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Sick to death of outworn fashion and outdated beliefs.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
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Saturday, October 22, 2011
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
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
Saturday, October 15, 2011
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
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
Saturday, October 8, 2011
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
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
Saturday, October 1, 2011
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
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
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