THE PASSING

THE PASSING

The passing of the old year,
The dawning of the new,
Always leaves me melancholy,
Always leaves me blue.

Secure within its artifice,
New Year's like a fog it creeps,
Rains confetti and advice,
While the hapless drunkard sleeps.

As I reflect alone upon the dying and the dead,
Yesterday's schemes toss around in my head.
While Times Square and its happy throngs,
Sing their hopeless drinking songs.
Welcoming with cheap champagne,
A new year and its tired refrain.

I've never loved this holiday,
When Santa hits the credit card
With his forceful one, two punch,
Then heads back to the cold North Pole,
And its bitter lonesome crunch.

Leaving us to kill off Christmas,
To trudge alone through January's snows.
A harbinger of what's yet to come,
February and its solemn drum,
The wreckage of its ice floes.
And no more comfort left to give,
To those of us still doomed to live.

The passing of the old year,
Leaves me pining for my yesterdays,
The movement sweet of graceful feet,
That held me in their gentle sway.
The garlands of the Christmas tree,
The heralding the virgin birth,
When threats and epithets laid low,
And peace it soaked the thirsty earth.

The passing of the old year,
Reminds me of the passing time,
I wonder where it all has gone,
The utter mess I've made of mine.
The world it shall live on without me,
Stolid as some sacred stone.
Glad and brave, it shall guard my grave,
When I have made my last trip home.

The passing of the old year,
The dawning of the new,
Always leaves me melancholy,
Always leaves me blue.
So let me weave my own cocoon,
With the rising of the new year's moon.

Anoint my head with cheap champagne,
Let stupor fill my doubtful brain,
Let me glide through winter drugged and numb,
Resist the new year's fife and drums,
Like a flower beneath the earth, soak up winter's crumbs,
And close my eyes, lay down to dream,
And fall asleep 'til springtime comes.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

FOR JUST ONE DAY OF JOY

FOR JUST ONE DAY OF JOY

For just one day of joy, they wait the whole year through,
Every little girl and boy and the child in me and you.
For the fat man in the red velvet suit who comes from a land of chill,
For the baby child in the manger who brings us all good will.

For one day of unbridled bliss, I would my kingdom give,
In the midst of this holly and ivy, a brand new way to live.
To kiss you 'neath the mistletoe, beloved man of mine,
To wake and find beneath the tree, a sparkle and a shine.

The bustling time of Christmas, the darkness lit by a vibrant star,
That twinkles in the eastern sky and lands right where we are.
The Christmas tree, the light displays, shine brightly like the moon,
The Grinches and the toy trains, the carolers with their tune.

The whole twelve days of yuletide charm, the partridge and the pears,
Can lift our spirits out of darkness, catch us unawares.
Five gold rings of these we sing, the ladies dancing, lords a leaping,
And in the manger sweet and sound, the Baby Jesus sleeping.
Let's not forget the menorrah and the charms of Hannukah,
The beauty of the Chrismon tree in the Christian sanctuary.
Those who love the charms of Kwanzaa, every bit as merry.

Heaven, it looks down and smiles, on every faith and every creed,
And stands forever steadfast, by us in our time of need.
For just one day of happiness, for just one day of love,
A blessed child, a virgin birth, or just a day of peace on earth,
A day where man he feels his worth and counts his lucky stars.
And smashes through the winter blues and their joyless prison bars.

Where memories live of Christmas gone, that in the human soul do stir,
The great and grand old story of the way that once we were,
When Santa Claus he smartly flew, with Rudolph and the earnest crew,
And NORAD tracked his every move across the heavens blue.
When the gay wrappings adorned the gifts that lay beneath the tree,
And no child was forgotten by the fat man from the great North Pole,
And every wish was granted, and what was broken was made whole.

Where the fire truck in my old hometown would scream throughout the neighborhood,
Kris Kringle waving from the back, magical and good.
The wreaths that hang upon the doors, the sweet aroma of the day,
The turkey and the dressing and the bounty sent our way.
A night that children seldom sleep and grown up children seldom weep.
Far too busy making plans with toys that coo and beep.
The toy trains and the rocket ships that on Christmas day do race,
The treats laid out for Santa, that leave without a trace.

For just one day of joy, they wait the whole year through,
Every little boy and girl and the child in me and you.
For Santa, for the Christ child, for a potpourri of reasons,
We pour the wine and celebrate the beauty of the season.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

ALL YE MERRY GENTLEMEN

ALL YE MERRY GENTLEMEN

All ye merry gentlemen, out there on the yards,
You traveling group of Christmas minstrels,
You solemn yuletide bards.
I'll give you half my earthly fortune,
Plus fancy and exotic food,
If you'll just turn and go away,
For I'm not in the Christmas mood.

All ye merry gentlemen, with your glad and ancient rhymes,
My life is at a standstill and I've fallen on hard times.
Illness and calamity, and bitterness have befallen me,
I've half a mind to take a dive headfirst into the Christmas tree.
To rid the world of the cynicism that has seeped into my pores,
Stumbling on the threshold and running into doors.

The star of light you sing about's a distant memory,
That echoes in my dreams of old, a conundrum and a mystery,
The tale of Christ the savior who lived and died for mortal man,
So we could be at peace with God and one day live again.
The rustic stable rude and bare where Mary and the Christ child lay,
Where wisemen and where shepherds converged upon the hay.
I believe this awesome truth, yet it leaves me strangely cold,
A page torn from the yellowed scriptures, musty and so old.

But your confounded singing is growing louder,
And my ears they vibrate to the din,
Of glories of some Christmas past,
Spent with dear departed kin.
You are dangerous, merry gentlemen,
And should I let you 'neath my skin,
I may be forced to rise from bed,
Set out some lavish Christmas spread,
Turn my world upon its head, pick up and start again.

All ye merry gentlemen, caroling on the lawn,
Shut your mouths, my life's gone south,
I'm warning you be gone.
Sometimes I have to wonder,
As my life it goes asunder,
If I should pull the world down with me,
In this grandest season,
It would be a cinch to be a Grinch,
Defying rhyme and reason.

Or perhaps ye merry gentlemen for the season I can put aside,
All these sorrows and resentments, all this empty pride.
Come to the door with cocoa and cookies and invite you in my home,
No need to spend the holiday so broken and alone.
So all ye merry gentlemen, you at last have won my heart,
That once appeared beyond repair, so ripped and blown apart.
Come in, come in and gladly spend this blessed time of light,
You've won me over with your songs so mystical and bright.
The Christ child lives inside my heart, your work here now is done,
Go ye merry gentlemen, and lift up everyone.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

COLD AND BLEAK DECEMBER

COLD AND BLEAK DECEMBER

It's a cold and bleak December, or is it only me?
My eyes jaundiced and blurry make it difficult to see.
Here in the month of tinsel and tease,
I live alone with this bitter disease.

Here in this month of the Christmas birth,
Where carols sing of joy and mirth,
All I can sing is my bitter song.
You can sing along if you know the words,
The words of death and wasted breath,
From the baffled beaks of angry birds.

It's a cold and bleak December,
The month we laid my parents to rest.
The days that both my mother and father,
Succumbed to their brutal snows.
The month that puts me to the test,
When caught up in its throes.

The flowers in the sanctuary,
They somehow lift my mood.
If only for a moment, the landscape seems less bare.
The problem is my attitude and not perhaps the frigid air.
The poinsettias, they brighten,
In white and scarlet hues,
This cold and bleak December,
And these Godforsaken blues.

Oh, for the time when I could move freely,
And school was out for the holiday,
And the fat man in his red suit,
Held me in his ho-ho sway.
Those simpler times of childhood,
They seem so far away.

Oh, for the time when I was footloose,
The days I wandered where I chose.
Dressed to the nines from shirt to shoes,
Days as fragrant as the vagrant rose.
Oh, for the time when my triumphs were many
And my trials so very few,
Before the brain cells once so plenty,
Deserted me for pastures new.

Now that I'm an older man, and see through older eyes.
I miss I guess my glory days, and the present fills with sighs.
Sighs for my health and for an average wealth,
Before the insurance premiums sucked my wallet dry.
Before the alien winter ice fell like a demon from the sky.
Back when I could work a job, back when I had a calling,
Back before the meds and surgery, before the random falling.
All I take from winter now is an inconsolable chill,
And the tidings of a tiny child, poinsettias in the windowsill.

Mary and Joseph and that glorious birth,
That back then thrilled the hearts of men.
That brought the wisemen and the shepherds,
Bearing gifts across the glen.
That filled their hearts with Christmas joy,
The man that grew from that precious boy.
Let me be one of the growing throng,
That lift their voice in glorious song.
Not to wallow in guilt and pain,
But find some shelter from the rain.

Lord, you know my anxious heart, you know what I believe.
It's just the more time passes, the more I find to grieve.
Send me down some sweet relief, pardon now my unbelief.
Forgive my sad and rank complaint,
A better landscape help me paint.
This cold and bleak December, let it quietly, quickly fade,
Erase my tearful memories, bring roses from the nightshade.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

ALL OF MY ILLUSIONS

ALL OF MY ILLUSIONS

I once loved a singer, more than one if truth be told,
But I wrote my idol a fan letter, each word polished as if it were gold.
She must have thought I was a crazy fool,
Like a boy with a crush in grade school.
And though I never thought in my wildest dreams,
Never in these impersonal times,
She wrote to thank me for my praise,
A handwritten note, lovely and so kind.

For awhile I wrote her every year,
A fan note without fail.
She sent me beautiful autographed pictures,
Filling my billowing sails.
And always those exquisite notes,
So gracious and so thoughtful too.
She must have known what she meant to me,
And how I loved her music true.

And I treasured those notes with all my heart.
I will keep them safe 'til the twelfth of never,
Today I love her more than ever,
Buy her CDs two copies each,
Lest one get scratched or lost forever,
Once more to the marketplace, once more into the breach.

It's typical of me to latch onto people,
To somehow claim them as my own,
Somehow I have a personal connection,
To poets and writers I have never known.
The day I found their life did not depend on me.
Or my life on their own,
All of my illusions shattered,
And fell from off their velvet thrones.
Somehow I fancied they could feel me in their audience,
That they sensed my presence there,
That it was my fault if they flubbed a lyric,
That my fandom filled the random air,
Of concert halls and music clubs,
Of lime kiln theaters and pricey pubs.

By now you are perceiving how stupid I could be,
To carry idolatry to extremes.
To think I meant something
To someone with so immense a gift,
But oh how I feel my spirits lift,
Whenever her voice rings,
The clearest bell I've ever heard,
The mistress of the written word,
And all that's good that lives between.

Truth be told I've done it with my doctors too.
Not just famous troubadours picked from out the blue.
Pretended they cared and liked hanging out with me.
Like I was someone special, not just another patient to see.
For Parkinson's is lonely and the doctors somehow understood,
More than just the average individual would.
When all they ever wanted was a timely payment of their fee.
Less verbiage and misery and whining from me.
The day I found that they were only there,
To write prescriptions, and not to really care,
Was the day all my illusions vanished into air.

Bet you docs say that to all the Parkinsonians,
Extend your hand and address them by their first names too.
Say good day as they go their way, your good will fine and true.
It's just some of you are better than others with sensitive souls like me,
And have honed to a grand and a merciful T, the art of authenticity.
Medicine is as much art as science and in the midst of such confusion,
Hope is required to stay alive, and thrives on my illusions.

You my love with your lust for cleaning, your fancy brooms and vacuums,
I am hoping that you really love me,
Are not standing far above me.
That the dream we share far transcends,
And that I can someday make amends,
For all the coffee I've spilt in these hallowed rooms.
That I can find mercy for my flaws,
For all my stumbles and my falls,
For the tears in which I drown,
For all the times I have let you down.
For if not, I am lost utterly, in the dungeon of a dream.
You are my last illusion, so please be what you seem.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Note: I will always love my favorite singer and always love my doctors. This is a poem about me, and not them. Like my earlier poem "Imagined Slights", this is a poem about my own insecurities, insecurities I wish I did not have and will never understand.

HERE COMES YOUR HAPPY

HERE COMES YOUR HAPPY

Here comes your happy you’ve been wanting from me,
I’m like a court jester and my goal is to please.
Open the flood gates, sunlight’s pouring through,
I’m weak and I’m weary but I can still dance for you.

Here comes the mother ship to sail on a rhyme.
To a gentler habitat, and a sunnier clime.
Close your eyes you might miss it, here’s your last warning,
My smile it is waning, may be gone by the morning.

Here comes your happy, here comes your dance.
Here comes the fever and the rush of romance.
One last fling of summer, one last walk upon the sand,
Hold on to your happy as long as you can.

I’m ripped apart, I’m wailing,
I slip and reach for the railing,
I tumble to the ocean,
Hole in this boat I am sailing.

But I’ll try to do it quietly,
Though I’d rather do it riotously,
But not at all righteously and not at all piously.
I am the perfect specimen,
A persnickety Parkinsonian.
And though I’m feeling crass and crappy,
Heaven forfend I should stomp on your happy.

I only want the shining sea,
To flail in lost and gallantly,
Its waves to roll right over me.
A desperate slave to the Deity.
I know he knows what’s best for me,
And not to go all soft and sappy,
Come get it quick, here comes your happy.

You try happy with a bounty on your head,
And you try joyous, with arms as stiff as lead.
Why, the most I can hope for is another day of breath,
And at the end, at the road’s final bend, a most delicious death.

For those of you in a mirthful mood,
Beware my hapless attitude,
Life is what you make it and I know it’s true for me,
I’ll make it to the pearly gates a long, long time before ye.
So this is alas, all the joy I can muster,
I’m filled to the brim with boisterous bluster.

I’d hum a hopeful number, but it would be off key.
And you would see right through my frank dishonesty.
But don’t go pout and don’t go faint.
I’ve plenty of rouge and a boatload of greasepaint.
Here comes your happy, with nary a complaint.

Here comes your happy you’ve been wanting from me.
Like a golden retriever my goal is to please.
Come and swim in this gooey pool of rhyme.
But do hurry in before you get slimed.

Come get your happy, like manure hides a pony,
This happy is here for a short time only,
Come now and jump into this raucous bale of hay.
And have a little fun with me, before I melt away.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

DAY FOR GIVING PRAISE

DAY FOR GIVING PRAISE

In the last fleet days of autumn,
Before the winter snows.
Before the shopping frenzy,
And the Christmas wind it blows.
Comes a day untarnished by ribbons,
And brightly colored bows.
Where families at their most forgiving,
Their cups of plenty raise,
And consecrate a mighty feast
To a day for giving praise.

We praise our God for health and zest,
Whatever bounty we possess,
Open our arms to the beauty of the earth,
The riches of the spirit, and their everlasting worth.
And put aside our differences, like the pilgrims that we are
And the pilgrims we shall ever be,
Here on earth for awhile we are,
Before we claim eternity.

We carve the turkey, cook the dressing,
Pause awhile to count our blessings.
Decorate the table with the flourish
Of casseroles and candied yams.
Our hopes and dreams are nourished,
Our bellies filled with country ham.

Mashed potatoes, stewed tomatoes,
Grandma's rolls and Grandpa's naps.
Our birth or our adopted families,
And their old familiar homilies,
Babies sleep in mothers' laps,
And for just one day our cares melt away,
Our differences fall off the map.
And all is insignificant except the day's great charm,
Forgiveness is extended and grudges are disarmed.

We remember the hungry and comfort the poor,
And minister to those in need,
Those immigrants that to our shore have come,
Their cries we hear and at last we heed.
And for one day we all live in peace,
The black, the white, the straight, the gay,
We see beyond the darkness, and fear and labels cease.

Be it ever so humble, or ever so grand,
Like settlers of old we share the land,
We travel far and travel wide,
To have our familes at our side.
Even as the storm clouds grow,
Even as the tears rain down,
There is always kindness to bestow,
A wealth of blessings to be found.

Each year we find this one time refuge,
In the fleet of autumn, no pretense and no subterfuge.
Sometime between the bells of Christmas,
And the ghostly Halloween tricks and pranks,
Comes a quiet holy stillness, no greasepaint and no rouge,
Just a cherished change where our hearts loom huge,
And beat with the thrill of giving thanks.

Thanks for the sunshine, thanks for the rain,
The trials that strengthen, and even the pain.
We gather hands around the table,
And each as he is able,
Thank the Great Spirit in a myriad of ways,
Celebrate the harvest in the autumn of the year,
Watch our fears just disappear,
On this our day for giving praise.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

HAPPY BIRTHDAY

HAPPY BIRTHDAY

Happy birthday, happy birthday,
Happy birthday to me,
Never thought I'd make it to this anniversary.
Two years ago I thought it'd be nifty,
To make it to the age of fifty.
And now my years beneath the sun,
They now total fifty-one.
Although I admit to jumping the gun,
And celebrating early, tempting fate,
My birthday's not until the seventh,
But I am antsy and just can't wait.

You're welcome to come to my party,
You don't have to wear a costume.
Just bring a smile that's warm and hearty,
And perhaps one of those big balloons.
You know the ones, helium filled,
With a pithy line like you're over the hill,
Or in my case, wow, you're not quite dead.
But although you're not yet deathly ill,
You spend a lot of time in bed.

And although my head is nearly bare,
And my brain as soft as jello.
I'm really none the worse for wear,
Well, not for an 80 year old fellow.
Come join my sweet frivolity,
My geriatric jollity.
Mr. Parkinson will be here,
And do his dyskinetic dance,
I made it through in spite of him,
Paid the piper, took the chance.

And now I'm set for another year,
I rejoice so much to be here,
Posting pictures of kittens and flowers,
Whiling away my final hours.
Closest thing to a Facebook king
This tired old world has ever seen.
Promoting my glorified gay agenda
And my hedonistic lifestyle,
As I gasp for breath and lurch toward death,
Blowing out the candles on my birthday cake of smiles.

Happy birthday, happy birthday,
Happy birthday to me.
Never thought I'd make it to this anniversary.
Fifty-one years on this lofty luscious earth,
You can bet I'm going to milk this day
For all the fun it's worth,

Perhaps I'll go on a vicious tear, who knows what I'll do?
Probably just spend the day with Judy and with Emmylou.
And if you are my neighbor and hear my blasting stereo,
Just say, so sad, just leave him be, it's just that birthday weirdo.

And my beloved Mary Chapin with her ashes and her roses,
Or the handsome Rufus Wainwright in provocative poses.
They will all drop by the old Victrola to spread some natal cheer,
And marvel that I made it through to see another year.
Or the great Kathy Mattea with her Appalachian charm,
A birthday boy could sure be proud to have her on his arm.

At most I may just overdose on a surfeit of chocolate,
The bittersweet is good for you, full of antioxidants.
All in all I can promise you a happy holiday,
Grateful for the wisdom that the years have sent my way.

I'll spend my birthday with my love.
He's a true blue friend of mine.
I need or want for nothing but my cherished valentine.
Happy birthday, happy birthday, I know I'll have a splendid time,
And then I'll be all tuckered out and sawing logs by nine.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

EVERY NOTE OF LIFE

EVERY NOTE OF LIFE
       (FOR KYLE)

Every note of life rings happy,
Every song of hope rings true,
Every line I write seems sappy,
All because of you.

Every taste of love is sweet.
Since you crossed my threshold.
Every kiss from you a treat,
That welcomes me into the fold.

You with your industrial strength vaccuum,
Your moist and succulent granite wipes.
You and your funny kitchen broom,
You are so totally my type.

Every dance of dreams is golden,
Since I found you years ago,
To you I am alas beholden,
And you melt my tears like winter snow.

Some day when I can't move at all,
And all my parts they slip and sag.
Just vaccuum me up without a thought,
Then empty and replace the bag.

Then put my ashes on the mantel,
Live pure and chaste the rest of your days.
For I'll be watching from my perch,
And I'll point out your errant ways.

I'll frown at every man you bring home,
Jinx your every affair,
Until a suitable period of mourning,
And then perhaps I shall not care.

For I want you always to be happy,
That your every song of hope ring true.
I want your love life to be sappy,
With your partner fine and new.

For you gave me love so sweet and tender,
Ever since you graced my stairs,
And you have stayed when hope was slender,
Chased away a world of cares.

You and your industrial vacuum,
You and your golf club shoe horn,
You whistle me a happy tune,
And lend a smile to every morn.

You have made this life worth living,
You and your heart of rugged steel.
And filled my soul with sweet thanksgiving,
My sure companion at the wheel.

You have filled my world with such confetti,
With the colors bright of every hue,
A heaping plate of pasta, a lasagna or spaghetti,
Seasoned with marinara or a dash of Ragu.

You are every breath I breathe,
Every hope to which I cleave.
Your body's like a county fair,
With cotton candy everywhere.

You are my one and only man,
My circus and my caravan.
My friends are all aghast to see,
That someone loves a freak like me.

As long as you stay, it's a happy day.
I'm like Lazarus raised from the dead.
You love with such ease a brain so diseased,
A horn on each side of my woebegone head.

Every love song has its story,
Every partnership its song,
Ours is one of lasting glory,
Since the day you came along.

Every note of life rings happy,
Every song of hope rings true.
Every line I write seems sappy,
All because of you.

-Bruce Potts
 Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

IMAGINED SLIGHTS

IMAGINED SLIGHTS

What's one more imagined slight,
In the great grand scheme of things?
What's one more benign betrayal,
To add to my roster of broken dreams?

I feel rain with every breath I take,
Pain with every move I make.
Gracelessly I take up space,
Sand in my sneakers, egg on my face.

If the world hands me life, I hand it back.
The lust to go on I sorely lack.
If the whole world doesn't love me,
My heart it hastily hits the floor.
Detractors they stand high above me,
Useless debris washing up on their shore.

I am proud of who I am and proud of all I believe.
I dare to live my life out loud,
But I wear it all on my lonesome sleeve.
Not nearly as stable and staid as I seem,
Stripped naked and bare to the world's laser beam.

What's one more imagined slight,
In this dim house of mirrors known as my mind?
What's one more benign betrayal,
Downloaded in real time?

The garish clown with his floppy shoes,
The tabloid with its shocking news.
The circus tent is up and its freakish flag is flying.
My mascara it is running from the desperate tears I'm crying.

If I had a million dollars and a thousand screaming fans,
Like castles and like daydreams, I would turn it all to sand,
Real estate a bauble and mansions not worth the land.
Read my palm, my lifeline's weak,
The future's a cliffside, slippery and steep.
It's a raging tide I swim against,
My only relief the deep peace of sleep.

It's all of these imagined slights that gather in my brain,
A vast right wing conspiracy, a swift downpour of rain.
Guilt for the life I can no longer lead,
A hapless hemophiliac enjoying the bleed.
Choking on this surfeit of wasted space,
I stumble to the finish of my sluggish race.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Note: I jokingly call this one "The Joy of Paranoia".

OCTOBER BREEZE

OCTOBER BREEZE

Not a fan of global warming,
But I love these Indian summer days.
When the air blows bright with promise,
And the trees, a panoply of color sway.

A couple months before the winter snows,
Autumn in full bloom she blows,
Before smoke curls from neighbors' chimneys,
I rejoice in the October breeze.

And grateful breathe in life so sweet,
A hopeful never ceasing treat.
If you are as wise as me,
Believe in God’s eternity,
And other lives that pass unseen,
That flicker grand across the screen,
My radar tuned and piercing,
As the clear crisp autumn sky.
Give me a few more days like these,
And a happy man I’ll die.

Once in dreams I sailed the ocean,
Once in dreams I sailed the deep,
And my dream turned into a nightmare,
Bruised and broken was my sleep.

When I woke the heat index had peaked
And at great long last my fever broke.
My mother, she appeared beside me,
In the puffy clouds she rose and spoke.
On a mythic hillside, in the hallowed air,
I could see her clear as day and feel her spirit everywhere.
She said welcome sweet son, to life everlasting,
To the land of rest and sacred song.
It was the moment I’d been waiting for,
My wretched whole life long.

Yet something still was out of place,
As I beheld my mother's face,
The clouds they parted and I could see,
The world below was calling me.
Once more I regained composure,
Forced back tears, began to smile,
Saw it was not yet time for closure
For me to walk that long last mile.
  
Still I managed one more time to forestall paradise,
My mother said, my son go back.
I heeded well her sage advice,
Fell back to earth through heaven’s crack.
Landed back in that womb of sleep,
Found the vision that I lacked,
There upon that hillside steep.

The wisdom from that dream hard won,
I woke beneath a welcoming sun,
To find a Fate I thought so cruel,
Yielded me to autumn’s cool.
The bright of gold and crimson leaves,
The beauty of the season blazed,
A time for bringing in the sheaves,
Here in my star-kissed dwindling days.

Not a fan of what we’ve done to our sweet Mother Earth.
But I love these Indian summer days that echo with rebirth.
A panoply of colors sweet that thrill me to the core,
The first time in a long time I have felt my spirit soar.

This fine and princely kingdom, this bright and bitter place,
The colors all of the blessed fall, this brief respite of grace.
A couple months before the winter snows,
The autumn in full bloom she blows.
Before smoke curls from neighbors' chimneys,
I rejoice in the October breeze.

--Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

FORSAKE THE FALSE RAINBOW

FORSAKE THE FALSE RAINBOW

I hold my rainbow close to my heart,
Yet closer still to my head.
Near to the brain where my hair used to part,
No more drinks of water, no more the lure of bread.

I hold my rainbow of visions floating beyond the sun,
Tired of this fractured fighting,
All is well inside this sighting,
The grim metallic prism of a gun.

I can see it clearly, my form on the floor,
My despair splattered like the blood on the walls.
I make my concessions to funeral processions,
The quiet of dimly lit burial halls.

I hold my rainbow here in my wrists,
Like two unwrapped packages with bow and sash.
Just take some pills and make a fist,
And take a long and luscious slash.

Those who say I had ice water flowing through these veins,
Could scrape the ice from off the floor, secure that they were right.
Where those who say I was a blue blood oblivious to pain,
Could hold their strange hypothesis to the new day and its light.
And those who claim I was good as gold would finally see the truth,
I was made of only flesh and blood and here’s your living proof.

And those who thought I was purple with passion,
Could scrape their way through the mosaic of my blood,
And look for flints of lavender on the ground where once I stood.
Some will say I died a broken man, and some will say it served me right,
That I had a queer agenda and was one unhappy shade of gay,
Some will say I embraced the end, rushing toward that blinding light,
Some will claim I was a bitter fool, who had to end his life his way.

I hold my rainbow close to my heart,
I treasure its beat alive in my breast.
Perhaps I am doomed before I start,
Life a bitchy proctor with its twisted little tests.
Heed what I am saying and read on to the end,
This fracture of faith is a passing weight,
It is not a stalwart or a happy friend.

In the end it is only me who knows what my true colors are,
And it is only me who knows my sunshine and my stars.
They say beware the vicious dog, they say beware false prophets,
Some voices ringing in my head are just as best forgotten.
Time to drink and time for joy, time to end the fast,
To give the pain its proper due then leave it in the past.
I swear I know not what I do, my world’s a broken mess.
Sometimes I’d love to take a repast in the waters of forgetfulness.

Yet even in my darkest hour, even in my frailest season,
I must find a sheltering bower, search my soul for a reason.
Find something bigger than myself to steel my bravery,
Throw off these shackles and these chains that speak of slavery.
Gather to my bosom all the colors I possess,
Hold them as a talisman against encroaching darkness.

Be it the comforting arms of a lover, or some greater higher goal
Shake off the malaise that has clouded my days, devoured my better soul.
Put down my gun and my trusty blades,
Say goodbye to the lure of nightshade.
Beware the devil in disguise, apparition without a soul,
Forego the fire to self destruct, forsake the false rainbow.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED


NOTE: While this poem is not encouraging suicide (in fact suicide is the "false rainbow" referred to in the title) Parkinson's patients, myself included, often suffer incredible
depression. So do gays and lesbians, another segment of my audience, due to societal pressures and prejudice. If you feel vulnerable and need a nonjudgmental ear, please call the National Suicide Hotline at 1-800-273-8255.

FUN STUFF

FUN STUFF

Where has all the fun stuff gone,
Like pink flamingos on the lawn?
Drive-in movies and making out,
And little teapots short and stout.

Where are all the revelries,
Where is all the wonder?
They’ve gone the way of my failing health,
Blithely torn asunder.
They groan beneath my sagging wealth,
A pocketbook struck by thunder.
And the crack of closeup lightning,
Reveals each silly blunder.

Where has all the fun stuff flown,
Into the package of wreckage strewn,
The mile high club that I didn’t join then,
I certainly can’t take up now.
Though a midair romp is no big sin,
Just in and out is my solemn vow.
I need my restrooms for voiding and rest
And not to satisfy lovers’ requests.

Where is all the happy verse,
The readers want to know.
Why such a wuss and a gloomy guss,
We came here expecting a vaudeville show!
You’ll have to bring glasses versed in 3D,
To see the hapless side of me.
The stumbling here and everywhere,
The tumbling on the flight of stairs
The web cam set on Bruce I Am,
Is what you’ll long to see.
And I’ll do a giddy happy dance,
An honorary Black Eyed Pea.

Where alas is my ship of fools,
My happy courtyard jester?
He lies in pain, in the foyer slain,
His wounds they bleed and fester.

I can barely crack an egg,
Yet you long for me to crack a smile?
The fun stuff and the folly is going out of style.
And with the fun stuff goes the laughter,
Though I still crack jokes at my own expense,
But like smoke it rises to the rafters,
And mixes with the heady incense.

Where is the fun stuff when you need it,
Like the joys of medicinal hashish weed,
My attitude could sure improve,
And gradually get back up to speed.

Surely a toke or two of the demon pot,
Could calm the pain of what I’ve got.
But alas I am like Auntie Em,
I mustn’t go against the law,
For that would make me one of them,
The stoners and the potheads all.

Where has all the fun stuff gone,
The chinchilla and the pet rock?
I am quite the sour puss,
As I pause to take my stock.
But I still have my sardonic wit
That I bring out on demand.
So jump ye reader to your feet,
And give me quite the hand.

Where has all the fun stuff gone,
The pink flamingos on the lawn?
The Geico gecko and the pig that goes wee?
You don’t even have to ask
Just take a look behind the mask,
In the corner by the calamity,
Snorting loudly, chuckling merrily,
It shouldn't be that hard to see,
The fun stuff’s still inside of me.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

RESTLESS SPIRIT

RESTLESS SPIRIT

My body’s a prison with iron wrought bars,
My spirit’s a skylight that leads me to stars,
Over the black velvet darkness I fly,
The heavens alight and unfold to my eyes.

Spirit is colorless, odorless, spirit moves free,
Unlike the landlocked woebegone me.
I can get torn and tossed over all I have lost,
Or soar with the saints and the Trinity,
It’s Father, Son and Holy Ghost,
The fruits of the spirit I treasure the most,
They are the beacons of light on my journey.

And give me the grace to make music and sing,
To ride the unicorn to Saturn’s wing,
To join the bright planets and the whirling constellations,
To make this restless spirit yield to innovation.
To not fight on past the point of no return,
To gather up the dusty lessons I’ve learned,
And mount my flaming steed to the burning skies,
To answer the saints and their beckoning cries.

To not be afraid of the land past the rainbow,
To gather my courage in droves,
And walk with the Savior in his garden of flowers
At my life’s great epic close.
To go skinny dipping through the stars,
To shed this earthly cloak,
And vanish like ether in a wooden wisp of smoke.

Goodbye to the earth below, goodbye to those who loved me.
I join the Boatman in his schooner, sailing toward eternity.
Out beyond the glorious sunset, and those purplish clouds at close of day,
Nothing left to keep me here, nothing standing in my way.

Goodbye to my lover, I will miss you most of all,
And all the tender mercies that from your lips did fall.
The feel of your flesh and the taste of your kiss,
That lent to me your golden bliss,
Your touch oh how it tingled, my skin it did enthrall.
But we all know it’s time to go,
Into that cool, bright tunnel of air,
Where all the spirits that have gone before,
Beckon me to join them there.

And to shed this body of wrought iron bars,
To break through the skylight that leads to the stars.
Over the black velvet darkness I’ll fly,
Where the heavens alight and unfold to my eyes.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

DARE TO TOUCH

DARE TO TOUCH

So many prohibitions in this picky world,
So many should’s and do not’s,
As the white flag comes unfurled.
The white flag of surrender
Flies everywhere you go,
From Mona Lisa in the Louvre,
To the art of Michelangelo.

I guess I understand it, for art lives on forever,
If not for eternity until the twelfth of never.
Keep it safe for future views,
Preserve the brightness of the hues.
Every line of the Mona Lisa’s face
And the Sistine Chapel’s holy grace.

Don’t feed the deer or animals in the zoo,
And please beware the big black bear
Whatever else you do.
I understand these warnings too.
They serve quite well both me and you.
Protecting nature from us fools,
Like kids on field trips with their schools.
Adults who stray from the beaten path,
Alas to feel the torment of the grizzly’s awesome wrath.

But we are in a relationship, and hopefully not a zoo,
And I am but a mortal man, standing here before you.
I beg you and beseech you, I am not Michelangelo,
And I am not da Vinci, you’ve no need to break my code.

I am not a grizzly poised to eat you in the park,
I just long to feel your loving hands caress me in the dark.
Perhaps I’m old before my time,
Perhaps you feel you’ve bagged your prey.
I know you’re tired and weary
And that work consumes your day.

I know perhaps I’m stern and scary
With this grave Parkinsonian mask,
But by all means look and by all means touch,
You shouldn’t even have to ask.

So many prohibitions, sex should just be hetero,
So many should’s and do not’s that a good man could implode.
I am like America, I long to be explored,
Come to me, my brave Columbus, and lick my every pore.
Put me under the microscope, I long so to be seen,
Peruse me with the gusto of your favorite magazine.

It’s flesh on flesh I long for, your touch and your embrace,
To feel the coarseness of your beard as it sweeps across my face.
I need some tongue to keep me young, and though it’s fallen out of fashion,
I need some steam to fuel my dreams, I need a little passion.

I am not Sheldon Cooper, I’m no fussy Felix Unger,
I am a dead man walking, with a strange sad case of skin hunger.
I need to feel the lock of your lips, I miss it all so much.
Come to me, beloved man, look at me and dare to touch.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED