PAPER WEIGHT

PAPER WEIGHT

I should think it not a terrible fate,
To turn into a paper weight,
Perched upon the boss's desk,
A most distinguished welcome guest,
No worries that the whole damn world's gone paperless.
Beauty never vanishes, it only fades into the background,
Lost in all our worries and our rushing all around.

I'd like to be a prism or a rainbow sort of paper weight,
Colorful as crayons and durable as slate.
A bonus to have eyes in the back of my head,
To see the boss's computer screen,
The holdings and the foldings,
The hirings and the firings,
I could warn the ones in danger
With a strategic slurp or burp,
While sipping on the boss's Big Gulp,
While sitting on his tree pulp.

To catch the sunlight in my colored glass,
As it rises in the boss's window,
To watch the sunset close the day,
In a rich purple crescendo.
To understand what the boss goes through,
For the sake of the corporate schemes.
To catch his tears as they fall on the keyboard,
As he falls helpless on the sword
Of his expectations and his dreams.

I should think it not a bitter crime,
To log myself some overtime,
And bag myself a little peace,
For my suffering to surcease.
There are not many places left to land,
For the hapless motionless man.
And sometimes mankind lost in duty,
Forgets to notice hidden beauty.
So why not be a paper weight,
Expensive and classy, perhaps a bit brassy,
Perhaps one of those snazzy models with a ship encased inside,
I could sail in my daydreams to take that boat on its merry maiden ride.
Or maybe one made of lovely dried flowers to cheer all through the winter chill,
When springtime comes to catch the fresh air breezing through the windowsill.

Perhaps paper weights have become passé,
I think I'd be one anyway.
I should think that it would not be horrible,
Nor in the least incorrigible.
As long as I'm not humdrum,
I should not run afoul of office decorum.
To bring a little beauty back is all I have in mind I guess,
To bring a little comfort to the poor and huddled paperless.
I sense somehow that I'd be forgiven for such a harmless caper,
Though my buttocks they would soon get sore from sitting on that mound of paper.

I'd be living quite high on the hog,
Like the office mascot, a big 'ole lazy dog.
Until one day I let down my guard,
Got smashed into a zillion shards,
Was hurled from the desk in a fit of passion,
Once my antics were discovered, and I'd fallen out of fashion.

I should think it not a terrible fate,
To be an office paper weight.
Perched upon the boss's desk,
A most distinguished welcome guest.
Until he found out who had finished all of those Big Gulps,
His tried and trusty ornament who used to guard his tree pulp.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

STRANGE OLD WANDERLUST

STRANGE OLD WANDERLUST

A rainy day befalls us, here in Quebec City,
And traveling, alas, has lost its pull on me.
There's all of this beauty for crying out loud,
Yet I sit in my room with my Amazon Cloud.

This strange walk of mine, I swear it gathers looks,
From patrons of quaint bakeries and hidden breakfast nooks.
When the voice of reason calls in French, it screams I'm headed for a fall,
Amid the stately architecture that looms so grand and tall.
A fall upon impressive sidewalks and their vaunted cobbled cracks,
There is a certain joie de vivre my spirit sorely lacks.

There is nowhere I want to go anymore,
There is no place I want to be.
Don't even know if this mood is for sure,
Or just a case of grief or ennui.
I only know I'm sinking into the deep red clay,
Of habits that are hard to break and will not go away.
I am fading like a gypsy into the sacred ancient dust,
There's no place I care to go anymore,
 No vestige left of my strange wanderlust.

The world and its passengers are mercenary sprites,
Clamoring like homeless children aching to be heard,
Working by day, then dancing through the nights,
Memorizing every note and mastering every word.
I sit in the middle, fingers plugging ears,
Not making sense of the music I hear.
Not even caring for the plans I have discussed,
Devoid of all interest and stripped of all cheer,
Stripped to the core falls this strange wanderlust.

Is it symbolic, a relic of disease?
A notion to be left alone to do just as I please?
Is it an immutable fact, or merely a shameful selfish act,
An act for which I should burn and should forever atone?
There's nowhere I want to go anymore,
Nowhere to go but home.

My heart it grovels and it begs,
Pleads for the brim but gets caught in the dregs.
Gets lost and tossed aloft in the immortal fight and fuss,
The push and pull of places far, this strange old wanderlust.
There's no place I want to go anymore,
No one I really want to be,
Life's a sad, cheap list of chores,
Piling up in front of me.
And why I can't for the life of me write a happy verse,
Only points me to my losses, leaves me feeling worse.

Here in the beauty of Quebec City,
Alone with my Amazon Cloud.
I have become a reluctant traveler,
Of this I am not proud.
But the music rushes over me, soft and sweet and pretty,
Calms my spirit with its Zen, affording me no pity.
Though life is built on shifting sands,
What I am is what i am.

And there's no place I want to be anymore,
But in your arms at the close of the day.
Don't want to go to the mountains or the shore,
Don't want to sail on the teeming bay.
I only want for you and me, and the everlasting us,
You are my precious destination, my strange old wanderlust.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

FRESH NIGHTMARES

FRESH NIGHTMARES

Sailing down my private Styx,
Searching for a brand new fix.
The coiled serpent around the neck
No longer does the gruesome trick.
No longer in his vaunted mesh
My weary thoughts enslaves and snares.
I'm looking for some nightmares fresh
Brand new scandalous scares.

Nighttime is my fright time,
How like the lion it once roared.
My dreaming and my inner life,
Were the only ways my spirit soared.
Armies encamped on the field,
Mine vanquished by a slash of sword,
Felled by gargantuan guillotines,
The horror leaves me cold and bored.
I hope I've not become blasé,
I hope I'm not desensitized,
I think that I just need to find,
Some brand new theater of the mind.

Fresh nightmares to pluck at the eyeballs,
That leave me intoxicated with the rush of a highball.
Some new drama, perhaps an alien in the force field.
Some super hero enemy, thrusting out his shield,
Leaving me to sally forth and parry,
The weight of disease on my back I carry,
Into the confounded conflagration,
Like some ancient knight of yore,
A nighttime private exhortation,
Full of guts, chock full of gore.
My private horror movie screening,
Replete with blood and my own screaming,
Designed to waken my sleeping will,
My emptiness of days to fill,
Fodder for a novel perhaps,
Devilish accompaniment to naps.
Some twisted weird reminder that I am still here,
Vibrant and ready to conquer the fear.

I'm ready for the heady rush, all I need's a little push.
Ready for the night of the living dead,
The monsters in waiting beneath my bed.
Just give me a nightlight and a flask,
Then bring on the ghouls in their gruesome masks.

When all the muscles freeze and stiffen,
When all I have's imagination,
I toss my hat into the ring and join the celebration.
My dream life a perilous plunge deep into the restless sleep.
Of a tainted twisted fairy tale, where the handsome princes weep.
Trapped in some familiar once upon a time,
Where life was one of normalcy and endings so sublime.

Sailing down the river Styx,
Hopes and fears into the mix.
The same old tripe to the surface bubbles,
Mind-numbing as all my toils and troubles.
The frightful it can be delightful, as long as you stay fast asleep,
Fresh nightmares, new night scares, they crawl and they creep.
Meaning no harm, they disturb and alarm.
Leaving me shaking and stifling my screams,
Falling headfirst on the sword of my dreams.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED