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.