CHURCH BELLS CHIME SLOWLY

CHURCH BELLS CHIME SLOWLY

Quiet morning in the village,
sun pale in the marketplace.

Saints and sinners mill about,
gloom on their collective face.

A coffin raised atop a buggy,
draped in finery and flowers.
Women weep in their handkerchiefs,
their men stand stoical and dour.

The church bells chime slowly
For the one we all loved.
A slow, somber march to a cool place of rest.

An untimely passing has jarred all our minds
And put our beliefs to the test.

Raise him high on the wings of a unicorn,
The cherubim and seraphim.
His ashes scatter far and wide,
His ghost alive in every hymn.

His eulogy will float along,
the towering banks of every stream.

The world will pause and feel the loss
That echoes in his widow’s dreams.

The church bells chime slowly as the buggy arrives.
In the graveyard mist where we say goodbye.
Where we all bow our heads and hold all our breath,
Humbled, alas, by the mystery of death.

Quiet morning in the village, sun pale in the marketplace,
Saints and sinners whisper prayer,
The bagpipes moan amazing grace.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2007
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

CANDLE

CANDLE

If I lit a candle,
For every last betrayal,

Every night that love hung over,
Perched upon my windowsill.

I could steal from the till
And a fortune amass,
And retire from my daily dilemmas at last.

If I lit a candle
For every stray I’ve intercepted,
Every sob story I’ve collected,

I could light each corner
Of this most unfortunate land
And die in my sleep at a ripe old age
A most contented man.

If I lit every candle and burned every fuse
Of all the tragedies I did not choose
Of all the comedies that did not amuse.
My opera glass would lie broken on the floor
And the players would all beseech me on their knees
And have to take a day job to feed their families.

If I lit a candle,
I might not curse the darkness so.
I might feel better, but who knows?
And so I wait in the dark of night,
Cursing my drives and my appetites.
Folding my cards before they are played,
Deigning not to light a candle
On this the darkest of my days.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2009
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

KEYS TO THE KINGDOM

KEYS TO THE KINGDOM

My world was a heavily fortressed castle,
In which I lived, a cautious king.
Sad, depressed , and often lonely,
Possessive of the castle keys.

I lived alone and toiled in a dungeon
And told myself that that was fine.
I hid away from the world at large,
Walking the straight and narrow line.

I longed for sweet companionship, but there were never any takers,
For I was balding, growing old, both no-no’s in the land of Dorothy.
So I dug my heels into the ground and wept when no one was around,
Convinced my dreams had been bought and sold a long, long time ago.

Then your goodness stormed the castle,
And battled the demons guarding the moat.
You slew all the dragons in your sensible shoes
And your big and bad designer coat.

And something new came over me, light where there was none before.
The delight of finding a handsome prince just outside my door.

You tidied up the castle, you made it more a home
And you made me far less moody, despondent , and alone.
Inch by inch you healed my past with the fierce resolve of a resolute prince,
And I became alive again, here in the present tense.

And at last I surrendered the keys to the kingdom,
From the floors up to the rafters,
And now we are fairies in our own sweet tale,
Living happily ever after.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

THE DAMAGE HAS BEEN DONE

THE DAMAGE HAS BEEN DONE

I would slip a sad apology, underneath your bedroom door.
A list of all my shortcomings, broken on your dusty floor.

But the battle lines are fierce and drawn,
The armies do formations on manicured lawns.

Love’s astray, in grand decay, my serenity’s hard won.
The ship has sailed for distant shores, the damage has been done.

And where were you when I was bleeding crimson,
In colors bright as autumn leaves?

Where were you when I was drifting lost,
Teardrops scattered in the evening breeze?

I crave your attention and fear the tension
Between who you are and who you claim to be.

Why do you keep such a distance, taking the path of least resistance?
You claim to love me, yet there’s this frightening dissonance,
And perhaps I demand more than you could ever give,
Clinging fast to your tender mercies, struggling just to live.

You could slip an articulate explanation under my front door,
A detailed list of your many failings, archived on the floor.

And maybe I could smile and shrug, but forgiveness beats a hollow drum,
For the ship has sailed for distant shores, and the damage has been done.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

I DO NOT WANT MY EPITAPH

I DO NOT WANT MY EPITAPH

I do not want my epitaph to be all the times I’ve failed.
All my misspent years on earth just chasing my own tail.

I want my epitaph to be smooth, upbeat and happy,
Though the world turns ‘round and throws me down.

I want to be known as brave and chipper
And a constellation in the sky bright as the Big Dipper.

I write too much of sorrow, gain solace out of pain,
But I do not want to be remembered as a man who loved the rain.

I want the church to overflow, with earnest ones who loved me so,
And I want them to remember my laughter and my smiles
More so than my tortured years, my long and lonely miles.

The path I followed to contentment and the man to whom I gave my heart.
The words and rhymes I left behind in my desperate pursuit of art.

These are what I want remembered, not sorrow nor depression,
Nor a sense of hopelessness to leave the wrong impression.

I do not want my epitaph to sadden or bring low,
The many friends I’ve counted on, the ones that I love so.

I want them to imagine me, dancing on the open sea,
Walking on the waters somewhere far beyond the moon.

I want them knowing I’m at peace, floating in that sky of blue.
I do not want my epitaph distorted, dashed, or misconstrued.

I want the world to finally know, when the time it comes for me to go,
That though I seemed a pessimist and often wrote of sorrow
That I loved life in my twisted way and believed in each tomorrow.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

FOR LIFE'S SAKE

FOR LIFE’S SAKE

I am anxious for the future, but still I believe,
That a shred of hope lingers
In each fragile leaf that falls from the tree,

In each rippling stream that gushes toward the lake,
Still I believe in life for life’s sake.

I am worried for tomorrow, bogged down in my sorrow.
Like a weeping willow tree I bend,
Close to breaking and at wit’s end.

Still I believe there are mountains to climb,
Reasons to linger in the passageways of time.

I believe in noisemakers and streamers
And the butter cream icing on birthday cake.

Worn down by the ages, I slowly turn the pages
And bask in the glory of life for life’s sake.

Life stands in stark relief, it has its own reasons
With pomp and with pride it shows off its seasons.

And though it is often grossly unkind,
I still believe in the lessons of time.
As we grow older, we trade in our youth
For bittersweet memories and unfiltered truth.

And perhaps we grow more cynical, perhaps we grow more jaded.
Yet long after youth and beauty have faded,
We cling to the genuine, and let go of the fake,
And live triumphantly, life for life’s sake.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2009
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

DISSERTATION

DISSERTATION

My theme today is weighty, not for the faint of heart.
I scarcely know where to begin, I don’t know how to start.
I have a strange flirtation, to pen my dissertation.
To sum up this life in a sentence or two,
To pass on for posterity some things I’ve learned to you.

Life can be a scary monster, it can chew you up and swallow you whole,
Sometimes it takes you places you would just as soon not go.
Life is a master teacher of suspense and of surprise,
The subtle tender mercies that live in a lover’s eyes.
Life is like a rollercoaster, life is like a rainbow.
Life is a shining prism that reflects your inner soul.

My theme today is heady, like some rare, expensive wine.
My theme today is slow decay and the shifting sands of time.
My theme today is that there isn’t much I know for sure.
But life is never perfect and life is seldom pure.

I have the inclination to write my dissertation,
Without artifice or show and without affectation.
Life is like a football scrimmage, you are tackled by your fate,
And every lesson that you learn seems to come too late.

My themes today are life and death, in all their blazing glory.
A strange but grand mythology to all who hear my story.
My theme today is crushing and can bring you to your knees
With only God in heaven to hear your silent pleas.
And what of God and his existence, what are we to think?
For life can be a bitter brew that man is made to drink.

My theme today is travel, and what happens when we die.
And now I lay me down my pen with one last final sigh.
My chariot at last has come, I’m bound for yonder sky.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2009
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WHY CAN'T I FLY

WHY CAN’T I FLY?

Why can’t I fly, just spread my wings and soar?
Why to the ground am I tethered, withered to the core?
Like a struggling plant without the nutrients it needs,
My heart is made of tired blood and clings unto my sleeve.

Why can I not celebrate, why can I not speak?
The words that issue from my mouth indecipherable as Greek.
Why can I not stand erect, why must I need a nap?
At every hour on the hour in my stocking cap.

Why must all I long to be lie buried in a tomb,
Until the gods of stem cells enchant with their perfume.
Why can’t I be blissful, why can’t I be gay?
Content to snag the remnants of blessings sent my way.

Why must I be perfect, and shrink against mistakes?
The more I travel onward, the higher grow the stakes.
And I must live unblemished from sins and from omissions
And hold to a higher standard of grace and of permission.

Why can I not levitate and will myself to higher ground?
Why can I not be present when the horn of Gabriel sounds?
Why can I not be patient, why can my hands not pray?
Why can God not hear me, a lamb that’s gone astray?

Why can’t I just fly, fling myself from this tower high?
My sun is slowly setting and evening’s drawing nigh.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2009
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

DIVINE COOL

DIVINE COOL

Divine cool you are, my love,
Cool as the frostiest freezer.

Cooler than a pair of scissors
Or a wicked pair of tweezers.

Divine cool you are to me,
Like a cool cop on a motorbike.

But rest assured that it is you
And not the cool cop that I like.

Divine cool you are from your cool lips
To your cooler hips,
To your way cool far out fingertips.

A veritable, incredible edible treat,
A popsicle chilled, sweet enough to eat.

Divine cool you are, as you work out with your weights.
A muscle shirt would be your friend in such a chiseled state.

Divine cool is what you are to me on a hot day in July.
A swimming pool to dive into, a respite cool as wine.
Or perhaps a soft serve ice cream cone,
Chocolate would be fine.

Divine cool you are, a lovely flowing stream,
The coolest man I’ve ever known,
The cool fulfillment of my dreams.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

FOG LIFTING

FOG LIFTING

It’s been a long time coming,
But at last my boat has come ashore.

I am no longer sorrow’s child,
Nor desperation’s youthful ward.

The chemist he has worked his magic,
His Zoloft swims inside my brain,
Turning tragedy into triumph,
Dancing through mud puddles when it rains.

The clock is always running, and there are no timeouts.
The sand in the hour glass sifts right on through
And we just go on living, what else can we do?

Like ships out on the stormy sea,
We tread the waters cautiously.
And the enemies are fog and mist,
That cloud our vision and make us clench our fist.
For who has eyes that see in the dark,
And no one knows where the journey ends
After we embark.

I am no prophet, I am no seer
And have spilt many tears into my beer.
I have trudged through the misty rain forest,
I have stumbled along these London streets.
I am starved for sleep and blessed rest
And still I won’t admit defeat.

This time I am sailing unafraid into the mist
And the fine sand as it’s shifting.
For the tide at last is turning my way
And the fog at long last lifting.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

UNREQUITED

UNREQUITED

I sent Death a fan letter, he did not answer me,
I sent him some flowers, a token of my esteem.
Apparently be was busy elsewhere, perhaps he wasn’t home.
My flowers withered on his doorstep, untended and alone.

I asked Death to take me to the prom, and he smiled apologetically,
as if to say politely he was not that into me.
and so I sat in my lonely room, filled with bitterness and gloom.

Death then threw a lavish party, and I was not invited,
It is the story of my life, love always unrequited.

I then asked Death to snatch me and to take me from this world,
For I had had enough of sorrow, could not bear to face tomorrow.
Was tired of the wretched earth kicking sand up in my face.
I was feeling quite a failure and the ultimate disgrace.
I phoned Death in a panic, asking what was wrong,
Why the time of my demise was taking him so long.

But Death alas had had enough and would not return my calls,
He sent to me his lawyers, irreconcilable differences cited.
Another dreaded evening falls, my love still unrequited.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2009
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

LET ME HOLD YOU

LET ME HOLD YOU

Let me hold you in the morning, see the sunrise in your smile
And caress you in the evening after many a ragged mile.

For you and I are weary travelers, traipsing through this native sod,
Eyes wide open, ears cocked sideways, listening for the voice of God.

Let me see you in the noontime, a brave knight perched upon his horse,
Rescuing me from a torrent of tears and waterfalls of remorse.

I will ride with you to the edge of the clearing and behold with you
the vistas grand.

Beneath the grandeur of the mountains, the foam of the ocean
and its drifting sand.

And fly with you swift as a unicorn, into the great unknown,
As the world draws swiftly to its slumber, snoring like some hapless stone.

We will dance on craters of the moon and lose ourselves in twilight’s gleam,
Hurdling fast through outer space like astronauts in some fitful dream.

And all these glories we will cherish, like a child’s first cherished fairy tale
And on a ribbon of pinkish sky, together we will fondly sail.

Let me hold you in the evening, thrilling to your heartbeat dear,
And let our love be a lantern bright that burns across the hemisphere.

For after man has long been gone and life on earth a memory,
Our love will be a meteorite, blinding in its majesty.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2009
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

LOOK INTO MY EYES AGAIN

LOOK INTO MY EYES AGAIN

Look into my eyes again, before you make the choice to go.
Look into the countenance of the one who loves you so.
I am the walking wounded, I am the soldier bleeding.
Look into my eyes again and banish thoughts of leaving.

Look into my eyes again that weep their silent tears
And hide behind their anger, made hard by passing years.
Taste the holy sacrament I offer up to you,
The wine and bread of a soul that’s dead but longs to rise anew.

Look into my eyes again, remember our romance
That rose above the commonplace, the usual song and dance.
A love so hot it blistered and woke me from my sleep
A love that conquered loneliness and tore into me deep.
A grand and glorious act of faith, a love forever mine to keep.

Look into my eyes again, my handsome good luck charm,
And remember just how good it felt to hold me in your arms.
Though I’m weak and weary, I hunger still for you.
Look into my eyes again, come gently to my rescue.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2009
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

GAMBLING ON ANOTHER DAY

GAMBLING ON ANOTHER DAY

We die a little with each new dawn,
A sprinkling of lilacs decorate the lawn,
And like the sunrise, precious and brief,
Our lives are fragile as the crimson leaf
That hangs from the autumn tree,
Only to blow away.

So much sorrow, so much grief,
Until we make peace with the belief,
That all our days are numbered,
Like raindrops on the sod,
And each and every breath we take,
Is nurtured and controlled by God.

Or perhaps Buddha or Fate or some other higher being,
According to your vantage point, your own unique way of seeing.
It matters not your solemn creed,
It matters not your word or deed.
Life is like a bubbling brook,
Amongst a scenic overlook.
Clear and effervescent now,
But soon, alas, to crack and dry
And evaporate into the sky.

We die a little with each new dawn,
As we stumble on the lawn.
On winter’s ice we tumble
As our empires start to crumble.
Nothing left but naked dreams,
Ambition run amok.
Remnants from the wheels we spun,
Engine sputtering in the mud.
We build our lives on sweat and tears,
Covered in our holy blood.

But each day, alas, we live a little, too,
Some hopefulness is called for,
And from somewhere out of the mystic blue,
Sometimes there’s a touch of grace
To shine upon this desolate place.
A sprinkling of lilies that forever bloom,
To light the corner of the darkest room,
And so we clutch to our sliver of hope,
Climbing on our upwards slope,
We somehow rise and go our way,
Gambling on another day.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2009
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

YOU MAKE ME SO HAPPY

YOU MAKE ME SO HAPPY

You make me so happy, unmitigated bliss,
Not even Steve and Adam ever knew a love like this.

Though life is sometimes tragic, you delight me with your magic
And toss my sorrow like a spinach salad to the wind.
I was never fond of vegetables so I’m glad that we are friends.

You make me ecstatic, like I’m walking on the sky.
Your good looks they mesmerize, your kindness echoes wide.

Though life is sometimes ugly, there is beauty in your smile
And you throw my woes like dandelions into the nearest junkpile.

You make me wild with passion that explodes into the sun,
A wild volcanic fever like Vesuvius on the run.

Your lips are a temptation that I dream of when I doze,
‘til you come to me so silently and take off all your clothes.

You delight me with your fingers, not to mention other things
And your kisses are like ripples in some wild and wondrous stream.

You make me so happy that I want to do a dance,
But I am slow and clumsy, so for that there’s not a chance.

And you are the grand finale to life’s fireworks display.
You sweep me fleet right off my feet and carry me away.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2009
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

OH HOW I STILL LOVE YOU

OH, HOW I STILL LOVE YOU

Early in the morning, when ghosts still haunt the streets,
I close my eyes and conjure you, and once again my days are sweet.
For from my heart you are never far, fair to imagine,
Like some shooting star that brightens up the heavens blue.
Incandescent, ever true, oh, how I once loved you.

And in the glaze of afternoon, when lost in magic sunlight’s sheen.
Your memory lives, like a waking dream, to calm my day and cool my feet
That burn from the macadam hot, like chili peppers on the street.
In my soul you still survive, I keep your essence still alive,
And in the heat and summer gloom, oh, how I once loved you.

Death is never very far, eternal life, eternal scar,
Scar of passage, scar of loss, scar of tears and chances lost.
Lost to me for now you are, but Death is never very far.

Late in the velvet evening, when I breathe in the musk of sacred dusk.
I can almost feel your spirit hover, under nightfall’s sacred cover.
Forever you are still my mother, in my heart you take your throne,
And wrap my wounds in your healing balm, comforting when I’m alone.

Late in the velvet evening, when evening’s chill it pierces through.
I sit and weep in restless sleep, oh, how I still love you.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2009
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

ACCUSATORY GLANCES

ACCUSATORY GLANCES

The pipes are bursting left and right,
The house has sprung a leak.
The parents they are fighting,
And the children cannot sleep.

And after the red hot anger cools,
A sullen silence fills the air.
Accusatory glances across the room do stare.

And the children cry and they know not why,
Their young minds cannot comprehend,
That the fairy tale of their parents’ lives
Is quickly drawing to an end.

The electric is turned off at last
For nonpayment of fees.
There will be no more air conditioning,
There will be no more TV.

And the parents they must live content
To simply stare at walls,
And eulogize their love that’s died.
While in distress the teacher calls.
To ask if there is something wrong.
Why do John and Jen act out?
Why has all this misbehavior all of a sudden come about?

And the children cry, and the night is long,
And the parents struggle to stay strong.
And the father’s laid off at his work,
And life just goes from bad to worse.

The pipes are bursting left and right,
And with the pipes the bank account.
The bill collectors at the door,
The troubles they do swiftly mount.

The parents, they are fighting,
The children cannot sleep.
Alone inside their bedroom,
The tears roll down their cheeks.

And in their parents’ bedroom another scene is playing out,
Accusatory glances that smolder and burn out.
After the red hot anger cools, will there still be something there,
Besides the ghosts of love gone wrong that echo on the stairs?

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2009
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

HARVEST

HARVEST

Time to harvest the shining pumpkins,
To rejoice in the gorgeous gourds.

Time to stop and breathe in autumn and all its rich rewards.

All I need to know is I am yours and you are mine
And we will sail together through the grainy sands of time.

The time of harvest has appeared,
Here in the autumn of the year.
When the air is brisk with a welcome chill,
When the leaves crunch hard beneath our feet.
When we slowly waken to the thrills,
The sights and smells of the season sweet.

The smell of a fireplace caressing the air,
A warm fire burning, with comfort to spare.
And you here beside me, as evening draws near,
Your body warm and precious, my troubles disappear.

Time for apple cider, time for living dreams,
Time for sharing love divine and all that passion means.
Time for chili parties, time for football scores.
Time for jack o’lanterns blazing on porches
And trick or treaters at the door.

Time to gather the gifts of the spirit
That bloom as bright as springtime flowers.
Time to praise the harvest moon for the plenty that is ours.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2009
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

SIMPLE

SIMPLE

Like a brightly colored beach ball
In the arms of a happy child,

Your love is pure and simple,
And it stretches over miles.

Back to the beaches of my youth
Where I strolled alone along the sand.

Love came to me quite simply, like nothing I had planned.

In my eyes you walk on water and shower me anew
With blessings that crash over me in waves of crystal blue.
And if I had a crystal ball, I will never understand,
The wonderment of your embrace,
The thrill of your outstretched hand,

Like the smile that shows the precious dimple,
Your love is pure and oh, so simple.
Like a billowing parachute or a bouncing trampoline,
Those childhood games of innocence that time has come between.

The music of our youth still plays on the oldies radio,
Though we age and though our precious hair is gone or white as snow.
Though our sojourn on this earth is brief,
And to history we are but a pimple,
My love for you lives proud and strong,
Still and sweet and simple.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2009
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

MOONS

MOONS

Moons will fade, years will pass,
Proud horses will bite the dust.
Life will be old and I will die,
Losing my breath as all men must.

Silences will grow, wars will cry,
Violence will be hungry,
God will fill the sky.

Futures will call, the past will rust,
The earth will stagnate and men will trust.

All the answers will surrender
To the quiet of the times.
And all the poets will be in limbo,
Suffocating on their rhymes.

Masters will spit and slaves will sing,
And this world shall pass in a fiery ring.
And the dead shall rise and walk again,
Our enemies, our beloved friends.

Moons will fade, years will pass,
Cities, they will blaze and burn,
And each one shall succumb at last,
The final lessons taught and learned.

Moons will fade, years will pass,
The world shall turn to pixie dust,
UFOs will scorch the grass.
And the doubting Thomases shall trust

Silences will grow, wars will cry,
Violence will starve to death,
And God will fill the sky.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 1984
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

BEFORE MY ANGELS CALL

BEFORE MY ANGELS CALL

Morning sunshine, come to my window, have a glimpse of me,
And take a look at my lover fair, who stalwartly walks beside me.

All along life’s thoroughfares, here, there, and everywhere.
We rise with praise for each new day, and send our troubles on their way.

Afternoon sunshine, perch on my windowsill dying.
Sing me a love song from this sorry world,
Bright and strong like a thunderbolt hurled,
Straight from the forehead of mighty Zeus,
And with my warring demons I at last will call a truce.

Evening sunshine, appear on my doorstep,
Serenade me with vigor, with vim and with pep,
And wake me from an early sleep,
And send a final volley across the mountain steep.

Season my old age like a vintage salt shaker,
Remind me that I have a date with my Maker.
That the close of life, alas, can be as precious as the first,
Come, oh, come, thou evening sun, and gently quench my thirst.

Before the final rains do fall, before my blessed angels call,
Morning sun, I beg thee, noontime sun I plead with thee,
Evening sun, I implore thee, come once more to my window.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2009
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

DIRGE

DIRGE

Sing me a dirge, if you’re brave and feel the urge,
For I am sinking like a stone, heading towards the Great Unknown.
And though I’m packed and ready for my everlasting trip,
I have the need for godspeed to bless my sovereign ship.

Sing me a dirge, like some graceful winged bird,
And I will soar forevermore, sight unseen and sound unheard,
Past the mountains and the canyon grand,
From the choppy sea to the golden land.

Who said this was the only dimension?
Whoever heeds and pays attention
Knows that life is an open door,
A turnstile revolving, we have all been here before,
The soul has just forgotten, its life in days of yore.

The light will beckon, the questions will dissolve,
Replaced with the answers, all finally resolved.
Friends they will greet me with outstretched arms,
There is no cause of weeping, no source of alarm.
Death is the boatman and death is a godsend.
Pay no attention to the gruff apparition in black robe and staff,
Death is a merry prankster, and he has the last laugh.

Who said this was the only dimension?
Whoever heeds and pays attention,
Knows that life is an open door,
Knows in his heart we have been here before.

And perhaps we all shall pass this way again,
No one but the shadow knows and it will not yet say,
Just bundle me up carefully and send me on my way.

Sing me a dirge, if you’re brave and feel the urge,
And when you gaze up at the stars at night,
I shall be the one that shines for you with the brightest light.
I will glimmer, I will blink, a strange, seductive private wink.
A wink that only you can see, that binds you evermore to me
And sets your doubting spirit free.

Sing me a dirge, until you have purged, every last vestige and burden of sorrow.
Sing me a dirge and believe every word, and rise to a new and a shining tomorrow.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2009
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

LIVING EVERY DREAM

LIVING EVERY DREAM

There are worlds yet undiscovered, sights unseen by you and me.
We have yet to sail to India and sample the cuisine.

There is vintage wine still left to taste, round sweet grapes cling to the vine.
We are Nature’s favored sons and for each rare treat there will be time.

So I’ll humor you and follow you, as far as human footsteps go,
To the far end of the moon, to the apex of the rainbow.

I will speak your name with gentle tone, with a reverent inflection,
And follow blindly where you lead, charting our direction.
So much of life untasted, its flowing waters sweet and pure.
Let’s drink our fill, for good or ill, arise and take the tour.

There are oceans yet to sail, cityscapes with wondrous views,
Autumn leaves on Vermont trees, so much left to see and do.

So take my hand and kiss my lips, the world is at our fingertips.
Let us answer God’s great call, to arise like kings before the Fall.
Like Adam and Steve in a dream of Eden, blessed by the Holy Spirit’s breath.
Before the hissing of the serpent, before the certainty of death.

We’ll conquer London, Ireland, Rome and arrive victorious back at home.
Reveling in these plans we’ve made, a joyous and a grand parade.
Two intrepid travelers, tumbling in their time machine,
Holding fast to a love that lasts, boldly living every dream.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2009
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED