Monday, August 31, 2009

SWING, SISTER

SWING, SISTER
(FOR DIANA KRALL)

Swing, sister, swing, let it all hang out,
Such majestic music issues from your mouth.
Swing to Sinatra and fly me to the moon,
Swing, sister, swing, astound me with your tunes.

Play, sister, play, that piano so grand,
I always hold my breath and marvel
At the speed of your graceful hands.

Sing Irving Berlin and Lerner and Lowe,
And the soft sounds of samba, the romance of Rio,
That fill quiet nights of sweet candlelight,
When lovers fill arms and snuggle so tight.

Swing, sister, swing, and devil may care,
Swing, sister, swing, your jazz fills the air.
In sweet synchronization with a crackerjack band.
Quick to give credit where credit is due,
To the musical greats who thrilled and inspired you.

How must it feel, sister, married to Elvis,
Such musical royalty, such grinding of pelvis.
And to be the proud mother of Dexter and Frank,
Must cause you each day to rise and give thanks
What glorious stories you must have to tell,
Of those cherubic angels or toddlers from hell.

No one swings better, at least for my money,
Behind the piano your voice sweet as honey.
Fill the air with the sounds of Nat King Cole,
Spiked with your patented cool, sultry soul.

Cole Porter and Bacharach pulse in your veins,
And you channel them softly like a cool morning rain.
So swing, sister, swing, and long may you thrive
And thanks for the memories you help keep alive.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2009
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Saturday, August 29, 2009

HAWAIIAN SUNSET

HAWAIIAN SUNSET

Hawaiian sunset, I wait for you alone inside this cove.
You step into God’s closet and steal the choicest robe.
Will it be the gold tonight, with a smidgeon of maroon?
Will it be a blood red hue, which robe will you choose?
Pinkish gray amidst the haze of the slowly dying day,
Or purplish with a yellow streak, each one lovely and unique.
Hawaiian sunset, midst the silence, I hear you softly speak.

You tie dye my life with the brightest of lights,
Your swaying palms a backdrop to the day’s descent to night.
Black and gray and mystic, a rare and wondrous sight.

Hawaiian sunset with your cloud wisps laced with lavender,
A hula dancer swings her hips, another day falls off the calendar.
Into the night sky, a palette of colors you do infuse.
When you step inside God’s closet, which robe will you choose?
I love the way you mix the paints, like some expert color saint.

Hawaiian sunset slowly dies, streaking ‘cross the tropic skies.
Transient beauty never lasts yet it brings comfort nonetheless.
I blink at your scenes of gorgeous ink,
that you blend like an artist in some cosmic sink.

Hawaiian sunset shines in the sky like a burning, slowly dying fuse.
When you step into God’s closet, which robe will you choose?

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2009
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Friday, August 28, 2009

QUENCH MY THIRST

QUENCH MY THIRST

Quench my thirst for romance, take my hand and let us dance.
Dance away the night terrors, dance away the fitful sleep.
Dance away the Parkinson’s, kiss me slow and deep.

I hope you’ll find me handsome still, some vestige left of who you met,
On that magic night now long ago, that shines in my heart like an amethyst.
I hope you’ll find me funny yet, full of attitude and piss,
Not some weakened, sick old man, but a strong and vibrant spirit.

Quench my thirst for your hand, my hunger for our best laid plans,
And satisfy my appetite, with your soul so pure and your teeth so white.
And dance away the specter of Mr. Death and all his henchmen,
Dance away the strait-laced ways and fill the night with sin.

Quench my thirst for passion, my hunger for your company,
Dance away my clumsiness, my inner Humpty Dumpty.
And promise that you’ll stay with me when the wilderness is all too much
And conjure fever from my forehead with your healing touch.

Quench my thirst for romance and stay until the end,
And become my weeping willow, so graceful in the wind.
Stay until the curtain falls, until my final act.
No matter how the chips they fall, nor how the cards are stacked.

Quench my thirst for romance, take my hand and let us dance.
Dance away the worries that in my soul do creep.
Dance away this awful stiffness, kiss me slow and deep.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2009
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Thursday, August 27, 2009

DIONYSUS

DIONYSUS

Dionysus lives in me, come join the Bacchanalia,
He the spawn of Zeus and Semele, born amid azaleas.

Semele was killed by a bolt of lightning,
Ferocious and so very frightening.

And Zeus took the child unto his thigh
And gave him second birth, gave him wings to fly.

Dionysus lives in me, buried under layers,
And once his fury issues forth
I shall be quite the player.

A player known for hedonism and for unbridled pleasure.
In this world where only pain and sorrow thrive,
I will give my new friend Dion a hale and hearty high five.

Dionysus and I, we will paint the town in blood,
And sweep away our enemies, like Pentheus once was.

Dionysus will at long last have his due,
And he will sweep up the floor with the sorry likes of you.
And you in turn shall worship him and call him by his name,
And offer up your sacrifice as sweet as sugar cane.

Dionysus is inside us all, come join the Bacchanalia,
Bring the finest of the wines and the best drug paraphernalia.
The mighty Dionysus, who rules this earth and sky,
He the spawn of mighty Zeus, pulled from the Great One’s thigh.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2009
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

EMOTION

EMOTION

If I could bundle all of my emotion,
And toss it in the sea,
It would squirm and in the murky waters
Gingerly form your body.

And I would swim after it, desperate American crawl,
Throwing away all again for the amble of your walk,
The animation of your talk,
The life that hangs in your black curls.

And oh, oh, the differences abide,
Longing for a love I cannot reach.
You sit yards away, asleep, head cradled in hands
I sit loving you, ostrich-like in my shame sand.

And oh, oh, the treacherous waves I ride,
Malcontent surfer, following you,
Treading light on your heels.

Beacon of desire, wingless and beached.
Wishing my feelings had lightning rod wheels.
Wishing I were looser at mouth and could shout my love,
Wishing my eyes could swim in your pulse and tell all.

If I could free my emotion and toss it to the sky,
Your bones would form, your face, leg, and thigh
And weave a tapestry that would bare my secret.

If ever there was an injustice, it is this-
I know you and I know you not.
I walk behind you wishing union, dreading your discovery.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 1983
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

CYCLE OF OUR ROMANCE

CYCLE OF OUR ROMANCE

I could cycle with you through this world
On a bicycle built for two.

So deep and strong it resonates, this passion that I feel for you.

We could cycle through the mountain passes,
All along this fruited plain.

Cycle through the fields of plenty
Or through wet streets in a drenching rain.

Cycle through life’s seasons, the summer heat, the winter chill,
Taking the good that may befall us, making light of the bad and the ill.

I could cycle with you to the depths of the bluest sparkling sea,
A champagne-laced triathlon, tailor made for you and me.

Exploring in our wet suits, each rare and wondrous curve,
Admiring your great beauty that lives in deed and word.

I could cycle with you to the midst of a clearing,
Where the deer graze peacefully in the shade,
A picnic basket full of treasures, special treats that I have made.

I could cycle with you through the skies, like Elvira Gulch in a twister mean,
With a little kitten I have kidnapped, a cute little token of my esteem.

And we will land in some Emerald City,
perhaps to be London this time around.

No matter where we wander to, you keep my feet on solid ground.

I will cycle with you to the bed we share, strip you gently of your clothes,
And behold the flesh that I adore, smooth as soy milk, scented like the rose.

I will cycle with you to the end, when time at last is still,
The cycle of our romance dear, for I love you now and always will.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2009
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Monday, August 24, 2009

MOTHER OF PEARL

MOTHER OF PEARL

There’s a joy to be found when you’re out to the world,
Dancing feet moving to a driving beat, rainbow flag unfurled.

There’s a gentle I am that rests in your hand, claiming you for its very own,
You walk through the world like an orphan child, who finds at last he is not alone.
At last you can breathe free on the streets of the city,
Where you cradle the head of your lover,
Underneath the velvet cover of the night, so welcoming and dark.

There’s a joy to be found when you’re out to the world,
Squeezing his fingers and relishing the spark.
Playing with his hair, a fond, contented twirl.
His smile shines bright like mother of pearl.

There once was a fear that seized your soul,
As you morphed into who they wanted you to be.
And you traded your soul and slowly went blind
To the men who peppered your rich fantasies.
And you spun your tires in a long, slow whine,
And shivered alone in the breeze off the sea.

‘Til one fine day the scales fell from your eyes,
And love came and took you, quite by surprise.
And you lay down your shell and came out to the world,
Shining like a diamond or mother of pearl.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2009
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Sunday, August 23, 2009

SUNRISE AS USUAL

SUNRISE AS USUAL

On the day after I leave the planet,
Really nothing much will change,
The mighty buffalo still will roam,
And cowboys still will ride the range.
And mothers will labor and still give birth,
To restock the population of the earth.
Maybe a new President or a scientist will be born,
Bringing peace to a war-torn world
And healing to the sick and forlorn.

My friends will cry, my enemies will rejoice,
In equal amounts of conviction and force.
My lover will pause for a moment to grieve,
His heart an open hole will continue to bleed.
Until one day he finds another kindred soul
To heal up his wounds and again make him whole.

On the day when at last my breath does cease,
I will cross to the world of the spirit with ease,
And the faith of my fathers will fall into place,
All God’s mercy and amazing grace.
And my soul will inhabit the sky like a pearl,
And the sunrise as usual will boldly unfurl.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2009
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Saturday, August 22, 2009

FUNERAL

FUNERAL
(FOR MY FATHER)

Did we ever meet, connect, Daddy?

Did our souls collide?

Your folded arms across your chest
Somehow don’t seem quite so stern.

But I hear my mother crying, and I must away.

While they close the lid, I’ll close my eyes
And think how you suffered in silence on sterile sheets,

Your fragile life held in place by useless gadgets,
Death prolongers.

And when I’m home
And only then,
I will cry for you,
For things I never did or said.

And wonder to myself
If the mystery of life finally got to you,
As right now it gets to me.

Whenever I remember those pale hands,
Those closed eyes, those last rites.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 1983
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Friday, August 21, 2009

MANKIND IS A PITIFULLY HOPEFUL SPECIES

MANKIND IS A PITIFULLY HOPEFUL SPECIES

Clouds lift, wisps of cotton candy whirling in the sky.

I am one for flying, arms outstretched, into the sunny blue,
Leaving my troubles to crash head on into jagged cliffs
Along my long flight to the heavens.

Just my lover and me,
We will treat ourselves and fly first class.
With nothing on our minds but the credo of a clown,
And nothing in our hands but helium balloons,
To carry us safely, headfirst to the magical stars.

For life is little but spirits in flight,
An air show of souls who learn to fly,
After diving many times into freezing ocean depths.

Clouds lift, wisps of cotton candy whirling in the sky.
The sun, a slice of robust lemon, sets weary souls to waking.

Mankind is a pitifully hopeful species,
Sailing undaunted to candy apple sunsets.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 1983
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Thursday, August 20, 2009

INSIDE THE LINES

INSIDE THE LINES

Life is not always neat and tidy,
Life does not stay inside the lines.
Life is like some rebel child,
Clutching crayons like land mines.

Love is not always black and white,
There are muted tones and shades of gray.
And lovers spend many anguished nights,
Hiding from the scandals of the sunny day.

Friendship is not all wine and song,
A jaunty dance or a jubilee.
For friends are made of flesh and bone,
The scarred remains are what you see.

And life can cheat and play its cards,
Oh, so tight, and close to the vest.
It lures you in with tasty bait,
Then puts your mettle to the test.

Life is not all zest and ease,
Life is famine and disease.
Life is love that does betray,
And fickle friends that go astray.

Life is short and life is brief,
Fragile as the autumn leaf.
Life is graveyards and decay,
The great big fish that got away.

Count your blessings with your fears,
Be thankful for your sunlit years.
And clutch your crayons ‘til you die,
Do not be afraid to cry.

Life is hard, but worth the fight,
So grit your teeth and hold on tight.
Clutch your crayons as you go,
Relax, sit back, enjoy the show.

And beat life at its own cruel game,
Until the Reaper calls your name.
There is no reason or no rhyme,
Life never stays inside the lines.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2009
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

DULY NOTED

DULY NOTED

Her anger it is duly noted, double-spaced, in triplicate,
On every ink-filled page inscribed by her psychiatrist.
Each neurosis is explored in painstaking detail,
Every single woe is me, every last travail.
Can be found like coffee grounds in the bottom of the cup.
At two hundred dollars an hour, she can soak those troubles up.

Her loneliness is duly noted, in the pages of her shrink.
The wherefores and whys are analyzed and progress made she thinks.
She knows that she has issues and every one she must explore,
Lest the bad world gobble up her soul and show her to the door.

Her husband he cannot be troubled to pick up his dirty underwear,
And the kids, they just can’t manage to stay out of mommy’s hair.
And the in-laws, oh, don’t get her started, for they both are lean and mean,
And her mother-in-law has done a number on her self esteem.

And she does not call her parents, for they send her on a guilt trip
That makes her feel as heady as the latte that she sips.
And as far as reality, she is fast losing her grip.
Her life’s remiss and it’s because of this she’s feeling such remorse.
Her dreams have fallen short and all her hopes have gone off course.

Her sadness it is duly noted, the proof is in her tears
That she weeps into her Kleenex for the misery of her years.
Her shrink he does not say a word, from him there’s not a peep,
Two hundred dollars an hour and the SOB’s asleep.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2009
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

WAR

WAR

Now that the war is over,
Will somebody be Old Glory
And wave in the breeze above my corpse
And my tear-racked blood-stained garment?

Tunes of glory ripple in the wind
Now that peace has come to my soul
And my lacerated, sacrificed flesh
Is eaten up slowly by cracks in the earth.

Now is the time to shriek a horrid
“what was all this worth”
To the wretched gods that made me.
And the trees that envelop and shade me with embrace
Will not look me in the face to answer my inquiries.

The sunset tonight is fiery and strong.
It fades into the teary eyes of a young man who once loved me,
A man who tried to save me.
He stares into the sunset, trembling at my memory
And trudges off the battlefield alone.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 1983
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Sunday, August 16, 2009

MORE THAN A FIERY SUNSET

MORE THAN A FIERY SUNSET

More than a rare sparkling coin in a rich man’s fur-lined pocket,
More than an appliance I can plug into a socket.
More than the majesty of a magic NASA rocket,
I love this image of you that I carry in this locket.

More than the lone rose that survives a winter snow,
More than the melancholy that follows where I go.
More than all the lovely birds that twitter to and fro,
I love the pot of gold you lay at the end of my bitter rainbow.

I love you so much more than these, the way you put my mind at ease,
The way you came and carried back the soul that I had sold.
I love you more than the shamans and the gypsies once foretold.

More than a puffy cloud in a bright blue autumn sky.
More than souls that beckon from the dear sweet by and by,
More than the whispers of loved ones gone that echo from the grave,
I love the lingering kisses and caresses that you gave.

The sun it rises, shining bright, hurling joy on you and me,
Creeping across the virgin day in glorious tapestry.
And yet I love you more than sun that gleams so brilliantly,
More than soft serve ice cream or fresh brewed sweet iced tea.

I love you for the sweetness of the hope that you convey.
I love the shelter that you bring to a drab pedestrian day.
I love you more than a ship on the harbor, dry land beckoning,
And I cling to you like a talisman on the day of final reckoning.
I love you more than ever, more than the day we met,
More than a cup of gourmet coffee, more than a fiery sunset.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2009
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Saturday, August 15, 2009

NEVER-ENDING HONEYMOON

NEVER-ENDING HONEYMOON

When I look into your eyes so deep,
Reflecting pools of a journey shared.

The path we’ve traveled hand in hand,
The gold and silver stairs.

I see a rippling brook refreshing,
Sweeping across the water bed
And I stop to thank the angels sweet
For blessings heaped upon my head.

Eight short years have come and gone
Since first I met your countenance
And synchronized your steps with mine
With the power held in that first glance.

The gentle care you’ve shown for me
Echoes deep in memory.
Your soothing of uncertainties,
Your balm in times of trouble.

The way you found the diamond glow
In my soul’s forgotten rubble.

Eight short years have come and gone,
Since the night you first made love to me.
And still the thrill gives me a rush,
When fingers meet and bodies touch.

To lie beside you in the night, naked as my day of birth
And feel my flesh meld soft with yours, the sweetest joy on earth.

I watch you as you lift your weights,
I listen as you share your day.
Each piece of you ignites a spark,
Each inch of you I celebrate.

When I look into your eyes so deep,
Like an infant venturing from the womb,
I marvel how our lives connect,
A springtime garden in full bloom.

How after all the seeds we’ve planted,
I should be taking you for granted.
How my time with you shoots by too soon,
A never-ending honeymoon.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2006
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Today, Kyle and I celebrare our eighth year anniversary. I love him more than ever, as I hope is evident in this poem!

Friday, August 14, 2009

WAVE GOODBYE TO WANDERLUST

WAVE GOODBYE TO WANDERLUST

The lantern on the doorstep shines its halogen
through the dark night.

Welcome beacon to a world-weary soul,
Our house is bathed in light.

I leave my knapsack on the porch, take off my ratty shoes
And bathe my tired feet in bathwater sweet.

You always had an open door, whenever I would wander far.
My restless spirit yearns to land and settle right here where you are.

The lantern on our doorstep burns vigilant as an armored guard.
Cornered by its sleuthing eye, I make my way across the yard.

I see you at the screen door, barefoot, bare-chested,
Lifting your weights in those baby blue shorts.
And love begins where it left off.

Your smell that I remember well, the easy give and take we share.

The lantern on our doorstep shines its halogen through the blackness.
The nights pass sweet and dear, lying soft against your naked flesh.

I leave my knapsack on the porch, my dreams in your safekeeping,
My body here beside you on this precious bed,

Home and safe in welcome arms, at long last just the two of us,
I say a fond farewell to travel, wave goodbye to wanderlust.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Thursday, August 13, 2009

FREEZING JUST OUTSIDE THE DOOR

FREEZING JUST OUTSIDE THE DOOR

Old age withers and stiffens my body,
At the ripe young age of 44.
Shuffling like an old codger,
Freezing just outside the door.

A poor Tim Conway’s old man’s shuffle,
A doddering fool in training,
I look outside in pained surprise
To find it always raining.

Creeping down imposing hallways,
Muscles tight and non-responsive,
Waiting for synthetic drugs to fuel my aching limbs.
Searching for my best laid plans,
Wondering what’s become of them.

Surely not the life I wanted, nor the path I bargained for,
Not the pot of shining gold I hoped to find laid at my door.
Not a precious sunlit day, but a rainbow charred and black.
I stare into the sunset and find demons staring back.

Trembling, shaking violently,
Like a house upon the fault line.
Parkinson’s a crafty mouse,
Gnawing on what once was mine.

Too quickly do they melt away,
The years I’d longed to treasure.
Like a miser counting up the coins
He had set aside for pleasure.

Movement now a luxury, walking quite a spectacle,
Driving a sheer act of will, sleeping a near miracle.
Old age claims me, crippling my thinking
At the tender age of 44.
Shuffling like a man possessed,
Freezing just outside the door.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2007
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

THE ANGELS CALL US HOME

THE ANGELS CALL US HOME

Softly I call to you here in the twilight
And yet there’s no answer and the heavens are still.

When the rain clouds should thunder
And the earth tear asunder,
So deeply I miss you, my dreams unfulfilled.

Softly I call for you, the one I called Mother,
Your passing a darkness that covered the day.

Softly I mourn you, a soul like no other,
A void and an emptiness blocking my way.

Loudly I scream and curse at the sky.
How dare it be sunny, how dare it be blue
And how dare my life be allowed to continue,
Here in the wilderness pining for you.

As I clean out your basement the memories flood
Of a mother and son and a tie thick as blood.

The awards and the letters and the poems that you saved,
Recipes that intrigued you that you hoped to try some day.

The newspaper clippings and the old Christmas cards,
The pale yellowed reminders of time and all its scars.

The constant echo I hear of your laughter,
Caressing the ceilings, the walls and the rafters.

How you clung to precious memories,
For in the end they are all we own,
After our last breath is drawn
And the angels call us home.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

SLEEPLESS

SLEEPLESS

Sleepless I hang on the gallows at night,
The overnight deejay my rod and my staff.

The tunes roll on by, caressing these walls
‘til the darkness fades at last.

Sleepless I watch as the sheep get away,
Those crafty creatures of fleece and deceit.

Evading my capture, escaping my count,
Taunting me with the sound of their bleat.

A man’s deprived who cannot dream,
My hours pass long and lonely.

The moon shines distant through my window,
The hoot owl keeps me company.

The coyote howls in the distant hills
And the warm milk and the sleeping pills
Are experiments that fail.

A man’s forlorn whose eyes won’t close,
Whose pirate ship won’t sail.

Restlessly I walk the plank,
My canvas sterile, dull and blank.
My spirit damp as a prison camp,
My heart a dismal holding tank.

Wide awake I toss and turn,
The sadistic Sandman stifles a laugh.

Sleepless I swing on the gallows at night,
The overnight deejay my rod and my staff.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2007
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Monday, August 10, 2009

MELTING IN THE SUN

MELTING IN THE SUN

The world is melting ‘neath a sweltering sun.
Now I know how Hell must feel.
Sweating, stinking, stale sardines,
Pickled in vinegar, Satan’s meal.

The earth is slipping into perpetual heat,
And August is burning down the town.
I’d sell my soul for some sweet AC,
In perspiration I do drown.

Like my favorite wicked witch,
I am combustible and just might explode.
Or more like drip until I drop,
Of my own heat I will implode.

If I had a choice, I think it would be nice,
To end the world with pelting ice.
At least in my current frame of mind,
That turn of fate would be just fine.

I guess I’d better mend my ways,
I guess I’d better change my tune.
I better make my peace with God,
And I’d better make it soon.

The world is melting in the sun,
My life is slowly burning down.
And all that’s left my witch’s hat,
Smoldering on the thirsty ground.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2009
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Sunday, August 9, 2009

EVERY MEMORY

EVERY MEMORY
(A FANTASY)

Every memory is tinged with romance
Like a fairy tale Christmas or a first high school dance.
The electricity of meeting you, perched upon the stair,
When you touched my heart with just a glance
And caught me in mid-air.

Every memory rushes with fever,
A look ever knowing that gleams in your eyes.
The dreams we have gathered and kept for posterity
Splash through the glorious hues of the sky.

I remember the day so early on,
In those magic hours between midnight and dawn.
Caught in the rain without an umbrella,
A barefoot lover in jeans and a tank top.

Clothes tight upon you, a damp aphrodisiac,
A rushing of hormones that would not be stopped.
I ripped off the tank top with only bare teeth
To feel your warm flesh waiting soft underneath.
And wrestled your nakedness swift to the ground,
Seduction accomplished, the Holy Grail found.
And cupping your face to mine, hair dripping wet,
I tasted your warm kisses, lips laced with mischief.

Every memory rushes with spirit,
The lessons of love carved careless and deep.
And later that night, the quiet refreshment,
The sweet golden pleasure of watching you sleep.
Knees to your stomach, lost in a dreamland,
Hand holding mine in a languid embrace.
Beyond all the fireworks and after the passion,
An afterglow settled aloft on your face.

Every memory resounds like a drum,
Paving the way for the glories to come.
And every smile gleaming and each crystal tear
Is a note in our love song composed through the years.
The dreams we have gathered in slow perfect rhyme
That splash through the roundabout portals of time.

Every memory is tinged with romance,
Like a fairy tale Christmas or a first high school dance.
The electric charge of meeting you, perched upon the stair,
When you touched my heart with glances
And caught me in mid-air.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2007
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Saturday, August 8, 2009

LINGER WITH ME

LINGER WITH ME

Linger with me on the sand,
As night falls helpless on the beach.

My life is getting out of hand,
My dreams are slipping out of reach.

Linger with me at the show,
‘til Judy sings Amazing Grace.

‘Til Debbie belts out heart of glass
And the concertgoers leave this place.

Linger with me in these days
When thoughts of illness fill my soul,
When my mind clouds in a misty haze
And movement stalls and slows.

Linger with me at the table in this oceanside café.
We will watch the seagulls soar above us
And drink our iced tea in the shade.

Linger with me on this mattress,
As the moon shines through the drape.
Our bodies tangled in the sheets
As darkness falls upon the cape.

Then linger with me ‘til the end, in a somber room of death.
Until my body quakes and heaves and I breathe my final breath.
And linger with me in the sky, when your life has ended, too.
And waltz with me on cotton clouds,
In fields of crystal blue.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2007
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

DAZZLE WITH BRILLIANCE

DAZZLE WITH BRILLIANCE
(FOR DEBORAH HARRY)

You dazzle with brilliance, like a cat you prowl the stage.
Oh, your hair is beautiful, your clothes are all the rage.

How I’d love to have the bravery to seize the day like you
And belt a song with that voice divine,
That consummate cool.

A seasoned performer with sass and with style,
You make my lover’s gentle face ignite in such a smile.

Your platinum blond hair, teeth white as the ocean,
You light up the sky with the power of punk,
Rocking out with a passionate shout,
Mixing your magical potion.

Dreaming is free, and how my true love dreams of you.
One way or another how he schemes
To nab two seats on the very front row.
To touch your hand as you sway across the floor,
To catch your glance as you glide to and fro.

And more than this, so much more.
His heart of glass that melts when captured by your voice,
Tide rising high with a glorious noise.

With Matt on the keyboards, Paul and Leigh jamming,
Chris plays behind you, Clem pounds the drums.
Breathless we watch you, awestruck and dumb.

The crowd dances pretty in the palm of your hand,
Lost souls found on your island grand.
And Rapture fills the imported air,
Passion mixed with a whiff of danger.
Rip her clear to shreds and leave the sad bitch lying there.

Cruise on, cruise on, and tear those rose petals with your teeth.
Let the errant remnants fall, but leave behind the memories sweet.
A talent most atomic, attitude that bristles through.
You leave the stage to wild applause, we motherfuckers love you.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED


Monday, August 3, 2009

THE MEANTIME

THE MEANTIME

I’m troubled by these awkward gaps,
These complicated places.

My horse is at a standstill,
Life puts me through its paces.

I’m dreaming of the day to come,
When everything will turn out fine.

Judy’s new album in the stores on Tuesday,
The new blockbuster opening soon.

The sun will rise of its own accord,
And likewise will the moon.

Yet in the darkened corners of my too impatient mind,
I prance around the borders of the restless meantime.

For Christmastime is always coming, Easter almost here.
Confetti falling in Times Square, ushering in the new year.

My surgery in September, it fills my heart with quiet hope.
Right now I just make do with pills and struggle just to cope.

These days my horse is slow and sluggish,
Stumbling on the way.

Worn down by time, long past its prime,
In search of better days.

I pray to lasso up each second, in a rare and happy mood,
And fill these cowboy arms with joy, this heart with gratitude.

This tortured waiting will be over, and joy will all be mine.

Yet in the dismal shadows, devoid of any rhyme,
I skirt across the borders of the restless meantime.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Saturday, August 1, 2009

CREATIVITY AND THE BROWN TELEPHONE

CREATIVITY AND THE BROWN TELEPHONE

I have a brown telephone
That sits forlornly,

I have no one to call
And my brown telephone
Knows I have no one to call.

And so it sits and pouts
And refuses to let anyone call me.
No lovers
No friends
Dare to knock on the door
Of my unfriendly brown telephone.

My brown telephone
Has heard of creativity
And has risen against me
Like an outraged slave.

My brown telephone
Has heard of creativity
And will not heed when I tell it to behave.

My brown telephone will sit and hold its breath
‘Til it turns black and blue
Or until I find a friend so true
To share my silly stories
Of creativity and brown telephones.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 1983
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

SERENADE OF TWILIGHT

SERENADE OF TWILIGHT

SERENADE OF TWILIGHT The stars in your eyes, love, I tried them on for size. They shone as bright as diamonds, how they mesmerized. And when...