HELLO, BABY NEW YEAR

HELLO, BABY NEW YEAR

Hello, baby new year, you’ve arrived so sneaky fast,
And truth be told, you are looking suspiciously like the last.
I need a brand new symphony to chase my blues away,
And not the same tired orchestra and the same old notes you play.

Hello, baby new year, let us smack you on your fresh behind,
And give you room to breathe in this specious peace of mind.
If the world is sinking perilously, there is little you can do,
Despite all the legions and minions depending on you.

We have come to the fold, to the bend in the road,
Where solutions are not easy and sometimes cruel,
Not enough food, not enough love, and precious little fuel.
So spin in your dust and cry if you must,
Then cut the cord, it’s earth bound or bust.

Will you grow up to have a job in this spurious economy?
Will you curse being born in the land of the free?
Hello, baby new year, used to the luxury and designer label,
Living way beyond your means, with no food on the table.

But at least you’ll have your cell phone and your Game Boy
And your Play Station, to set your spirit soaring.
And with the Kardashians and the Jersey Housewives,
Your life will not be boring.

Yet I wonder what we’re teaching you, and if it all makes any sense,
With so few people in the world of integrity and conscience.
When Paris Hilton matters more than starvation in the streets,
When the homeless matter less than what goes on between the sheets.
When gays are free to marry, but not their own sex,
While we lap up all the details of Britney and her ex.

Hello, baby new year, it’s a strange and wild predicament,
That into this world at this time you’ve been sent.
When the confetti has been thrown and we’re left to fend alone.
It’s no wonder we end up so broken and bent.
So pardon me my bitterness, when you’re grown you’ll understand,
How such cynical times breed such a cynical man.

Hello, baby new year, sorry for the world we’ve left you,
But it’s your turn now to shake this up, you freakin’ little buttercup,
So please grow up and make us proud, but could you cry a bit less loud.
For I drank too much to celebrate and must sleep off this nasty headache.
Goodbye, baby new year, a fond farewell to you,
And please don’t bother daddy until New Year’s Day is through.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

TRIPPING ON JOY

TRIPPING ON JOY

Funny thing happened the other day,
As I was going my merry way,
A good friend of mine, a delightful old bat,
Stubbed her old toe on a kitchen floor mat.

It was a Christmas floor mat in front of a sink.
And the old bat, alas, had had too much to drink,
And like a child by herself all absorbed in her toy,
The old bat went merrily tripping on joy.

The floor mat was engraved with that very word,
As innocuous a word as has ever been heard.
It’s lots of times, not just Christmas day.
We seem to get mired in our own rigid way.
And are blind to the blessings that fall in our lap,
The warmth of good friends and a good stocking cap.

Let us try to remember and never forget,
The friendship of others, the kisses so wet,
That rain down upon us like snowflakes from the sky,
With each breath we take, we soar and we fly,
The dog’s sacred bark, the newborn’s first cry.

And it is all such a wonder, a sight to behold,
In the barren dead of winter, in the bitter cold.
We must always remember, it is always our choice,
To wallow in misery or to up and rejoice.

To reach for the heavens or to plumb the ocean floor,
To curse the darkness and cry evermore,
Or to light a candle in the night, and row our boat to shore.

Funny thing happened the other day,
As I was minding my own what was,
A good friend of mine who was slightly buzzed,
A wild old woman, a wily sort,
Stubbed her toe with a salty retort.

But like any good girl or any good boy.
She picked herself up and got on with her day.
Tipping the universe, tripping on joy,
Stumbling along on her drunken way.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Note: A big thanks to Christie, Chad, Jeni, Linda, John, Julie, and Wilson for an incredible Saturday afternoon that helped inspire this piece, which is a bit of truth and a bit of nonsense. The "old bat" was not drunk, nor did she curse. She barely even tripped. But she did trip slightly and the floor mat WAS a beautiful floor mat with JOY emblazoned on it. I just couldn't help myself.

ROBBING PETER

ROBBING PETER

As I heave and sigh, closer to the final inning,
No longer sure of borrowed time, nor sure of new beginnings,
May I just say now that I’m sick of it all,
Sick of robbing Peter just to pay Paul.

Tired of killing Father Time
And stalking Mr. Death.
Tired of promises that do not rhyme,
That leave me lost, bereft of breath.

Tired of books that help me cope
With this dashing designer disease.

Tired of bromides and false hope,
This mountain won’t be climbed with ease.

Tired of pep talks from Michael J. Fox,
Tired of dreaming of a cure,

I want to mount my soapbox now,
To slaughter every sacred cow.
To set the record straight and pure.

I want to give birth to a litter of the bitters.
To shake my fist at progress,
To rant and rave at DBS.

Sick to death of being patient.
And though it isn’t anyone’s fault,
I am sick to death of impotence
And sick to death of Zoloft.

Sick of the pain and destruction.
Left by Mr. Parkinson.
Ready to give up hope-ah,
To throw away my levodopa.
And let us not forget, its kissing cousin Sinemet.

And tear out the freakin’ battery in my chest,
Damn the electrodes, full steam ahead,
Show me to my dainty sick bed.

Bring me lots of chocolate, it’s the only solution.
Kill me some lamb and bring me some mutton,
I will eat and drink and die a merry glutton.

As I gasp and breathe my last,
There’s one thing you should know,
These were just some random ramblings
From my one man Parkinsonian show.
A bored bombastic body and a withered tired old soul.

And did I happen to mention that I’m tired of it all,
Sick of Robbing Peter just to pay Paul?
Sick to death of losing balance,
Sick of the inevitable fall.

And now that I have had my say, I shall mosey on my merry way,
Shuffling like an idiot who’s stubborn as an ox,
With all due apologies to Michael J. Fox.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Note: I meant this poem to be taken seriously, but also a bit tongue in cheek. I hope I don't have to explain the debt of gratitude we all owe the wonderful Michael J. Fox. He is most definitely a hero of mine, and I do not at all intend my mention of him in this piece to be in the least bit disparaging or disrespectful.

DANCING ON THE BORDERLINE

DANCING ON THE BORDERLINE

Tonight I am one of the lost souls,
Dancing on the borderline.
Confused about this strange America.
Cornucopia of the brave and fine.

Tonight I stand with the discarded,
Floating on a barge in the open sea,
Bewildered by the stern crossed arms,
That used to open and welcome me.

Dancing, dancing on the waves,
Fleeing the tyranny and the devastation.
The turmoil of my native land,
The burnt out shacks, the shifting sand,
The lonesome degradation.

And we are not that far apart,
Though you have hardened your rebel hearts.
And the troubles that have befallen me,
Run far deeper than a tax on tea.

I am talking a wild and a dangerous ride,
Hunger pangs and genocide.

How can we be rivals,
My only crime survival.
And yours in all your wisdom
Is only tunnel vision.

But your tunnel vision is killing me.
I would clean your toilets if only you’d agree,
You and your Statue of Liberty.

Yet still I wait in these shadows alone,
Far away from the place I used to call home,
And my heart is shattered and cracked,
My bridges are burned, I can never go back.

And though you say you cannot accept more,
More of the dispossessed, downtrodden and poor.
I am running out of time, still dancing on your borderline,
Confused about this strange America,
Cornucopia of the brave and fine.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

LAZY BIRD

LAZY BIRD

My God, you are a lazy bird,
Hopping around outside my door.

Always having the last word,
Knowing you’s been such a bore.

You no good chirping lazy bird,
Last to head south for the winter.
Whatsa matter you, what’s your beef,
Or does your claw just have a splinter?

My languid piece of bone and feather,
This cannot be your kind of weather.

Head on south and torture
Some other sour old man,

And don’t stay here and mess with me,
Just because you can.

Oh my little lazy bird,
In you my secret I’ll confide,
I long to fly away, though it sounds absurd,
For something in my heart has died.

Something unattainable, so fragile it got broken,
And perhaps you are a metaphor
For all the words I’ve left unspoken.

All the dreams that have soiled my brain,
The blinding snow, the driving rain,
The plane that crashed, the derailed train.

Perhaps I need your stern rebuke,
Perhaps I doth protest too much,
And hating you is just a fluke.

A passing fancy and a whimsy,
A diversion fleeting and so flimsy.
Perhaps I’m just a grounded fool,
Who envies anything that moves.

My God, you are a lazy bird,
Allow me to remove your sty,
And take me with you when you go,
And teach me how to fly.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

TRANSCENDENTAL HOLIDAY

TRANSCENDENTAL HOLIDAY

With any luck this day we’re happy,
Blessings many and troubles few.
With the grace of God has come abundance,
Raining down with the morning dew.

With luck today, our fences are mended,
No emotional land mines haunt us.
With any luck we have befriended,
And pardoned those who have broken our trust.

And all that's left within our hearts
For the earth and all its multitudes,
Is an all consuming state of grace,
A mix of awe and gratitude.

Just to be here on this spinning earth,
A miracle in flesh and blood,
A healthy sense of our own self worth,
Engulfing us in a holy flood.
A flood of sweetness and emotion,
Flowing like a river to the raging ocean.

With loved ones in from near and far,
We welcome them to the wondrous table,
Each one brings what he is able.
With no gifts or tinsel or madcap spending,
Just football games and a big parade
And a feast that seems unending.

With any luck, we are blessed with much,
The glow of health and the divine touch.
Thankful for the breath of life,
And the awesome joy of living.
Joining hands around the table
In a glorious thanksgiving.

With any luck today we are mindful,
Of the pure unsullied way
The sheer and sheltered goodness
Of this transcendental holiday.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

PROVERB

PROVERB

You came and taught me lessons,
On a day when it was raining.

When I was quite the neophyte,
An amethyst in training.

You came and taught me lessons,
And at first I did not listen.

‘Til the stars in your eyes they mesmerized,
And my world at last it glistened.

You became the soundtrack
And the backbeat to my days.
Like Groucho’s duck, my stroke of luck,
The secret word, the phrase that pays.
Plus any other hackneyed cliché
That you would care to send my way.

You were the genius unspoken, the subway token,
The late night flight to a much better place.
You were the spirit and the spark,
A talisman that ended the tailspin.
An artful dodger that snuffed out the dark.

You came and taught me lessons,
You asked nothing in return,
But you threw your arms around me,
And all my bridges burned.

In the black smoke swirling, I could see the phoenix rise,
Into the clear and cool blue ocean of your eyes.
And in there I have splashed about,
A student in your summer school.
And you have played the wise guy to my motley fool.

Where once my mouth was a leaky faucet,
Where once my brain was in a rush,
You have soothed the raging bull
And all my teardrops gently hushed.

You came and taught me lessons,
Together we have spanned the globe,
Me in my clothing of rags and wonder,
And you in your splendid robe.

You will be the one for me,
And you will write the final word,
Your wisdom it gleams silently,
Like a sweet enduring proverb.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

FALLEN BY THE WAY

FALLEN BY THE WAY

It seems these days I’m fumbling,
Reaching for my lost North Star.

The golden meteor of my heart,
Falls to the earth after shooting so far.

And troubles like a mountain
On my shoulders dance and play.

Like children singing London Bridge,
And fallen by the way.

It seems these days I’m wistful,
And longing for my youth.

When my footsteps trod so strong and sure,
And my dreams they shone like diamonds.
Unsullied and so pure.

Before time came with its one, two punch,
And left me shipwrecked on the bay.

Before my life unraveled like a wanton, careless thread,
Spooling out and thrashing about,
Going for broke and left for dead,
A pawn in someone’s passion play,
Stranded fallen by the way.

My love, you may have rescued me,
For some brief point in time.
But the planets they are spinning
And my broken axis misaligned.
And I love you like a drunkard,
Lapping up his wine.
‘til the grapes hang sour and spoiled,
And rotting on the vine.

We can dance around it and ignore it though we may.
But I am bound for the heavens blue, and numbered are my days.
The archer draws and aims for my heart,
His quiver of arrows like a monster preys
And dances on my bedpost, fallen by the way.

I’m running out of chances, dreaming of old times,
The grand and golden heady rush.
Before my soul was bent and crushed.

Before my troubles like a mountain
Came to dance and play.
Like children singing London Bridge,
And fallen by the way.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

JUST YOU AND ME AND THE COMFORTER

JUST YOU AND ME AND THE COMFORTER

Cold and icy winter morning, roads as slick as glass,
Stuck at home for the duration as the snow keeps falling fast.

This bedroom that we know so well, a haven from the storm.
A past that does not melt away but strengthens at the core.

It never fails to amaze, the bright and wondrous way,
The way in which you hold me and love me in this time.
The way in which you see the world, the way your hand caresses mine.
The way in which you navigate the stormy seas we sail along,
The way you turn each wayward day into a gentle song.

Freezing air that coats the spirit, that turns the blue sky gray,
Just you and me and the comforter, warm on a winter’s day.

The snow it pours for what seems like years,
And the tears and sorrows multiply.
But do not mourn for the sun appears,
Like a welcome stranger in the sky.

The arctic air it freezes, and tosses us around,
We lose the things we thought we gained,
They fall like lead to the stony ground.
But always there is your skin so smooth,
I’ve memorized the outline.
I know each curve and ligature of your body so divine.

Here in all our warmth and glory, shrouded in this peace,
This cozy blanket over us, this undemanding fleece.
It never fails to soothe and comfort, your love it still astounds,
So let the snow do what it will with its gently falling sounds.

Sometimes the world in its wounded fury hurls us to the earth.
We long to find our lovely Eden, land of our rebirth.
But for now tonight your love’s enough to hold me in its sway.
Just you and me and the comforter at the close of another day.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

SCRAPING BOTTOM

SCRAPING BOTTOM

Tired of scraping bottom, tired of burnt out fuses,
Tired of ancient grudges, and tired of lame excuses.

Tired of scraping bottom, the barnacles on the ocean floor.
The age old worn out search, the tireless mantra of more.

Tired of scraping bottom, tired of the jaded and cynical
Ready to set my wings afire, and fly to the highest pinnacle.

To the mountains where the gods do frolic, I will don my traveling clothes.
Tired of feeling melancholic, about the paths I chose.

Tired of scraping bottom, it is time to choose again.
Not sure where I’m headed, but it isn’t where I’ve been.

All I know for sure is, I am never quite alone,
In it just to win, no longer sink or swim
There are no more sad songs, no more haunting hymns,
No more sordid secret sins for which I must atone.

Tired of scraping bottom, my wings torn asunder,
For too long a time you have stolen my thunder.
Tired of scraping bottom, accepting scraps from the table.
Ever the tortoise, never the hare, someday I will make it there,
Star of my own sweet melodious fable.

Tired of scraping bottom when the top is what I crave.
No time left for navel gazing, no more time to scrimp and save.
Time for action, to be bold and to be brave.
Time to lose the fear and dive into Fortune’s loving hands,
Time to sail my boat away from the comfort of dry land,
Into the future, beyond the stars, un-tethered by fortune and its shifting sand.

Tired of scraping bottom, getting snagged on coral reefs.
Sick to death of outworn fashion and outdated beliefs.
Tired of scraping bottom, of someone else’s plan,
Living a languid useless lie is more than I can stand.

Tired of scraping bottom, the barnacles on the ocean floor,
Pitfalls of a pitiful past, the tiresome mantra of more.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

THE GREAT AWAKENING

This is a poem I originally wrote before my brain surgery in
2007. The surgery has been very beneficial and it allowed me
to work for probably three more years than had I not had it.
It is not for all Parkinson’s patients, but I think it was the right
choice for me. Yesterday, I had surgery to replace my original
chest battery which died after four successful years. Deep brain
stimulation as it is called, involves putting electrodes strategically
in the brain, usually near the subthalamic nucleus and then attaching the
electrodes to the chest battery which sends electricity to the brain.
The electrodes powered by the chest battery serve as sort of a pacemaker to the brain, allowing a Parkinson’s patient to
drastically reduce the amount of medicine he or she has to
take. This greatly reduces the dyskinesias, the writhing and
excess movement that is a side effect of the drugs, often more
distressing than the disease itself. I am a layman and the above
is my non-scientific attempt to explain it simply. Please consult
a doctor or medical professional for a better explanation,
And hopefully the poem will explain further my own experience.

THE GREAT AWAKENING

This will be my great big day, a bountiful awakening,
Two holes drilled into my skull,
Electrodes probe my sickly brain.

At last it has come down to this, the medicine is hit or miss
And slow and slothful muscles bring me tearful to my knees.

The pills that once brought such relief,
Send me flailing, give me grief,
And I have reached the murky seas
Where the cure looms worse than the disease.

I am waiting for the moment grand,
To feel the healer’s skillful hands,
And cross the threshold of my pain,
The stiffness cruel, the trembling.

I’m eager for the felling of these dreadful prison bars,
These chains around my arms and legs, these shackles made of iron.

Each breath is laced with a grim exhale,
Each movement deigns to be my last,
This bitter boat that bears me forth,
Is sinking in the maelstrom fast.

These skull holes are the boost I need,
A first small step, a tiny seed,
To spread and nourish life anew,
To test my strength and fortitude.

I raise my glass to this new day, to toast the great awakening,
A battery placed inside my chest, a cause for celebrating.

Finally it has come to this, no time for sitting on the fence.
At last I throw the gauntlet down and claim my recompense.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

TOAST THE AUTUMN

TOAST THE AUTUMN

These mornings I awake, barefoot in my sweats,
And feel the cool sensation as it moves across the room,

Mother Nature’s plan right on time and set,
As she sits majestically, a lady at her loom.

I rise and toast the autumn, this change of seasons grand,
And hold each crunchy, precious leaf in the palm of my shaking hand.

I think upon the winter, in all its snowy fury,
The Christmas shoppers in the malls, frazzled in a hurry,
And I think on how we loved the summer in all its heat and haze,
And how the springtime thrilled us with its rosebuds on parade.

I long to walk with carefree bliss, on the sidewalks of this town,
Long before the sun comes up and throws its weight around.
And feel the cool pavement as it tickles my eager feet,
As the day creeps in like a blessing, slow and ever sweet.

I long to breathe in crispness, the coolness of the shade,
When these nights were made for sleeping and waking unafraid.

I long to visit memories that echo in our past,
The foreign soil we’ve walked upon, our cares and worries cast.

That springtime trip to Paris, the recollection grand,
Of dreams that met their triumph in a lover’s late night plans.

Then I dream of the beach and those summer days,
Where we wore next to nothing and walked in the haze.
A thousand sand castles crafted with care,
Thrilling with the awe and the wonderment there.

And now we are back to autumn once more,
Jack Frost in his vestibule outside the door.

We rise and toast the colors, the changing of the leaves,
The grand old ceremonial of bringing in the sheaves.
We rise and toast this precious fall, this change of seasons grand,
And hold each crunchy precious leaf in the palms of grateful hands.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

SHINING STREETS

SHINING STREETS

The lovers are gone, the spirits remain.

How can this heart survive,
Always and forever in chains?

The joy is past, perturbation reigns.

Dejected I walk through the shining streets again.

The neon lights cheer me,
The winter snow feathers me,
Nightclub singers belt angelic songs.

Mired in misery I search my memory,
Sorting out the rights and the wrongs,
A lonely soldier lost among the throng

All the lights went quickly out,
Snuffed by the smooth sad umbrella of darkness.

And all across this toxic city I walk,
Like a playboy in his house of many rooms,
Each a thriving monument, each a bitter tomb.

The winos and homeless line the grates,
Starving flesh on brittle bone, cruel testaments
To the fickle hand of fate.

Prostitutes mutter enticing offers,
While the lonely drain their coffers for a night of love and beer,
And the dance is replayed on and on, year to lonely year.

Shell of the man I used to be, far from footloose and fancy free,
My energy is drained and I listen to rooftops as they soak up the rain.

The lovers are gone, the spirits remain.

How can a heart survive,
Always and forever in chains?

Clothed in lamplight and a strange psychic pain.
I walk alone through shining streets again.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

REASONS

REASONS

My existence is a poor excuse for a song,
A big gigantic boulder I have carried far too long.
A lonely sheet of music with no cadence and no rhyme.
I want a celestial choir,
To sing me reasons for this day and for my space in time.

I am the weary ruler of this desolate desert soul.
I want a pipe organ to play my life a funeral march.

I want it soft and I want it low,
This funeral march for my dying soul.

I want a celestial angel to place a wreath upon my heart so dead,
An angel who will lay a kiss upon my troubled head.

I want a celestial angel,
To sing me a reason on a tightrope wire,
To set my passive soul afire
And dance around the funeral pyre.

An angel in its purity, to raise me from this joyless space,
The agonizing darkness of this lost and desolate place.

I want to be free and I want to be fine,
To clear these gray skies and to watch the sun shine.

To walk unencumbered through the garden at last,
Long after this pain and this sorrow have passed.

To watch the lilies bloom, to watch the flowers grow,
To watch the clouds float through the heavens
Like precious pillows of snow.

My existence is a poor excuse for a song,
A poor pathetic burden I have carried far too long.

I’m looking for an angel choir to set my dreams to rhyme,
To sing me reasons for this day and for my space in time.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

NO MORE SADNESS

NO MORE SADNESS

Today I’ll play the role of a clown,
Dancing, dancing in the daylight glory.

Tempting the sun to follow in my footsteps,
Letting all the newspapers in on my story.

I’ll scream a great big hi, to all the passersby.
It’s a funky, funky life,
So tell your children and your wife.

I’ll prance all day long on my pogo stick,
Practice a little vaudeville schtick,
And let the harmonies ring.

With tunes of gladness and no more sadness,
Just watch those people sing.

Life is too short for the tears of a minstrel,
Dancing, dancing in your morning tea.

Forget the bad news in the morning daily,
Grab your coat and a ukulele,
Come merrily along with me.

Down the funky, funky sidewalks,
With restless gait and nonsense talk.

We’ll bring cheer to the neighborhoods,
And let them know we’ve got the goods,

Banish all the pain and sorrow,
Find the gold at the end of the rainbow.

Today we’ll play the role of clowns,
Tiptoeing through the tulips, the petunias and the roses,
Dancing, dancing merrily in the daylight glory,
Smiling in our greasepaint and our bright red noses.

We’ll catch the latest funny flick.
Play fast and loose with the vaudeville schtik
And let the zingers zing.
With tunes of gladness and no more sadness
Just watch those people sing.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

DIRTY SALLY

DIRTY SALLY

She was old as the Bible and could curse like a sailor,
A shoe-in for crime but at romance a failure.

No tougher cowgirl had ever come before her,
And there has been no tougher since.

Many a ragged mile she would ride,
Hugging her horse as it jumped the fence.

And she went down fighting at the end,
Down the dusty road by the river’s bend.

Dirty Sally died in her boots.
Wednesday it was when she left us,
A wild rapscallion, a gloomy guss.

Doesn’t anyone sing for this ragged cowgirl?

Doesn’t anyone want to dance around the funeral pyre for Dirty Sally?
To eulogize the bullet holes in her ancient life?
To memorialize her pain and her never ending strife?

Doesn’t anyone sing for this ragged cowgirl?

Dirty Sally, who never took a man
And who had gaps in her western teeth.

Doesn’t anyone pause to visit her grave
And on it place a tender wreath?

She built her own silences, built her own cradle,
Dug her own grave,
Here in the land of the free,
Here in the home of the brave.

She died unforgiven, her sins unatoned,
And left behind nothing but a skull and some crossbones.

Oblivious to the pain she had caused you and me.
Let us dance around the funeral pyre, wish her a gorgeous eternity.

Dirty Sally died in her boots.
Wednesday it was and raining.
And the world never noticed, turning ‘round like a whirl.
Doesn’t anyone sing for this ragged cowgirl?

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

FOLK DANCE

FOLK DANCE

My dear man, you remind me of the old country,
Of my mother drying her hands by the fire,
The good old tent revival, the preacher and the choir.

You remind me of the scent of homemade bread,
Of fresh cotton sheets on a freshly made bed.

The aroma of the good life thrills me to the bone.
My dear man, it’s because of you, you and you alone.
The river it baptizes, our love a precious stone.

And you remind me of the evening star,
That spreads its brightness near and far.

Of rainy nights in front of the fire,
The winter of my deep content,
The throbbing pulse of my desire.

You remind me of good old fashioned holidays,
Of a better time and place,
Of when the world belonged to me,
A soldier in a sacred space.

My dear man, you remind me of the folklore,
Of some gallant place I have been before,
A place where memories are stored,
The cider jug, the tambourine,
The mouth harp and the washboard.

The folks who danced their troubles
Beyond the farthest mountaintop,
A great and glorious harvest,
A picture perfect crop.

You remind me of the lonesome oak,
The oxen and the yoke,
The graveyards in the moonlight,
Of those that fought the good fight.

My dear man, you remind me
Of some longed for ancient home.

And I long so to be baptized,
In the scent of your cologne.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

CASTLES IN THE FOG

CASTLES IN THE FOG

Life spans are brief and illusory,
Like the first morning dew on a manicured lawn,

And what lives soon dies,
In the too quiet hours of the dawn.

And each life is a monument,
Tall and proud with many rooms,
Teetering upon the fault line,
Set to tumble all too soon.

And we are all kings and queens,
Silk and satin and fancy things.
Our lives are castles,
Nestled in the hills of our every breath.
We start out strong then limp along,
Lurching slowly towards our death.

My love, you are as dazzling as a castle tower,
This love affair has been my crowning final hour.

Your body is alluring, stunning in its strength,
A mysterious castle in the mist I wish to explore at length

So lend to me a song and a rhyme,
A little of your royal time.

For kingdoms have fallen in a single day,
Their riches tossed and torn,

Often lying mangled with the coming of the morn.

Life spans are brief and illusory, sinking like a city in its smog,
And I fear losing you, in the cover of the mystic fog.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

LEGACIES

LEGACIES

The evening sun gallops over the indifferent mountains,
My sorrows fall like waterfalls and overflow like fountains.

I carry the world like a native juggling water on his head,
At home with the vagabonds and the unrepentant dead.

My fantasies, they swish and slide, over the gorges deep and wide.

I have lost my glow and lost my reasons,
Here at the changing of the seasons.

Like a tree that stands with one yet clinging leaf,
I lurch toward heaven with all the strength of my belief.

I have climbed the final hill and have fallen hard
unto the soft and lovely grasses,

I have lost the torch I carried to the scared and searching masses.

I have said goodbye to my friends and to my lover,
Given my life to the sweet smell of the rain,
And every last chance has slipped through my hands
Traversing alone this lovely fruited plain.

I have left deep prints where these tired feet have walked,
Have written the last word, talked the last talk.

I have built near perfect castles in the hills of my wildest dreams,
Then watched those castles crumble, ripping at their lonesome seams.

I have wandered this earth and tasted the world,
My wanderlust shining like a precious pearl.

I have climbed every mountain like a motherless child,
Floated through the strains of sleep and lost myself in the wilds.

The evening sun sets over the indifferent mountains,
My sorrows fall like waterfalls, and overflow like fountains.

And in the end, if I live or die, it is all the same to me,
Alone tonight with my memories and my meaningless legacies.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

QUIETLY I COME TO YOU

QUIETLY I COME TO YOU

Quietly I come to you, at the end of another day,
And feel your love engulf me in that old familiar way.

Like an ancient, favorite overcoat, you warm me to the core,
And light the flame of passion, keep it burning evermore.

Quietly I come to you and empty out my mind,
The cobwebs of my discontent, the rusty nails of time.

You comfort me like an easy chair, like a favorite reverie,
And rouse the embers to a blaze, ignite my fantasies.

Softly now you hold me, in the sway of loving hands,
And a bitter past soon stumbles upon the shifting sands.

I breathe in transformation, surrender to your will.
I could drink your love forever and never get my fill.

Softly now you take me, cool against the sheets,
Your kisses hot against my skin, I feel the rapture sweet.

Quietly I come to you, as quiet as a prayer,
Knowing your steadfastness like a fortress will be there.

Like a warm and downy blanket, I am calmed by your embrace.
Quietly I come to you and kiss your precious face.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

HOLE

HOLE

Go back in your hole of my past life
And freeze yourself there.

For you are a relic from my recent long ago.

I have no need for your screams
And all your self-righteous horror
At all my unrealized dreams.

You were not there on the fateful day,
God shaped my body in the clay.

I do not think you created me in the womb,
I do not think you would go with me to the tomb.

I do not think you would hurt very much
If I should go and bury my dreams.
Go back in your hole of my past life,
I do not need your screams.

I do not need you one little bit
Your sarcastic banter and your wit.
I do not need you with your stern crossed arms,
Your mercenary misplaced charms.

So go back in your hole where I cannot see your eyes,
In my hell I do not need another devil in disguise.

I am burning already, soon to be gone in a mighty flash,
And all that will be left of me is worthless rubble and misspent ash.

Go back in your hole of my past life
And freeze yourself there.

For you are a relic from my recent long ago.

I have no need for your screams
And all your self-righteous horror
At all my unrealized dreams.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

SWEET INFINITY

SWEET INFINITY

(FOR KYLE, HAPPY 10TH!)

Here in your arms, I take my sacred rest.

Sheltered from the madcap world,
My head upon your chest.

With you I share a history,
both commonplace and sweet,

In the siren song of midnight,
you’re a refuge and retreat.

So many mutual memories
that gather ‘round like friendly ghosts,
Gentle apparitions of the times I treasure most.

Rockin’ out to Blondie,
Janis, Judy, Joan.

Acoustically, electrically,
How our love has grown.

Splashing in the ocean, rejoicing in the surf,
Late night loving, carnal joy, our bodies precious turf.

Exotic destinations, Paris, London, Rome,
The bliss of San Francisco,
The cozy glow of home.

The years bolt by like speeding trains,
The golden flame burns strong,
Each breath of life a treasure trove
Since you’ve come along.

Here in your arms, we share a sacred trust,
Hiding from Goliath, just the both of us.

And all my sadness parted, you’re the Moses to my sea,
As love erupts forever into sweet infinity.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Author's Note: Today Kyle and I celebrate our tenth anniversary as a couple. We had our first date on August 18, 2001. Too bad we can't get MARRIED, but I'll get off my political high horse and just say thank you to Kyle for ten wonderful years. Love ya, honey.

SEARCH FOR ECSTASY

SEARCH FOR ECSTASY

Someone help me here and now,
For I have lost the ecstasy.

I do not know the rhyme scheme of my pilgrimage,
The winding road map of my journey.

My tired veins bulge with angry blood.

For I do not know my place,
A lonesome man in a lonesome space.

I do not know a savior to set my spirit free,
I am adrift on the sands that shift.
Floating on a reckless sea, where I have lost the ecstasy.

Someone help me free the blinding rage I feel,
May my lost and lovely kingdom come,
Save me from my martyrdom.
Let my trials and worries end,
Send me a savior and a friend.

For I have fallen out of fashion,
Someone help me find the passion.
Unlock this dungeon and this prison,
Someone help me light the vision,
The milk of human kindness poured
Into this weary waste of a dream
That sleeps in me unexplored.

Someone help me here and now,
In this search for the man in the robe.
Someone help me fight the fight,
All across this dangerous globe.

Someone help me here and now
Open my eyes and let me see,
And light the latent fire in me,
Let it burn both bright and free
To end this search for ecstasy.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

LIFT THESE CHAINS

LIFT THESE CHAINS

Lift these chains from off my body.
These ropes that do immobilize.

I’m sinking in this plaster cast
Far faster than you realize.

The path I walk is bitter and black,
And someone has turned off the lights.

There is no pause or turning back,
No mercy from the gods in sight.

Untie these limbs that shake and plunder,
Everything within their reach.

These dyskinetic arms and legs
Have nothing left to teach.

Let me taste your mercy, sheltered by your loving gaze,
In the place you have designed for me,
When this world and I have parted ways.

And let me walk unhindered
Through the gardens you’ve prepared.

Where the clear sweet scent of the hyacinths
Permeates the air.

Lift these chains and call my name,
If you ask then I shall follow.
Your voice will echo in the mountains,
In every glen and hollow.

Lift these chains from off my body,
Let my eyes see crystal clear,

The beauty of your paradise,
The magic of your kingdom dear.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

IT'S ONLY MORNING

IT’S ONLY MORNING

It’s only precious morning, sneaking across the plains.
An early dose of sunrise, a smattering of rain.

I rise to taste the maiden dew that sits in silence on the grass
And build my dreams of innocence on days and moments past.

It’s only gentle morning with its quiet, subtle cheer,
That wakes me to the happiness of friends that gather near.

It’s only morning, sight for sore eyes, dreaming of a time.
When young and old will count as bold
Her deep and delicate designs.

It’s only morning, like a wet nurse to my aching heart,
Ministering to the fragments true,
The remnants of what once was art.

Sing her praises loud and long, buried ‘neath the blackbird’s song,
And raise the eyes to search the sky, while hopes and dreams go flying by.

It’s only gentle morning and nothing really left to fear,
The empty pockets of the lost, this strange and desolate hemisphere.
It’s only morning, that falls from heaven like a wayward leaf,
Reminding us that time is short and life so very brief.

We hold to life with precious might, we sometimes sink beneath its weight,
We drink the chalice ‘til its dry, until the palate satiates.
Until we get an inkling, until we get a clue,
Of both the wisdom age can bring and the damage time can do.

For now the good outweighs the bad and so we wake and so we rise,
As Aurora drives her chariot across these golden skies.
And as my love and I, we watch the sun come sweeping ‘cross the plains,
We reminisce on days of bliss, the coolness of a morning rain.

-Bruce Potts
Copyrighit 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

PICTURE PERFECT

PICTURE PERFECT

Picture perfect day, the sun hangs high above me,
In the early morning still, pretending that it loves me.
But soon to burn and blister,
Every miss and mister.
Sun of the Deist God my forefathers once worshiped,
The eagle’s talons have been weakened,
Its wings now pruned and clipped.
Believing in nothing but nature and its proud and brutal force,
We limp along, weak and injured,
Our small lives run their meager course.

This is where I break with you, founding fathers of this dream,
For nature is a fickle friend with diabolic schemes.
My god is not of the flooding rains, nor the monstrous hurricane,
But the god of kindness and good will, who walks amongst us still.

Picture perfect day, the sun hangs high above me,
But so alas do UV rays and polluted air to breathe,
This Deist God, this monstrous creep,
Tsunamis that murder while nations sleep.
You cannot be a god of mine.
My God lives inside my heart,
His body bread, his spirit wine.
And all his mysteries and his might,
Will be revealed in his good time.
My God is not of nature, not of man,
My God is a god of love, my God understands.
And when at last we are all called home,
And retrace the tracks on earth we trod,
The plan it will be etched in the rugged stone,
God’s footprints next to ours in this murky earthen sod.

Picture perfect day, when the blind can see and the deaf can hear.
When the mourners are comforted, in their lonesome song of tears.
When I can walk without a limp, and speak without a hitch
When the carpenter comes back for me with his canvas and his cross-stitch.
Picture perfect day, when the whole world stands in peace,
When guns and bombs are laid aside, when war and hatred cease.
When the eagle is silenced by the sweetness of the dove,
When the world alas awakens to the Beauty of His love.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

DRIFTWOOD

DRIFTWOOD

There are days for sailing
Where girls with ample breasts
Succeed at diverting you

From the sad business
Of life inside your skin

Drift along, son,
Like some
green, bewildered apprentice

The beaches welcome you
With warm sand and sensuous foam

The days teem with make believe

City lasses,
disguised as island natives,
Feed you tropical fruit beneath the palms

There are days for sailing virgin thoughts
Into a lover’s waiting ear-

There are days for watching
the driftwood float ashore.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

BLEEDING LAVENDER

BLEEDING LAVENDER

In the sweet cocoon of evening,
I lay my head slow on your shoulder.

And night holds still to a pregnant pause
To smash the hourglass and rain down the sand.

And my love bleeds lavender,
color of the springtime flowers.

I swim in the magic and wonder,
The forgetfulness of these precious hours.

You lie in a bubble beside me,
Your arms on my shoulders,

A gentle squeeze that pushes through
The sundry aches and pains of day.

My worries like a bag of boulders quickly melt away.

And my dreams sing lavender, all the pastel marvel,
The magic dewdrops on the flowers.

I breathe the heady fragrance of this romance that is ours.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

BITTER

BITTER

Bitter is my blackened heart, to ponder what’s at stake,
I drink the poison hungrily, it leaves an aftertaste.

What little I held to my breast as sacred and as true,
Dissolves into the setting sun, horizons gray that once were blue.

The bastards are mute, they choke on the words,
They cannot say for better or worse.

Their silence up and slaps my face,
And love, a sad, cheap real estate depreciates quickly.

Bitter is my wretched soul, issuing condemnation.
It leaves no room to wiggle, it demonstrates no levity,
It stagnates in the dirty pool of life in all its brevity.

The bastards go on with their dreaming,
Futures sure and brightly gleaming.

Sons of bitches dare to thrive and mock me in my sad decline.

The bastards slight me with their whimsy,
All their slick evasions flimsy,
Shallow as a kiddie pool I recklessly dove into.

Bitter is my sawed off spirit, an awful swift assassin,
Hopefulness a musty relic, fallen out of fashion.

The mirror cracks, the cancer spreads, the web is all but woven.
I stand upon the precipice, where nothing is forgiven.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

SECRETS

SECRETS

He knows who he once was
But he keeps it camouflaged.

There are so many demented dragons
Who would like to reveal
The sick skeletons in his closet.

He lives
In clothes buttoned to the neck
And lips that hide his fangs.

And his Mickey Mouse wristwatch
Tells time in units of broken wishes.

It is two lifetimes past heartache
Two lifetimes past his lost lover.

His hood covers his pointy ears
And his plastic nose and eyeglasses
Make him another Groucho in distress.

He knows who he once was
And who he is
But he is slightly losing touch with reality
And he whiles away the time
Cutting out sensual paper dolls
In his gingerbread house with no doors.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

THE YEARNING

THE YEARNING

Some people live for the thrill of the chase,
Forever in search of their niche or their place,
Not knowing joy if it slapped them in the face.

Always forever fans of the yearning, to live perpetually in desire,
Always dreaming of new passion, the promise of the fire.
Never knowing a soul mate sent from heaven above.
From one night stand to one night stand, mistaking sex for love.

But I have lived for long enough to know,
That yearning it can be a sham.
Long enough to know just what I want, who and what I am.
And I know by now that you’re the one who sets my heart to singing.
Though there was no great cacophony of cathedral bells ringing.
No grand exploding meteorite landing right in front of me.
It was a sweet and quiet knowing, yet it set my spirit free.

Too much of the yearning destroys the soul.
Drains the spirit of its zest, swallowing it whole.
Now all I yearn for is for joy to light each path down which you walk,
To shout my love into the heavens, to let the people talk.
To wag their tongues, say what they will of the way in which I live.
And though I’m quick to anger, I know how to forgive,
The ignorance and misguided fear, they carry with them year to year.
The luggage of grudges they carry around, that falls like lead upon the ground.
Intolerance and ignorance throughout the world resound.

Some people bundle their emotion and keep it all inside,
I wear my heart upon my sleeve and hold you close with pride.
And as our love just grows and grows and the earth just keeps on turning.
I live for the thrill of your hand holding mine and let go of the yearning.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

SWEET CHANGE

SWEET CHANGE

Blossoms pink and petals white adorn the path I tread.
I think upon the days gone by, the evil times my soul has fled.

The days that guilt was a constant friend,
The nights that just refused to bend,
The calendar where every square
Was black and poisoned nightshade.

And I marvel just how Fate arranged and how it ushered through.
The sweet change that swept over me in the aftermath of finding you.

A young man with a smile so keen and a head of soft blond hair,
I knew you were my destiny when you took me unawares.

Flowers fresh of every hue decorate the path I walk.
My pumpkin’s turned into a coach, and Jack has climbed the beanstalk.

My life once so pedestrian, rife with ruts and potholes,
Shimmers like an amethyst that has shook my very soul.

Your fingers like a ring of keys on some brave night watchman’s belt
Unlocked my spirit with their touch and caused my heart to melt.

A bower full of fragrant trees is now my resting place
And springtime shares its bounty when I behold your face.

And I marvel just how Fate stepped in and how it ushered through,
The sweet change that swept over me, in the aftermath of finding you.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

ONE-SIDED LOVE

ONE-SIDED LOVE

Only one person cares to trill a love song
Of one-sided tenderness.

The Cedars of Lebanon quake from the mountainside.
Beside a crystal lake, its silver waters flowing,
In a lonely wisp of flame, of orange sunsets glowing.
In the lonesome meadow where a lonesome moon hangs sleeping,
I lie a broken spirit, subdued and softly weeping.

For a one-sided love took a one-sided plunge,
Into the lake of a new love’s fire.
Born of a strange and a new desire,
The tightrope dancer on the wire, walks the shadowy mile.
A catalog of stories in a sweet refrain,
Echoes through the valley, shouting out his name.
A handful of dandelions he gathered from the field,
Scatter thus like the ash and dust that forced my heart to yield.

In keeping with the desert balls of fire,
Scorching suns dry up the winsome afternoons.
Alleys of the night, cedar trees on display,
His hands they groped me in the dark,
His lips showed me the way.
The sands are stirred, the wind it whips,
He and his magic fingertips,
Between the satin sheets, seduced by ravenous lips.

Sad, secret tales of a one-sided love,
Creep like the memory of melodies dead and dying,
Out of the frying pan into the fire, illusion free and flying,
Safe from the crypt of you and your tired iron will,
The ashes fall like timber from these vagabond hills.

I wake from a nightmare, sweating in my underclothes.
The ghost of a one-sided fantasy in the home of the deposed,
An old man with his rambling recollections
Shrieks his dead regrets to a weary, withered twilight.
I never got close enough, to fling my arms around you tight.
The cedar trees, robed in kingly majesty,
The giant of your love’s sweet ecstasy,
Are too tall taunts of my diminutive size.
Unknowingly you mock me with your reckless eyes.

I walk with a vision, burning at my fingertips,
The taste of your mouth wreaking havoc on my lips.
Night erupts from gentle day, the Cedars of Lebanon come out to play,
Their branches whipping as they heave and bend,
Your name is lost upon the fickle wind.
The evening wails, its sad and secret tales.
Loneliness tears at the only one who cares,
To sing his lonely song, fist in velvet glove.
The melancholy melody of a one-sided love.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

AUTHOR'S NOTE: A new poem about life BK (Before Kyle).

SINBAD

SINBAD

My soul, it is not clean for you, my heart is quite contrary,
I sail this desolate ocean like an asphalt, wind-swept prairie.

I come to you with flailing stony arms,
An embrace of flaming crusty steel.

But winds in the desert blow fiercely northward,
Winds that bring the reins of change, winds that turn the wheel,
As if afraid to fall in love, as if afraid to feel.

Romance flees from the sultry reverie of a pirate on the seas,
In the stone cold ache of winter, you cannot hear my pleas.
Love lies ripping at its lonesome seams,
In the humid stillness of the night, I toss and turn in fitful dreams.

I still live a silhouette, in love with my reflection yet,
And you prefer to not acknowledge me,
Although I call your name in vain.

I see mirrors of the past, when our tarnished love was true,
When you and I we swam in sync, reflecting pools of crystal blue.

In evening’s grand and gallant shade, or in the fountain of a maddening mermaid,

I can see inside, despite this patch, the portals of your peril-
Speechless spies can see inside your mind.

Let the curtain fall and come to me,
Let the fever rest relentlessly.

I will taunt you ‘til a million milestones
Lie murdered by your lonesome throne.
Machinations dire and weighty
Haunt my dreams and those of my mateys.

Pervasions of evil cover the eyelids of Sinbad,
Slashing his sword as your mind he comes reading,
Hiding his black heart, into the ocean bleeding.
Frozen in time, you lie in wait for your departed spring,
The albatross around your neck, a bird that won’t take wing.

My soul, it is not clean for you, I sail my desolate sea so wary,
And your spirit haunts my moonlit dreams,
Like an asphalt, wind-swept prairie.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

DEATH TRAP

DEATH TRAP

I had nothing to do
But spit marbles
At the heads of park pigeons.

So I asked her over to kill some time.

She asked me
To come play hide and seek with her.

We waltzed like demons on her fire escape
And because we were both feeling
Ragged out and empty,

We decided to make a crank call
To the Suicide Prevention Center.

And we used some note pads she had stolen
From the Sheraton
To write piles of imaginative suicide notes
Which we then mailed
To all our imaginary friends.

Then
We escaped to an imaginary island together
And the rest is history.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Here's another one to add to the over 365 poems on this blog that no one ever reads. From my college days. I was a bit gloomy then too!

THE GIRL NEXT DOOR

THE GIRL NEXT DOOR

The girl next door
Stores her marijuana cigarettes
In her guitar case.

And she dresses liberally
Like a rejuvenated flower child.

She wears psychedelic pants
And she plays funky music
Through stereo speakers
At her weekend barbecues

She has a lot of strange friends
Who wear bandanas
And “Power to the People” tattoos.

And I swear that
The girl next door
Wants to seduce me with her
Revolutionary body

I wait behind
My conservative picket fence
For her strange friends to leave

And I wait for the girl next door
To throw me a peace sign
And to signal me into her mystical world
With a Beatles tune on her six-string

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

AUTHOR'S nOTE: Just like "The Poetic One", this poem was written around 1982. If it sounds at all familiar to you and you went to JMU during the years 1980 to 1984 you may have read it in the 1982 edition of the JMU literary magazine Chrysalis. Obviously my writing style was quite different then. More free verse, less rhyme, etc. But I still love throwing in some moldy oldies from time to time.

STEM THE RAGING TIDE

STEM THE RAGING TIDE

Storms kick up, like a fetus in the belly.
Sapping what’s left of my phantom strength,
Turning my legs to jelly.

Without your kisses sacred sweet,
The water fills my paper boat
And Fate soon bares its jagged teeth
And grabs me by the throat.

And only you can bring the calm,
And only you can tame the sea,
And turn the skies to crystal clear,
To set the captive free.

Lightning cracks its glittering whip,
A sadomasochistic trip
That leaves its welts and bruises tattooed upon my back,
A strange, grotesque reminder that my life has gone off track.

A train wreck set to happen, a jockey on an errant horse,
A rollercoaster run amok, a missile fired off course.

Only you can take and mold
This helpless and misshapen clay
Into a man of towering strength
And catapult him through the day.

Storms kick up, like a fetus in my belly,
Sapping what’s left of my fractured strength
Turning my limbs to jelly.

The lightning cracks, the thunder roars
And Death waits just outside my door.

But you are there just like before,
Standing steadfast by my side,
To stem the raging tide.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

SWIFTLY FALLS THE NIGHT

SWIFTLY FALLS THE NIGHT

Swiftly falls the night,
It burns like a firefly or a street lantern,
Searing my soul with its desolate veil,
Filling my dark heart with its billowing sail.

Swiftly falls the night, and I am lost without you,
Though the moon shines through, awesome and bright.

I skate upon the Milky Way, my life in tattered disarray,

And all my fears come trembling, like streams from a fountainhead.
Numbness fills me head to toe, my senses have gone dead.

Like nails upon a chalkboard, a streak of sudden dread,
And I am helpless, hopeless, doomed,
Trapped inside this lonesome room.

I dream I am estranged from you, the tears they turn to waterfalls,
Cascading down my craggy face, like insects how they crawl.

How they sketch their tale of woe, the wrinkles and the worry lines.
The stars fall naked on my pillow, their luster gone that once did shine.

And somewhere beneath the firmament, amidst this gloom of fallen gold,
You sleep in peace with some new love who has you in his hold.

Swiftly falls the evening, it burns like a comet careening into dust,

And I dream that you are lost to me, our love fades melting into rust.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

THE POETIC ONE

THE POETIC ONE

Friend, there was silver in the sculpture of your face,
And there was marble where you sat upon your throne.

You sat and scanned the daily news, the mall crowds
And the lemmings.

And friend, there was mystery in the fade of your jeans,
The way you held yourself and your silent walk,
The way you scowled when I asked what’s up,
Or made a bad pun, in desperate attempts at poesy.

I thought I knew you oh so very well.
I thought I felt your hand in mine
And that you knew a secret
I thought I’d kept so cunningly.

A secret that was lost on you, so deep and cavernous

From the first time that I saw you, I thought you the poetic one
And searched my mind to find the words to weave a web around us.

And soon I found our ideal ones with sculpted face
and silver thrones,
Can terrify and drive away and make us hold our hasty tongues.

And oh my sweet Thoreau, I could have shown you a way
Unknown to USA Today,
And whispered a whole teeming host
Of feelings that were lost on the Washington Post.

I could have told you strange news,
That would have knocked you off your jogging shoes
And immobilized your sweats.

News that would have pained and panicked you
That would have shattered dreams,
News that would have ransomed trust.

From the first time that I saw you, I thought you the poetic one
And searched my mind to try to find the words to weave a web around us.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I wrote this poem for a guy I knew back in college. He was a very "artsy" English major sort, but he seemed almost sexless in a way, sort of an "untouchable". I've changed a line or two in it and made some revisions, but basically it's just one of those pining after someone you can't have type of poems.

HOLD YOURSELF TOGETHER

HOLD YOURSELF TOGETHER

You see your life darkly, a cloudy, murky mess,
A jumper perched upon the ledge,
A soul that begs forgiveness.

You hold yourself together with paper clips and twine,
Your prayer of supplication hangs choking on the vine.

Lost within the desert sands, you drink the chalice dry
And murmur soft your SOS as the bitter end draws nigh.

So many moonlit kisses have faded from your lips
And mourners come with roses black to place upon your crypt.

You hold yourself together, with scotch tape and with dreams,
Your gold purse it is ripping and tearing at the seams.

The lovers they have all turned strange, the friends have turned their backs.

Your life is like a drifter, along the railroad tracks,
Mourning what you once possessed, cursing what you lack.

So many sunlit Sundays spent hanging at the park,
Are now just distant memories that taunt you in the dark.

You hold yourself together with silk threads and with yarn,
Your hope a bloody hostage beheaded in the dawn.

The sad decapitation of your cloistered, monkish plans
That died a swift and brutish death alone on foreign sands.

Some say the human spirit’s a brave, resilient sort,
I say the spirit’s fragile, life is brittle, broken, short.
You are among the lost and lonely, dejected and downcast,
Your life a sullen nightmare that was never meant to last.

You walk the last mile gladly, despair beyond belief.
A rat that’s lost within the maze, a suicide in stark relief.
You hold yourself together, a cloudy, murky mess,
A forsaken man with one last stand, a soul that begs forgiveness.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

DREAM STATE

DREAM STATE

In the dream state, in the sleep state, I have held and loved you long.

Long before you came to me and life at last made sense,
I formed you in the vapors of a foggy adolescence.

A road paved with the sweat of a thousand fruitless searches.
I looked for you in dormitories, libraries, and churches.

In the dream state, in the sleep state, I have summoned you beside me,
Hoping Fate would weave its web and send you here to guide me.

In the dream state, in the keep state, I have found you on the stairway,
Dressed in black, my Johnny Cash, inviting me with family tales,
Rescuing me from the deathly hallows and the lonesome sand and shale.

Sitting at your kitchen table, catching myself falling,
Past and future blending and all my senses calling,

In the dream state, in the stream state, of consciousness ascending,
Two lives await completion, hand in hand unending.
Your body warm and beckoning, my day of final reckoning.

In the dream state, in the sleep state,
I have held and loved you long,
Before I found the treasured bliss that my life in stillness missed,
I heard within a fog-like din your tempting siren song.

Long before your lips met mine, here in the present tense,
I tossed and turned on the dangerous shores of a reckless adolescence.
Endured the barbs and the taunts of the crowd,
Yet followed the sound of my heart beating loud,
To the threshold of your open and inviting door.
Swept inside on your welcome ride, I pined for love no more.

And now I glide and soar with you, now I am gently floored by you,
My angel and my lover,
In the dream state, in the sweet state, of nightfall’s magic cover.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

BACK PORCH SWING

BACK PORCH SWING

Summer evening, the fireflies gleam like backyard candles.

You and I growing older, the male pattern baldness,
The love handles.

In love with you, in love with life, in love with everything.
In love with the wondrous life we lead,
Arms wrapped around you on the back porch swing.

Watching the rabbits, the deer and the squirrels,
Watching the world in languid repose.

Watching you with eyes of devotion,
From your beautiful head to your wonderful toes.

Waiting for the sweet veil of night to fall,
To wrestle like schoolboys on the grass.

To feel each curve of your body so sweet,
The contours of your beautiful ass,

And then to continue the party indoors,
Lustfully craving the flesh that is yours.

The sunset a divine aphrodisiac
As I run my fingernails up your back
And then down again in swift solemn motion,
Something you love and my act of devotion.

In love with my life and the man of my dreams,
And the wondrous allure of the back porch swing.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

YOU ARE FAR AWAY

YOU ARE FAR AWAY

You are, alas, a brooding man, and often hard to reach.
Not to say that life with me is any walk along the beach.

But I feel I’m always failing you, impotence in bed and out,
And you are far away from me, I have no wisdom and no clout.

Do you stay with me because you care
Or only just to cut my hair,
And have someone to travel with to places you have longed to see?
All I know for sure is you’re an enigma and a mystery.

I lend no comfort with my words, I have no wisdom in your eyes.
Just some old and faltering man who needs your constant care.
Yet sometimes you’re so far away you’re scarcely even there.

And yet I love you more than life, I only want the same from you.
To feel your sweet and tender lips embrace my famous dirty kiss.
And not feel like a sinking ship, rudderless on frozen seas.
Useless both in bed and out, a broken limb from off the tree.

You are, alas, a wise old soul, melancholy, staid
And I know you know I need you just to make it through the day.
And somehow I wish I really knew, what it was drove me to you.

What was all the fuss about, that bade you join your hand in mine?
How was I some diamond gleaming, how was I some special find?

The questions linger, tears cascade, they rain down hard on my parade,
And the answers blow in the summer wind, with you so far away.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

ALL IN THIS ALONE

ALL IN THIS ALONE

Let us pause and tear a page,
From this strange computer age.
You may have tons of cyber friends,
But how many are for real?
How many look into your soul
And feel the pain you feel?

How many of them would die for you
Or lay a lone rose on your tomb?
How many are there to comfort you,
To hold your hand in your hour of doom?
To brace your fall, to return your last call?
How many cyber friends’ photos
Do you proudly hang upon your wall?

All which begs the question,
Set in granite, fading in sun,
Are we really passing fancies,
When all is said and done?
Are we traveling under the illusion
That cyberspace and its minions care?
Cyber friends with open arms
At the top of the golden stair?

Are we fooling our gullible hearts
There’s life beyond our own frail skin.
The flesh that hangs to the hardy bone,
Sinking fast like a jagged stone
And snagged somewhere, aching and sore,
Where we walk defeated, breathe no more.

Let us pause and tear a page, from this strange computer age.
A million readers may follow your blog,
You may be king of cyberspace.
Though I can muster only half a dozen
To read the tripe I write.
Yet how many souls would you need to touch
To fill up your sad and lonely cup?

Forgive my bitter ravings,
Forgive my cynicism.
Forgive my madman ramblings, ignore my self-derision.
I am made of lonesome, fragile, unforgiving stuff,
I dream and I dream but it’s never enough.
My tears can fall like jagged hail,
No matter what I do I fail.

All which begs the question,
Set in granite, carved in sand,
How will I fill the rest of this empty life,
A fragile shell of man.
The more I reach, the more I fall,
And like the belly of the asp,
That crawls across the desert floor,
My reach exceeds my noble grasp.
I slither toward the finish line
With the flourish of a gasp.
A gasp and a half for the legions of sins
For which I must atone,
A tired world’s lost and passing fancy,
All in this alone.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Refill that Zoloft prescription!

PEACE

PEACE

Daisy child, flower child,
Wave your fragrant rose, back and forth beneath my nose.

And help me stop my crying and start my trying all over again.

Tell me who you are and where you’ve been
And lay your gentle body here by mine for all time.

Daisy child, flower child, we walked the earth together,
Sharing both the bad and good, the sun and rainy weather.

You were once my compass, my bold and vibrant touchstone,
Comforted me on many a night I would have spent alone.

You cleaved to me and shared my dream, catered to my every scheme,
And looked into my lonely eyes and pierced my thin disguise.

The eagle soars above the dreamer’s head like wildfire.
Lightning strikes at the unrepentant dead without tire.

The world, its pains and promises still thrives.
This earth belongs to the alive.
Peddle your posies straight in my direction,
Lay in my arms, give yourself to sweet reflection.

Daisy child, flower child, you were sweet and you were wise.
Now you belong to the universe and to the teeming skies.
Every year I make the pilgrimage to your grave,
And lay a silk arrangement on the ground wherein you lay.
And pause to take my inventory of a love that will not perish.
A love that still survives the years, a love I’ll always cherish.

Daisy child, flower child, my steps begin to falter,
As I lay this floral sacrifice upon your stony altar.
And though I’m old, I keep your picture folded in the Bible’s crease.
The thought of you brings me silent peace.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

NEW AND IMPROVED

NEW AND IMPROVED

I went to the repair shop to see what I could find.
Got me some new parts for a broken piece of mind.

And you my little lady are looking at
The new improved version of me, myself and I.

A brand new man, got a new Trans Am and a mansion in the sky.

Want you to know I did it all for you,
Traded in the bad for good and all the false for true.

And you, Mr. Son of a Gun
Are looking at 2011’s first born son.

Ain’t I just a beauty and ain’t I done my duty?
I got big bulging muscles on loan from the gym
And I got me a life coach, I’m back in the swim.

Ain’t I the star in this ab fab new car?

Aren’t you in the least impressed
With the imitation hair I’ve had sewn on my chest?

The splendid new head of hair, the stunning toupee?
Why, I knocked ten years off my life in the span of a single day.

Aren’t I the brilliant one, to look so fresh and young?
You could learn a thing or two from me, it’s the God’s honest truth,
How to achieve immortal life and everlasting youth.

Wipe that smirk off your old wrinkled face,
Compared to me you’re a stone cold disgrace.

My way is definitely the best way to be,
Here in the narcissistic 21st century.

I did it for your fun, Mr. Son of a Gun.
I’m hip and I’m glam in this sporty Trans Am,
Come go with me, you’ll see I’m the one.

And if you don’t like it, I’ll pluck out your eye,
‘Cause this is the new improved version of me, myself and I.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

LICK AND A PROMISE

LICK AND A PROMISE

The pole it hangs invitingly, in lavish splendor over me,
And it’s not that I don’t recognize, that look of longing in your eyes.
But tonight that pole is out of reach, and I am stiff as you are randy.
I’ll pull a phrase from my mother’s day, a phrase that I’ve kept handy.

Let me give you a lick and a promise and then just let it go,
Perhaps tomorrow I will feel more like the Full Monty and the Big O.
But tonight I’d rather lose myself in the velvet comfort of these sheets,
Against the sinews of your arms, around me soft and sweet.

I’ll give you a lick and a promise to your bulbous lollipop.
To ravish you forever and to never, ever stop.
But sometimes even electrodes and pills,
Just aren’t enough to cure my ills,
And on those times when full blown would be super duper nice.
But such protracted pleasure is just not in the dice,
It’s times like these that a lick and a promise more than will suffice.

Your body teases, tantalizes, tempts me with its pose,
From your dirty golden hair to your sweet and precious toes.
And smack in the middle of all of this, this magic little stick,
Ga-Ga says it’s a disco, but I think that’s just her shtick.
But can I give it a lick and a promise, a promise that’s dyed in the wool,
That one night soon I will gladly ride you like that mechanical bull.
That mechanical bull in the cowboy saloon, the one that goes v-room, v-room.
Like a cowboy I am coming for you, sometime very soon.

But tonight, let’s just give it a lick and a promise,
This love affair is never a one night stand.
When the pills kick in I’ll be happy to dive right in,
And take your Situation well in hand.
Tonight just let me snuggle, beneath the stubble on your chin,
And dream of us in Paradise, sleeping next to your velvet skin.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

TROUBLE ON THE STAIRS

TROUBLE ON THE STAIRS

There’s trouble on the stairs for me, everywhere I go.
Trouble on the fire escape, trouble and a world of woe.
Near a set of stairs is never good for me to be,
A staircase is an endless source of much calamity.

There’s trouble on the stairs for me, be it day or be it night,
The stairs I can’t negotiate, try as I might like.
I tend to teeter on the edge, like some fool upon a ledge,
I tend to have a strange revulsion, I have a thing called retropulsion.
I tend to fall backwards as I make my way, stealthily towards the top,
And then before I make it there, I take that perilous drop.

Before I make it up halfway, before I make it over the hump,
I find myself in a twisted heap, flat upon my rump.
It’s well beyond my understanding, how I seldom make it past the landing.
And all because they tell me my balance is impaired.
I am a Parkinsonian, I’ve trouble on the stairs.

And yet what am I to do, the stairs are everywhere.
It’s good that there are railings or I’d be in great despair.
I’ve learned to grab at one of these and pull upwards with all my might.
I hope the railings are secure, for it would be a dreadful plight,
To fall backward to my death from such a dizzy height.

Perhaps it’s all my lover’s fault, and he’s the one to blame.
What kind of fool buys a house with stairs, it’s such a fruitless game.
But I better keep my mouth shut or he’ll confine me to the second floor,
Or put me out upon the street to kvetch and vent no more.

Near a set of imposing steps is never good for me to be,
A staircase is a challenge, a near impossibility.
Yet upward I go, fearlessly, and likewise go my back hairs.
A fearless Parkinsonian, with trouble on the stairs.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

BENEFIT OF THE DOUBT

BENEFIT OF THE DOUBT

Sometimes I think my life is falling, head first down that slippery slope,
Past the point of no return, in the dog days of my horoscope.
Nothing left at the end of the abyss but detritus and dregs,
My soul is slipping fast away, it seems to have lost its sea legs.

And yet I keep on pushing forward, still I keep milling about,
Still content to give my life the benefit of the doubt.
Still trusting I will one day get it right, still hoping one day the stars will align,
Still hoping that the universe will send me some kind of hopeful sign.
Not knowing just how long I’ll wait before I give up hope,
Not knowing if I have the skills to carry on and cope.

Sometimes I think my friends are leaving me and leaving far too soon.
Out of the frying pan into the fire, the cow goes over the moon.
Swiftly, fruitlessly I do my best, to block their path and make them stay.
But desperation, it does not become me, and off they go on their merry way.

Yet I keep making excuses for them, still I keep the lantern out,
Still I give my cherished friends the benefit of the doubt.
Still trusting they will one day come, with their kindness and their merry talk,
Still hoping that like Jack and the giant we will climb that mammoth beanstalk,
And merge our fortunes into one, the cherished dawn, the rising sun.
Time will slow and then stand still, like roses in my windowsill,
And love will blossom yet again, for me and all my wayward friends.

Sometimes I think my doctors hate me, hiding things, leaving things unsaid,
That I am poor and stupid and a tad sick in the head.
Incapable of understanding the slightest little truth,
Sometimes I think my doctors are just a tad uncouth.
Sometimes I take to muttering, how in the hell can it be,
That time spent in their presence means so much money lost to me.
The great big gulf between what they do and the fees that they do charge,
A great big awesome mountain gorge, so gaping and so large.

Still I purse my upper lip and leave it stiff and hanging out,
Still I give my doctors the benefit of the doubt.
Still trusting they will one day learn to speak in terms I understand,
And unleash the science in their art, disease and its ravages safe in their hands.

Sometimes I think my life is falling, I hear the angels sweetly calling,
I hear the horns of heaven blowing and I hear God’s messengers as they shout,
I hear the sound of my own name being tossed and bandied about.
To the heavenly host I surrender the ghost, no more benefits of the doubt.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

CUTEST GUY

CUTEST GUY
(FOR KYLE)

The cutest guy I’d ever seen,
I found amid the pages of a gay male catalogue.
He seemed so quiet and unassuming,
But enveloped my mind in a lustful fog.

And as a late bloomer who had never known love,
A man of 37 who had never been kissed.
I on a whim decided it was time
To discover true love and all I had missed.

So, okay, it wasn’t a catalog, more like a dating game,
And my mind it wandered to the beauty of his name.
And though I never imagined myself with a gentleman named Kyle,
I thought of this sexy man with his grace and all his style.
So I swallowed the bullet, for he wasn’t cheap,
Almost two thousand dollars, I’m glad he wasn’t a creep,
Or a blond haired, blue-eyed pervert, sent by Satan to break my heart,
And rob me of my hard earned cash that was to be my retirement stash.

The night we met I will never forget, there in his luxury town home,
We went to Bob Evans for dinner,
A little early in the game for hands to start to roam.
He was charming, he was sweet, he made my days complete,
Never thought I’d meet a man who’d make me want to tweet.
But alas, these were days long before Twitter,
These were the Dark Ages, don’t forget, although I am not bitter.
I wanted him to take me home and eat me like an apple fritter.

It was a night I shan’t forget, he taught me how to minuet,
Okay, that was out of line, but it was a cheap and easy rhyme.
But later on we did go to France, though never did we actually dance.
Dancing for me an impossibility, unless I want to break my neck.
So I said I was tarred, played the Parkinson’s card, I figured what the heck.

He’s the cutest guy I’d ever seen and we’re together to this day,
Two boring serial monogamists going our merry way.
Ever since that fateful day with the gay male catalog.
When the cutest one I’d ever seen, enveloped my mind in a lustful fog.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

AWAKEN

AWAKEN

Freeze in the rain, bake in the sun,
But arise like the phoenix, awaken.
Jack of all trades, but master of none,
Arise to your glory, awaken.

Go where no one’s gone before,
Hang your shingle on the door.
Be where no one else has been.
Claim your prize through golden eyes, awaken.

In the maelstrom, in the sea,
Through every trial and adversity,
Be the person you knew you could be,
Though the fabric of life is thin
And you wear a coat of tin.
Arise, oil can in trembling hand, awaken.

Size up every struggle, nurture every dream,
Consciousness must be practiced,
Like the rivers flow to streams.
Meditate in stillness, the Buddha and his Zen,
Strike a pose in poet’s clothes, awaken.

King or queen of destiny, own your own mistakes.
And gravitate to your natural state, although your heart it breaks.
Through the glass you may see darkly now, as though life were a prison.
Reach through the bars where you can touch the stars,
There’s a future you have a stake in,
Arise from your slumber, awaken.

Through every last travail, in the midst of the hurricane eye,
See it through your narrative, as though it were imperative,
Chase down every answer like a hunter in the sky.
Chart your days with a traveler’s gaze,
To document just where you’ve been.
Beat the drum ‘til the chariot comes, awaken.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

CRACK IN THE FOUNDATION

CRACK IN THE FOUNDATION

It didn’t take a contractor with his demolition crew,
It didn’t take the OSHA man, in fact it just took you,
To find the crack in the foundation on which I built my life,
Rudderless and lifeless, like a shipwreck in the night.

And so I celebrate the legend, the tall tale and the myth,
Of how you polished up my soul ‘til it gleamed just like an amethyst.
How you sang away my sorrow with each imperfect note,
‘til now the ship is new again, just watch me as I float.

It didn’t take a salvage man with his massive wrecking ball,
It didn’t take three musketeers with their all for one and one for all,
To find the crack in the foundation on which I had staked my claim,
The loophole in the dotted line on which I’d signed my name.
A life that had all but washed away in the dirty burnt out sands,
A thirsty, parched and lonely pilgrim, traversing sacred lands.

It didn’t take an architect with his nouveau riche designs
Or a doctor with his stethoscope to see the deadly signs.
It only took your tender heart and your hands of tender grace,
To wash away the tear stains that had streaked across my face.

And so I raise my glass up high, upwards to the happy sky
That shines its light upon our days in a gentle golden glaze.
And makes my life as sweet as a chocolate meringue pie,
Silky and smooth, in a velvet groove ,with a cherry on top too.

It didn’t take a plumber, with his plungers and his drains,
Or the scarecrow who saved Dorothy with his newfound set of brains,
To find the crack in my foundation on which I’d staked my claim,
To find the hope in my horoscope, the beauty in my soiled name.

All it took was your tender heart and your hands that were gentler still,
To hold me gently as I shook, with the strength of your iron will.
It didn’t take a sorcerer or a witch with her tired and tainted brew.
To save me from my haunted self, all it took was you.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

DISABLE ME

DISABLE ME

Disable me, like an errant anti-theft device,
Disable me, like a broken piece of sidewalk ice,
Break me up in little morsels, quaint and bite size,
And look at me through compassionate bureaucratic eyes.

Disable me, before I blow my furious stack,
Leave me twisting slowly, like a criminal on the rack.
Disable me like a low down smoke alarm,
Devoid of proper functioning, devoid of helpful charm.

Disable me, before I have to fill out one more form,
To justify I need assistance, refuge from my inner storm,
Disable me, my mind is hazy, I may be going slightly crazy,
Disable me, feel my forehead, I feel a little warm.

I’m sick and tired of insurance, COBRA’s like a vicious snake,
And HIPAA’s like a loose woman, to cause your heart to break.
What earthly good is Medicare, when I need relief today?
And Medicaid won’t get me paid or my execution stay.

Disable me, disable me, before I cut my carotid vein,
And shower the world in a flood of blood, down on you like a rain.
Disable me, before I hurl, I’ve been thrown for a dreadful whirl.
Underneath the Mack truck’s tire, my white flag comes unfurled.

I surrender, I capitulate, I must surrender to my fate,
And throw myself down on my knees, beseeching social security,
For just a lucky Fate-drenched chance, asking me to slow dance.

Disable me, like an errant anti-theft device,
Disable me, aren’t you in the least bit nice?
Crack me like a hapless whip, before I fall, before I slip.
Before I bite, before I hiss and fall down off the precipice.
Break me up in little morsels, oh so quaint and bite size,
And look at me through sympathetic bureaucratic eyes.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

FISHING FOR ANSWERS

FISHING FOR ANSWERS

Fishing for answers, here in life’s stream,
Knowledge like a cancer, a bitter waking dream.
Finding out too late about all the things I lack,
Strength and ease of movement, they have gone and won’t be back.

Fishing for answers in my oversized canoe.
Separating fact from fiction, trading false for true.
Making use of tasty bait, the worm, the fly, the trusted hook,
Taking aim at the guilt and the blame, writing the final chapter and book.
Begging for a little crumb, careful not to ask for much,
Just an understanding ear, a kind and gentle touch.
A letter from the SSA, giving me the A-okay,
Manna straight from heaven, a health insurance copay.

Fishing for answers, in the heat of the day,
My blood, my sweat, my tears they fall,
Littering up the dusty way.
In the mood to graze the grass,
To eat the dirt, to raise the glass.
To swing like Tarzan from the trees,
Making mincemeat of my enemies.

Fishing for longevity, fishing for another hour,
Fishing for this grounded life to soar and open like a flower.
Fishing for the best in life, preparing for the worst,
In my rear view mirror is it my birthday or a hearse?

Fishing for an island on which to stake my claim,
A haven yet unspoken for, on which to place my name.
Sailing like a madman, over the bounding bay,
The ocean foam a pillow on which my troubles lay.

Fishing for answers, but coming up short,
Just like a lawyer who falters at court,
To the cold-hearted judge who holds a big grudge,
Holding the common man in contempt,
Leaving him bitter, unshaven, unkempt.

Fishing for answers, living with hope,
Trolling for treasure on a slick, slippery slope.
Finding out too late about all the things I lack,
I stumble from this burden I carry on my back.

Fishing for answers here in life’s stream,
Knowledge floats like cancer, a bitter waking dream.
Fishing for answers, the questions remain,
Brewing like a tropic storm, bracing for the hurricane.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED