HEADED FOR THE SKY AGAIN
Headed for the sky again, that bright, puffy field of azure,
Glad to be soaring above this earth, rest of the world a blur.
Sure of where I'm headed and almost worth the pat down search,
A spiritual experience not found in any church.
And if dying is like flying, there is nothing left to fear,
Just take a vaunted leap of faith into the stratosphere,
And find your sea legs in the sky, let the plane's wings do the walking,
Look out from the window seat, the view can do the talking.
Headed for the sky again, the best part of the traveling,
No need for a cane or walker, as gravity comes unraveling,
And we work our magic in the heavens, unmitigated bliss.
Just close your eyes and realize, the afterlife will be like this.
Nothing left but distant blue and transitory green,
The tiniest little plots of land the human eye has seen.
Free complimentary juice and miniature airline treats,
Tiny bags of Sun Chips or Frosted Mini-Wheats.
The pilot sure and in command, in this awesome space of air.
Just surrender to your daydreams, let go your earthly cares.
Whatever happens happens in this microcosm of the world.
Just spread your arms, accept what comes, and let your wings unfurl.
Headed for the sky again, the Royal Dutch to Amsterdam,
Four days of the canals, the memory of Anne Frank.
Two strangers bound for a new strange land,
Adding memories to the memory bank.
My love to travel with his camera, and me enjoying the views,
Content to stay in the hotel room, or to join on an outing or two.
It will all depend on the DBS and on the Sinemet.
But here in the sky I am walking fine, no need to frown or fret.
Headed for the sky again, at last we head back home,
Lost in our sweet memories, those cool and precious stones,
Plowing our way peacefully across this field of azure,
The only sounds the in flight movie and the engine's gentle purr.
Blessed be our travels, both in earth and heaven,
Whether in a small light plane or a 747.
Trusting in God the co-pilot to take it all from here,
Just lay back in his gentle hands and let them proudly steer.
It's good advice for navigating each and every day,
Just sail and brave the turbulence life sends upon your way.
And after all is said and done, it is either fight or flight.
Who can say what the best way is to circumvent this night.
But the skies are meant for sailing brave, so wipe away your tears,
And if dying is like flying, there is nothing left to fear.
DANCE OF THE SWANS
Here above the bustling streets of a cloudy Amsterdam,
I grapple with the age old quest for who and what I am.
Alone in my room of the Mauro Mansion, looking down below,
A timid traveler, nonetheless a lucky so and so,
A bird's eye view of the grand canal and its rippling rushing streams,
Four days in the maze go by, life's wondrous blurry dream.
My hotel, it is a happy home, our hosts both gracious and kind,
The citizenry indifferent, at least to my bewildered mind.
Mostly I fear bicyclists, at every wheel Elvira Gulch,
Content to frown and mow me down in a cloud of burial mulch.
The architecture, like most in Europe, is singularly grand,
As the hallowed ghosts of antiquity gently take my hand.
The Amsterdam Grand Central building, its subway trains and tram wires,
The lofty perch of the cathedrals with their holy, prickly spires.
The historic house that Anne Frank haunts, her prose hangs heavy on the heart,
The museum of the great Van Gogh, which keeps alive his stunning art.
Much impressed am i with the Red Light district, its sex up close in the windowpanes,
Where the ladies ply erotic wares, mouthing my anonymous name.
Perhaps I am loath to mention it, and the point is probably moot,
But I never thought to ask about the gay male prostitutes.
And yet surely they must have them here, in this city strand,
Where every taste is catered to and every whim of man.
Where democracy it flaunts itself, even in the avian brood,
That venture into the open air purveyors of fast food.
The pigeons make themselves at home as if they own the restaurant,
Ever spry they gulp down fries, the Mickey D's their favorite haunt.
Yet perhaps of the myriad glories in these four days I have seen,
The best is the dance of the snow white swans, peaceful and serene.
The way the male elongates his neck and proudly flaps his wings,
Definitely a highlight of my voyage and perhaps my favorite thing.
Touching his beak to that of his mate, like on some formal courtly date.
The shameless serenade of the snow white swans, it is said they mate for life.
I may just yesterday have seen one flirting with his lovely wife.
The dance of these lovely snow white swans in the canals of Amsterdam,
Fills me with a long lost sense of wonder that I had not dreamed or planned.
Open, proud and carefree, like the rest of this idiosyncratic city.
Asking no permission for its right to be and offering me no pity.
The age old question of who I am remains unanswered still,
But perhaps just like the potted plants that line each passing sill,
I am here to arise and bloom in spring with the melting of the ice floes.
To dance 'til I'm done like the precious ones,
Those graceful swans beneath my window.
-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
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