SHOUT OF DAWN

SHOUT OF DAWN

Wake up, my love, for you were lost,

On a wild and reckless sea were tossed.

I have heard your forlorn tears revolving in my dreams,

Shaking me to my very core, like some strange Pandora's box.

And I alas am not afraid for I am mighty and I am huge,

I am Aurora, your light, passion and refuge,

Counting off the days that pass on your calendars and clocks.

I say to the sun, let's have some fun,

Before the brand new day's begun.

Let us whistle a mischievous tune

And play a nasty trick on the moon.

Let's shoot him in the eye,

Knock him from the sky.

Stage a coup, play all the parts,

Shoot him with a quiver of darts,

It's an offer that you can't refuse,

To shake off my divine goddess blues.

The moon he'll take vengeance in 24 hours,

When we're tired and disgruntled, at the ebb of our powers,

He'll zap us away and in time we'll get ours.

He'll vanish us from sweet light's fountain,

Send us careening beneath purple mountains.

Puffing up his moonly chest, full of his mighty worth.

But for now, let's wave our magic wands,

And daintily light the lamp of the earth.

The moon may not know it, for i don't often show it,
But I am the victor and the spoils they are mine.
Like the dew on the lawn my signature spawn,
The wineskins they issue a new native wine.
Drunk on his glory the moon slinks away,
The dark night is vanished into the new day.
The moon all in all is a cowardly chap,
Who runs from the sound of my mighty bitch slap.

The moon is but a vainglorious fool,
Dark with mischief and quite unschooled.
We're smarter and much faster,
Our wings they flutter gracefully, pools of alabaster.
The darkness it cannot, shall not last,
Just a relic from a worn out past.
The hills echo with promise and shiver with fever,
So light your final candle with your hand upon the lever.
And chase away the demons, screaming to the abyss.
Your marksman's aim is always true, there's no way you can miss.

Wake up, you lost ones, and get a move on,

Listen to the new day's song, heed the shout of dawn.

I drive my chariot loud and proud, across your troubled skies,

Creating a new and brighter day with my alchemy and dyes.

Though it all appears so useless, life is more than what it seems,

I have heard your forlorn tears revolving in my dreams.

I am Aurora, hear to grant your fondest wishes.

I shower you with warm, sweet light,

I summon you with gentle, golden kisses.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2013

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

TORCH FOR CHRISTMAS

TORCH FOR CHRISTMAS

I carry a torch for Christmas,
The splendor of the Christ child,
The wisemen and the shepherds,
Joseph and the virgin mild.

I carry a torch for Christmas,
For what the day conveys,
A holy day of mystery,
More than ancient history,
The joy that comes unfiltered
In the hymns the organ plays,
A warmth and light that brightens the darkest winter days. 
The sweet sound that resounds in the carols children sing,
I carry a torch for Christmas,
Its angels on the wing.

I carry a torch for Christmas,
The lighted houses on display,
The bustling streets, the rushing feet,
Of shoppers on their way,
The reindeer on the rooftops,
The sacred and profane.
I carry a torch for Christmas,
That my heart cannot contain.
The joy it rushes brimming forth
The antidote to pain,
I carry a torch for Christmas and its light fills every street
And fills the care worn visages of the strangers that I meet.

The parties and the antics,
The friendships and the gifts.
Traditions passed and then renewed,
As the sands of life they slide and shift,
Through each precious passing year.
The cookies and the Christmas feast,
The inner calm and cheer.

I carry a torch for mindfulness of all that God has given.
The mansion he has built for us, the splendor of his heaven.
I carry alone my Christmas torch and sometimes I feel small,
Surrounded by the glorious wonder of it all.
Until the Christmas bells they ring, all over the land,
Through the cities and the countries,
Through the snow and desert sand.
And I say a prayer for soldiers and those too sick to celebrate,
I say a prayer for the dying, for whom Christmas comes too late.

I carry a torch for Christmas, a love for this festive season,
My love it goes not unrequited, my love it has its reasons.
To be alive a miracle, and joy from near to far.
I carry a torch for Christmas, the legend of the star.
The wisemen and the shepherds who followed its deep shine,
To where there lay an infant, so tiny and so fine,
A child who'd calm the raging seas, turn water into wine.

I carry a torch for Christmas and all of humankind,
That just one day we'll all join hands and all be of one mind.
I carry a torch for Christmas, that man may feel his worth,
And know the thrill that courses
Through a day of peace on earth.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

NOT TO BE FORGOTTEN

NOT TO BE FORGOTTEN

I tried to be a hero, but got strangled by the cape,
Tried to be a writer, to whip those words in shape.
I tried to be a good man, but my image was besotted,
Tried to be a gardener but my fruits and veggies rotted.

I tried to be a light in darkness, but my flame blew out and died,
Tried to always tell the truth, they never caught me in a lie,
For four long years I labored, churning out the verse,
And I never missed a single week, for better or for worse.
I tilled my Facebook page with passion,
Filled with the beauty of pictures and fashion.
Tried never to let the fruit of my labor become disgraced or rotten,
It was the lengths I went to not to be forgotten.

I found out it was all for naught, this fierce and tender battle I fought,
I was not the man I thought I was, my reputation sold and bought,
Now I sit all forlorn, solemnly pondering mortality,
And I want to ask this wretched world just what the hell was wrong with me.

I tried to be a teacher once, the students did not learn,
I tried to be permissive, the next time I tried stern,
Neither made my pupils like me or mind me in the least.
I was at best a joke to them, my class a raucous beast,
A wild and woolly mammoth that alas I could not tame,
If they still remember me, I'm sure it's with disdain.

I tried my hand at radio, did what I thought was a decent show,
Let a big city programmer break my spirit and drive me from the overnights,
Let him fill me with self-doubt, with his pointed critiques and his slights.
I got a job proofreading transcripts, did radio on the weekends,
Said goodbye to the extravaganza and all of my midnight friends.
But no one really missed me on the radio, at the end of the day I was again alone,
Thirty-eight with the world as a weight that sank me like a stone.
An overachiever in high school and college, had never held hands or been kissed,
Until I found my man and settled down, did I finally get my wish.
The same year that i found my love, I also found disease,
One long in the making, brain cells dying over time,
Perhaps Fate had it in for me, I could feel the bells in the distance chime.
Somehow though I kept my nose to the grindstone and plowed on through the storm,
My only real success in life was the love that kept me warm.

I tried to be a lover and I think I found my calling,
After years of dragging this carcass around,
After the false starts and the stalling.
Still I want to change the world, to keep myself from falling.
To rise again with pen in hand and trusty keyboard lying in wait,
I want to be more than flesh and blood that will soon fade and dissipate.
I want to be a hero, but I will never soar with this flapping cape,
I want to be a poet, but will never whip these words in shape;
So let the fruits of my love for you live in your heart forever,
My poems will wither away and die, my repartee not clever.
Let me take refuge in your arms and in your heart once I am gone;
Let my name be on your lips with the coming of the final dawn.
Try never to let the fruits of our love be tarnished or grow rotten,
It's the new lengths I will go to not to be forgotten.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Note: My autobiography, condensed and set to rhyme!  This poem may seem a downer, but actually all the false starts and what I thought at the time were disappointments led me to the life I lead today. My old radio friends and mentors Debra Leigh and Sue Herlihy-Dischel are still a presence in my life. So are my two cherished friends Suzanne Lee and Jeni Williams from my proofreading days, who I have celebrated in verse on this blog. Life is as good as it can be with Parkinson's disease. And of course, I have my partner Kyle, who I dedicate this poem to. The glass is definitely more than half full.

MUDDIED STREAMS AND BLOODIED RIVERS

MUDDIED STREAMS AND BLOODIED RIVERS

Life these days is a muddied stream,

In which I paddle a reckless canoe.

Love to me is a torn, bloodied river,

False lover who once was true.

Intimacy, dagger in the back of already sleepless nights,

Diagnosis heartbreak and heading south,

Changing landscapes and canceled flights,

Questions answered in the negative

Before they leave the upturned mouth.

Muddied streams and bloodied rivers,

Emptied dreams that make you shiver.

Worrisome worlds that spit in the face,

Secrets that spin, nosediving into space.

Unfound lovers that grope for you,

In the midst of rubble and debris,

Ripped reckless fever that sputters with loss,

Burns like an ulcer inside of me

See the clown with the funny shoes,

Tweak his red rubber ball nose,

Awkwardly dressed for the winter snows.

Time has expired for merriment and glee.

Life these days is a sour, unsettling cream,

Love these days is a shrill and desperate plea.

Life today is a muddied stream,

A worn down broken excuse for a dream.

Love to me is a strange bloodied river,

A poisoned arrow shot straight from the quiver.

Heartbreak that rips and tears at the seams.

I say not again to the anguish,

Keep your distance I plead to the rain,

But the anguish it roars and the rain clouds soar.

The rafters collapse, and with them the timbers of the heart again,

Into the abyss of the lonely trash tin,

The ashes of a self-destructive soul,

Treading water in the lonely shoals.

My soul it shivers as it tastes the violence,

What can't be cured must be endured in silence.

Uncertainty hovers in the safety of bedcovers,

Lurks in the vocal cords of street hounds,

Useless as yesterday's coffee grounds,

The grainy shifting sand of mortal sorrow,

Walking a dead man with torn umbrella

Towards the storms of a ravaged tomorrow.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2013

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Note: This was originally written 1983-ish, hence the hint of romance betrayed. Today I look at this poem as a treatise on the losses that come with an incurable, sometimes difficult to treat disease. 

SO GRATEFUL TO HAVE BEEN HERE

SO GRATEFUL TO HAVE BEEN HERE

(A THANKSGIVING POEM)

So grateful to have been here,
To have walked Earth's joyful mile,
To have tasted both the love and fear,
To celebrate the tear and smile.
To have held the hand of many a friend,
To have held my lover sweet and fine,
So grateful to have been here,
For the rose and for the wine.

So grateful to have crossed the threshold,
To days of such sweet elegance,
To be welcomed back into the fold,
Just watch me do my happy dance.
Dyskinetic it may be,
I may not do it perfectly,
And there's a chance that I could fall,
I'll take the chance and risk it all.

The universe has loosed its purse strings,
Like manna falling from the skies,
The eagle soars and spreads its wings,
And like the eagle I will fly.
So grateful to have been here,
Just like Fortune's favorite son,
I've had my share of pain and cheer,
Have tasted both like everyone.

I am richer for the struggle,
I am grateful for the pain,
I have seen the keenest rainbows,
In the sky after a summer rain.
I can tell you life is sweet,
And though I'm sometimes sour,
I boogie to a hopeful beat,
I trust in my own power.

At this time in late November, when we pause in thoughtful mood,
I join the ranks and give my thanks with praise and gratitude.
For more than just a mighty feast, from north to south from west to east.
I say a humble sacred prayer for hearts encumbered everywhere,
For in the midst of fear and strife, there is promise of new life.
Let us seize it while we can, each precious grain of sand
That pours forth from the hourglass, let us taste life while it lasts.

For me life may be winding down,
Who really knows for sure?
All we are promised is the now,
The present moment is the cure.
The antidote to sorrow and to things that could have been,
No one knows the Master's plan, when life begins and ends.

So grateful to have been here, for the elements of style,
For the passion and the fashion alive in every smile.
To have been around for just awhile, to have tasted cool fresh air,
To have known the rush of ecstasy, the downward spiral of despair.
I have known it all and cherished each measured, sacred breath,
When all it has been said and done, I will have tasted death.

I will have crossed to the other side and seen God's precious face,
Joined with those that have passed before me to this special place.
Happier for the lives I touched in my precious time on earth,
Happier still that they touched mine with merriment and mirth.
Richer for the days gone by, for the privilege of a lifetime,
So grateful to have been here, for the rose and for the wine.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

LET THERE BE RAIN

LET THERE BE RAIN

Let there be rain and a respite from pain,
And after the rain always a rainbow,
Painted by leprechauns, colorful sash in tow.
After the rainbow a serene red gold sunset,
In stunning splendor to burn and blaze.
Let the world know that I am not done yet,
Splash some cool creative water
On the dusty dried up well of my days.
On the piercing ice cold fever of my pain,
Swallow up death's victory, let there be rain.

Let there be a mighty storm, to ease the pain of the global warm.
The sad sick humidity that keeps me indoors.
Let me run in the sands of a thousand shores.
In the face of crashing waves,
Teach me the message and meaning of brave.
I am counting on at least a few years more,
Before I see Death in his cloak at my door.
Chase away the doubts and despair of the old,
Teach me the message and meaning of bold,
Let there be thunder and let there be lightning,
I have learned to live with the specter of frightening,
Just keep me safe and keep me sane,
Naked in a drenching rain.

Let me be a leprechaun and let me paint with a broad stroke,
Give me my own nightclub act, and let me write the jokes.
Let me dance in the downpour before it's too late,
Give me a respite from the fear and hate,
Of those too ignorant  to understand.
Let me paint my masterpiece of love,
All across this troubled land.
Though I love the sunshine, as my days they wax and wane,
I want an early autumn, with its leaf enriching rain.

Let there be winds, and let me still have friends,
Friends that will serve as companion and buffer,
Tell me I no longer need to suffer,
The parading and pronouncements of fools.
Let me graduate not a moment too late,
From this stiffening, stifling school.
Let there be wisdom and let there be mercy
And let there be kindness to spare,
Let all of these rain down from the heavens,
To purify this rancid air.

Let there be puffiness and pleasant dreams,
Let there be leprechauns and morphine,
And make me a prisoner in ball and chain,
Just begging for a drop of rain.
Begging for release, for the pain to surcease,
Wrap my body in embraces warm,
Let me wake in heaven to a mighty storm.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013
ALL RIGHTS  RESERVED

IN THE GLIMMER OF MIDNIGHT

IN THE GLIMMER OF MIDNIGHT

In the glimmer of midnight, near the stroke of twelve,
I shall breathe my last, like some sneaky elf,
I will lie so quiet and so frail,
In the sheen of the witching hour,
I will wilt away like a jilted flower,
Letting out my final exhale.

In the glimmer of midnight, I will slip away,
Not waiting for the light of another day.
I will breathe my name to the eternal flame
That burns forever bright,
And then I shall trip stealthily,
Into the arms of the sacred night.

I will not stand on ceremony,
I may not even wake my lover,
Who sleeps unaware beside me,
Tucked beneath the covers.
When it's time to go, no flashing lights,
No sirens and no magistrate,
Most of all no weeping fools,
Begging to resuscitate.

When I go, it will be quietly,
Because I lived a quiet man,
And let it just be said of me,
I lived this life as best one can.
One foot in the terrestrial,
One wing in the celestial.
Time to set the second wing free,
And mount the chariot to the skies,
That now has come for me.

Into the glimmer of midnight quick my soul,
Before I change my mind,
And burn with the jagged memory,
Of those I leave behind.
Into the magic, God's hedge of protection,
Surround me as I quickly go.
But those that now I leave behind,
Never doubt how I loved you so.

Do not try to bring me back,
Don't hold my nose and breathe me air,
Or pound my chest with paddles.
Just let me dance through the window,
Into the brilliant starlight fair.
With all the sprites and all the angels,
Alas I shall move free,
No more the fate of uneven gait,
No more falls for me.

In the glimmer of midnight, let me slip away while sleeping,
While entertaining the glean of a quieting dream,
To drown out any sound of weeping.
Then lift me without hesitating,
Most blessed God of levitating,
Into your loving arms,
Lift my body tired and frail,
Blaze across the skies a trail.
Receive my praise, accept my alms,
And catch my final exhale.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

MAYBE I SHOULD PLAY AROUND

MAYBE I SHOULD PLAY AROUND

Maybe I should play around, just to shake the kinks out,
Let the words coalesce like a sacred holy mess,
Begin again, paint in colors that shout,
Like some lost and obscene clown,
Maybe I should play around,
Red bulbous nose and pointy shoes.
Forget I was born to sing the blues,
Play a little ragtime instead.
Nothing more and nothing less,
Than to mess a little with your head.

Mountains in my mirror and seashore in my ears,
Maybe I should play around, forget my petty fears.
Dance atop the roof of my home,
Dangerous and all alone,
Throw the words like Pollack threw his paint,
Let them land just where they will,
In the backyard, on the windowsill,
Let them tear and let them taint.
Maybe I should play around,
Come upon a brand new rhyme,
Break barriers of sight and sound,
The sepulchers of time.

Maybe there's no here from there,
I'm a madman on a wordless tear,
Fueled on by a heady wine,
Maybe I'll run out of signs,
Like a buoy on a nameless pier,
Who points the way to an atmosphere,
Where the theme is party down.
Maybe I should just lay low,
Maybe I should play around.

The words they come less easy,
Like a lonely sad parade,
The notes they blow less breezy,
Like ocean winds cascade.
And should you feel a lot less brave,
Accosted by some deadly wave,
All you do is cough up time,
Choking on a teaspoonful
Of the most delicious brine.

Maybe I should play around,
Until I reach my happy place.
A place where no one's lost or down,
A life that's full of grace.
Maybe i should play around,
With a harmonica and blues.
A big 'ole hat like Belushi and Akroyd,
Just play around until I annoy,
While wearin' my blue suede shoes.

In between today and dead,
Play a little blues instead,
Nod my head and just say yes,
Nothing more and nothing less,
Drop the downer, ditch the dread,
Just mess a little with your head.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

FIFTY AND HOLDING

FIFTY AND  HOLDING

Last year I turned 51, this year I am 52,
An inauspicious milestone that just won't do,
Life is streaming faster than high speed Internet,
And age is just a number I would just as soon forget.

Try as I like, I cannot stop time,
From covering me up with its gruel and its grime,
Churning me up like sewage or refuse,
Fodder for old jokes, harbinger of blues.

So if anyone asks I've stopped having birthdays,
I'm just walking around demented and dazed,
I'm still in the game, playing not folding.
It's just I've decided to be 50 and holding.

Age is just a number, that's what they tell me,
Along with the other rubbish they sell me.
I should have put an end to my birthdays at 30,
They're really not worth all the fuss and the worry.
So Geraldo can post shirtless pictures at 70,
Claiming it's the new sixty,
How clever of him, how cunning, how cheeky, 
I'll keep my shirt on, if it's all the same,
I've never been studly or known for my ass,
And my abs are as dull as a clipped blade of grass.
Half a century was all I expected at first,
Now I fear the absolute worst,
That if I'm not careful, I'll live to be stately,
And live to the ripe old age they call eighty,
A drooling irreverent irrelevant old fool,
Racing my wheelchair on the track after school.
Wandering to God knows where,
And wreaking all kinds of havoc on stairs.

Even now when I walk, I walk with a limp,
Am called sir by the young ones, those impudent imps,
My speech it is slurred as a drunken sailor,
My pants need the constant eye of a tailor.
So put the world on notice, from now on time stands still,
Like a Hollywood starlet, I shall lie, yes, I will.
I will wear the tragicomic mask of paper mache,
And die at the ripe age of 50 someday.
No matter the age on the pesky certificate of birth,
A nice half century I have spent on this earth.
So my teeth need no capping, no filling, no molding,
I will die in the past, always fifty and holding.

Last year I turned 51, this year 52,
When running fingers through my scalp,
I swear I smelled the mildew.
Life is streaming faster than my high speed Internet,
And age is just a number I would just as soon forget.
So if you must remember me and mark my natal day,
I beg you be judicious and look the other way.
Please address your cards and letters, I think it would be nifty,
To the dear delusional friend of mine who thinks he is still fifty.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

NOT NOW, BUT IN THE NEW AGE

NOT NOW, BUT IN THE NEW AGE

(FOR GAY COUPLES EVERYWHERE
WHO ARE USHERING IN THE NEW AGE
OF MARRIAGE EQUALITY)

Not now, but in the new age,
Where women can court women
And men can romance men.
I shall feel no shame uttering your name,
Our vanquished love shall usher forth again.

Not now, but in the new age, there will be no time to tarry,
No more self-righteous bigots forbidding us to marry.
The grooms atop the wedding cake, will both hold hands and smile,
And educate the wedding guests with the elements of style,
From the new age Emily Post, we will gladly tear a page,
Of wedding tips and etiquette, full of wisdom sage.
At last all this will come to pass, not now, but in the new age.

So sweet baby blue, don't cry too long in the rain,
It's not worth it and besides,
The love we feel inside,
Is the sweet love of a lifetime 
And can well withstand the pain, 
Of strangers who can't understand,
Men together walking, arm in arm and hand in hand.

Sweet baby blue, don't give it all up in a flash,
Do not leave our love to smolder,
To burn out and then crash.
For our love was meant to grow,
Together hand in hand.
Not now, but in the new age,
You'll come to understand.

The method to my madness,
The remnants of my dream,
That I was always your da Vinci,
With my great grand color scheme.
That you were always in the end,
My grandest love, my greatest friend,
My talisman through sorrow.
You were always dear to me,
My passport to tomorrow.

Sweet man in a blaze, I remember you beneath the sheets,
I know forbidden places hidden in your thighs,
I have known and seen misgivings in your silent angel eyes,

I have seen your grisly nights,
And I have breathed your tragic days.
Still love conquers all in a passion inspired haze,
And I will carry you on strong shoulders through the Book of Life.

I will leaf your limbs and chest.
I will read your mind, page by solemn page.
And we will stand unconvicted in nakedness,
Not now, but in the new age.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Author's note: Thank you all for reading each week. Today I celebrate the publishing of this blog's 500th poem!  As for this poem, it was written a long time ago when I was still in college and before Kyle and I met. Then I recently rewrote it, now that gay marriage is becoming a reality. Hoping it is one day legalized here in Virginia. A new age indeed.

MOTHER EARTH

MOTHER EARTH

Mother earth, you have made me to walk a fine line.
Despair protrudes through my skin and bones,
The dirt of lost years poisons my magic potions,
Covers my emotions with the smell of tomorrow's futility,
A relic unconvinced of his worth and utility.

Mother earth, you have made me a drone,
Dependent on the friends who phone
To solve all my depressions,
Who snare themselves in the tangle
of my shaky self-impressions.

Mother earth, your thumb and forefinger
Tap heavily on my shoulder.
Meanwhile I grow so much older.
While autumn leaves blow in the gutter,
And wasted old men mutter of their dreams that fell astray.
Sweet and saccharine mother earth,
There is blood on your hands today.

I sit and shiver in this twisted vessel of clay.
Nerves shot, blood clot, my stomach a twist of impossible knots.
Random chance plays out its dance,
Builds me a shallow grave where I can sink half-alive,
Falling through another of your mud slides.

Mother earth, you must make me brave,
Build me some sort of a sheltering cave.
For the rain it pours but offers no relief,
Brings only sorrow, dredges up grief.
Into the winter I fall like a leaf,
Left over from autumn, antiquated beliefs,
And old foul superstitions 
To these I recklessly cling,
Of snow and ice I sing.
Mother earth, you must build me a tenable dream.

I tremble like a child before dreams that fall away,
Dreams that once seemed possible in the clear cool light of day.
Dreams that once lit up my soul with their promise and their power,
Whose smooth veneer soon disappeared like light from a meteor shower.
I soak up rays that i despise, the sun reveals its evil eyes,
And shows me my flaws and my dismal worth
Yet I linger in the shifting mother earth.

Mother earth, I am left to cope,
With the longstanding challenge of your tightrope.
Black clown walking with grass stained shoes,
Dipped in a paint pail marked the blues,
Perishing in your pool of unbearable sadness.
Is there no way out of this careless earthen madness?

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

AS IF THERE'S NO TOMORROW

AS IF THERE'S NO TOMORROW

I plan to let my engine rev and shift it into overdrive,
To buzz the local plaza, and give the cops a high five.
As long as I am able to go speeding past my sorrow,
I'll live with throttle open wide as if there's no tomorrow.
My dyskinetic feet, they cannot find the brake pedal,
It's a daily test of my moxie, my firm resolve and my mettle.
So if you see me coming, I'm warning you beware,
I'm a man of steel and I'm hell on wheels, 
Cruising through without a care

There are those who say I'm a gloomy guss,
Whose only goal is to fume and fuss,
But they are wrong I'm sure you'll see.
My days are long and sometimes lonely,
I wait here at home for my one and only,
Who works hard for the money, that cursed legal tender,
Leaving me to ponder the terms of my surrender.
For disease it has me in its grip,
Into its whirlpool I slide and I slip,
Come perilously close to letting go,
But I hold on firmly for the sake of the night,
And his arms that hold me fast and tight,
As if there's no tomorrow.

I cannot write a Hallmark card,
I've never lived that kind of life,
I live with the fragments and the shards,
Pain that cuts like the blade of a knife.
Unless you've walked in these rigid shoes,
Do not diminish the depth of these blues,
Nor the lengths I sometimes go to hide them.
Antidepressants only go so far,
My life is like a blazing star,
Soon to fade and flicker out.
I have no currency in this kingdom,
Nor have I any clout.

I only rise and do my best,
To pass the daily Rorshach test,
To find the vivid colors left,
To connect the dots and plummet the depths,
To adjust my meds to the ebb and flow,
Try not to ponder demise and death,
As if there's no tomorrow.

Do not get your feelings hurt if I lash you with my tongue,
I suffer fools not gladly, should they be old or young.
A waterfall of wicked words might come spewing from my lips,
Hot molten vocabulary, bubbling like Vesuvius.
i've been building for some time,
Just follow my bouncing ball of rhyme,
And wear your comfy work clothes,
I should not make a mess of those,
When alas my stack she blows.

I plan to rev my engine loud and long,
Until at last it spits and sputters,
Until my voice its last words utters.
After that live on I may, it's really not for me to say.
Don't tread on me, don't ride my back,
I am no fancy Cadillac,
Much less some sporty Peugot,
I'm coming at last to the finish line,
The church bells chime of borrowed time,
As if there's no tomorrow.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 

MY ETERNAL FALL

MY ETERNAL FALL

The medley of the falling leaves,
Dash their tune across the windshield,
The song of bringing in the sheaves,
The corn and pumpkin from the field.
The reds, the yellows, the blazing torches,
The last remnants of summer scorches.
I mark it and I remember it all,
So that I can keep the wonder in me,
Of my eternal fall.

Should I never see another,
Should I not pass these roads again,
I will hold this season like my own lost mother,
Feel her kisses linger on the top of my head,
All I had hoped for and given up for dead,
Will live again in this sacred autumn and its jack o'lantern smile,
I am none the worse for wear despite the weight of miles,
From the depths of my spirit I arise and call,
And feel the timeless echo in my eternal fall.

The medley travels joyous forth in wheelbarrow and apple crate,
Sings a song as clear as blue and gold as heaven's gate.
As across these fertile fields like a madman I do traipse,
I have not fools to suffer nor any breath to waste.
I will travel blindly forward and not once will I stall,
'Til I have crossed the threshold of my eternal fall.

Speak not of frailty, old age or tears.
Speak only of the spirit that brings forth fresh the years.
The medley of the universe, its sweetness enriches,
A rare unseen embroidery of heavenly stitches,
The trees undress ever so slowly for winter,
Their gold and crimson let me always remember,
In the frost of all my latter years when movement slows and stalls,
I will keep these old fond memories of my eternal fall.

Speak not of losses or of sorrow,
Dwell not in the past but on tomorrow.
And a future bright and golden with undiminished hues,
Grab your sad harmonica and learn a happy blues.
And if the future dims and fails,
The wind alas gone from your sails,
Let memory be the light to always be your guide,
Into the golden sunset of this your earthly ride.

So I'll jump prostrate and hearty before this pile of fallen leaves,
Sing my own off key tune of bringing in the sheaves.
Rest in the soft mounds that I am loath to rake,
Remembering when my walking was such a piece of cake.
The reds, the yellows, the blazing torches,
The cool last remnants of summer scorches.
I mark and I remember it all,
So that I can keep the wonder in me,
Of my eternal fall.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 

CHOICES

CHOICES

The paths are not so finely worn,
I am not fixed and static.

I am no musty relic,
In some forgotten attic.

I awake unto a brand new day,
Not a slave to the same old tapes.

I am not a soul embroidered,
Across unchanging landscapes.

Wonder of wonders I can fly,
And my wings are young and strong,

Flying into the morning sun as graceful as a lark,
For who could know the choices that breathe my name in the dark?

Standing in front of a cold closed door,
But I am not in a hurry.
Time to wait out the waves on the shore,
Not to lay low or to scurry.

But to dial the number to a new future,
Not necessarily better,
Not just to follow the spirit of the law,
But to follow it to the letter.

Never knowing what's on the other side,
A ghost or an embrace.
The future comes and strikes me dumb,
Without a hint or a touch of grace.

I could have sworn that I heard voices,
Ringing in my despot ears,
Turned out it was only choices,
Echoing from far to near.
Beckoning me, beckoning,
To a day of final reckoning.
Choose or have it chosen for you,
Choose or lose it, choose or die,
You are lost without a compass,
Free falling in the windy sky.
Tumbling into the terrible,
Diving into the divine,
I have seen the future
And all its fruits and foibles are mine.

These decisions are a grim and a stark affair,
Who knows what lurks in the future,
Dangling on a tightrope in pale and nauseous air.
Afterwards the joy of resolution,
As you take your fate in hand.
Following your sun even if it leads
To a slow and ghastly quicksand.

Wonder of wonders I can fly,
And my wings are young and strong,

Flying into the morning sun as graceful as a lark,
For who could know the choices that breathe my name in the dark?

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

BITTERSWEET

BITTERSWEET

This world can be bitter,
The low achieving runt of the litter,
Screaming to be seen and heard.

This world can be sweet,
Parade of roses in your street,
A kind gesture and a loving word.

The world can be pernicious or the world can be quite grand,
The world can deal a full house, or sometimes a bad hand.
But most times it is in between, a most amazing feat,
Most times the world's a combination, we call it bittersweet.

Into the clouds we sail like a dream, with our paltry lives and ransomed souls,
Into the ocean we flounder helplessly, treading water in the foam and the shoals.
The world is a danger, the world is a harbor,
The world is a forest of endangered arbor.
The world is a welcome mat unfolding,
A warm benediction, a malevolent scolding.

Sometimes the sun is a glimmering star,
Landing and falling right where we are,
Sometimes the rain it rages, pouring down in sheets,
But still the world it churns around us, ambivalent and bittersweet.

Time it rushes, the waterfall gushes,
Nothing is forever or free.
Time it can buoy or it can destroy,
The best laid plans of you and me.

The world can be a lighted match,
Torching all it touches.
The world can be a kindly artist,
His brilliant palette and his brushes.

The world can be a hard place, no one's getting out alive,
The world can be a carnival, a thrilling roller coaster ride.
The world can be your oyster, the world can be your pearl.
All its guns a'firing and all its flags unfurled.

The world it is a battlefield, sometimes we are forced to yield.
Sometimes the wounds are fatal, sometimes the wounds are healed.
Sometimes the sweet taste of forgiveness lands upon the tongue,
Sometimes the fickle hand of fate strikes you when you're young.
Sometimes time is a faithful friend, other times a ruthless foe,
But time runs amok no matter what, the curtain falls upon the show.

The world can herald victory, the world can spell defeat.
The world might end in fire or ice, fiery flame or drenching sleet.
The world can be bitter,
Low achieving runt of the litter,
And sometimes life is manna landing at your feet.
Still the world it churns around us, ambivalent and bittersweet.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED