of San Francisco, saw Britain, Paris, Rome,

It was the farthest we'd ever been from our home.

Shared our first time airplane flight, our first case of jet lag,

You sent me to the moon and I planted my flag

Joyful days we spent at Virginia Beach, Quebec and Montreal,

As lover and companion you always gave your all,

Then came the dreaded days when I began to fall.

Parkinson's crept slowly at first, but it finally overwhelmed,

You drove me to every doctor visit and bravely took the helm

Of this shattered shipwreck excuse for a brain,

You kindly and gently brought me in from the rain,

Always there to extend a hand when I take a tumble,

Solace sweet as honey when my world just seems to crumble,

A patient, loving carer who goes beyond the pale,

You turn this shipwrecked life around, allowing it to sail.

I will not lie, life is no longer a walk in the park,

It's clutching and clawing and damning ithe dark,

But you always seem to know what I need, 

Sweet compassion when I bleed, 

Tender romance or a kick in the pants.

Never doubt how much I admire, 

The way you stoke and light my fire.

As long as I live I will pillage and pilfer,

Each drop of joy from these sweet days of silver.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2026

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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.