Saturday, May 30, 2015

PLEA TO A LOVER

PLEA TO  A LOVER

Please come,
Minister to me when the night is deep,
And my body sweats in a broken sleep.

Please come,
Read my last words like a ravished fan,
Who cannot see how banal I am.

Please come,
Reassure with a warm embrace,
Not some rare startled look on your face.

And when you go,
Please cover me in kisses
And a warm bedspread,
Pulled lovingly over my twitching head.

And do all this with the requisite feeling,
As my spirit takes leave to dance on the ceiling,
Out the window to mingle with the saints,
Leaving behind a rich palette,
Of vivid watercolor paints.

The painting of us in Italy,
The frieze of us in France,
The fun we had in Ireland,
The jig I tried to dance.

Please don't regret a moment,
A second of our bliss,
I know I ask a lot of you,
But please remember this.

I was and am your biggest fan,
You held me in the palm of your hand.
You had the power to make me swoon,
I always thought you hung the moon,
And always you did so with the requisite ease,
So come tiptoe softly to me
And tenderly comfort me please.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Saturday, May 23, 2015

ANGER POISONS

ANGER POISONS

Anger poisons like hemlock tea,
Which is quite all right for Socrates,
Not so much for a man like me.

I am angry at my body,
How dare they desert me,
The muscles in my time of need?
I am angry at my fingers once so nimble,
That now uncertainly hunt and peck,
Anger flares like a forest fire,
Flaming and unchecked.

What, alas, happens to an anger unresolved?
It hangs in the air, a bitter mystery not evolved,
Anger is turned outward and the world it is chilled,
Anger turned inward relentlessly kills.
Anger when swallowed turns the soul hollow,
A nauseous, lonesome bitter pill.

I march like a soldier engulfed in flame,
Now and again I give my feelings a name.
Despite meditation, the comforting words on a gilded page,
There are times all I feel is a bitter, numbing rage.
It snarls and it simmers, to a nasty boil,
No compensation for its toil.

Anger poisons, but is hard to spit out,
Thus it leaves a cold bitter taste in my mouth,
Hanging on like the righteous bitch that it is,
Never vacationing in the tropical south,
Still I wait desperately, trying to break free,
Of this poisonous, perilous hemlock tea,
Quite all right for Socrates,
Not so much for a man like me.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Saturday, May 16, 2015

THE OLD MAN

THE OLD MAN

The old man in me, is sick and tired
Of riding high and living huge,
Tired and so dissatisfied
With secrets and with subterfuge.

The old man in me, he fusses and fumes.
The past he digs up and exhumes,
Turns it over in his head,
Sides with the dying and the dead.

The old man in me is scared of chihuahuas,
Cringes at little lap dogs,
Pot bellied pigs on leashes,
Alligators in the bogs.
The old man in me cringes,
Comes off his creaky hinges,
Flees when there's a knock on his door,
Shies away from anything more,
Than a luncheon date with friends.
The old man in me roams his neighborhood streets,
With proclamations of the end.

The old man in me is up for Chinese checkers,
Too dumb for the rigors of chess,
The old man he dreams of a wrecking ball,
Demolishing all he loves best.
The old man in me he dreams of his youth,
Determined to dig for ancient truth,
Fearless of what he might find.
The old man in me gets short of breath,
Rants and raves with his cane raised in air,
The old man in me knows no respite,
From the deep dark hole of mad despair.

There's a young man in me, buried deep.
Who I sometimes visit in my sleep.
He's buried in the dirt and the muddy grime,
Lost in the abyss of aimless time.
The old man in me knows it's wrong,
To long for when he was young and headstrong.
He staggers onward, trying to cope,
With the smothering, silent loss of hope.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Saturday, May 9, 2015

CROOKED

CROOKED

Crooked is the house I live in,
It leans like the Tower of Pisa.
Crooked are my braceless teeth,
My smile is like the Mona Lisa's.
Wan and faintly warm,
Virtually unknown to strangers,
My raging inner storm.

Out of my crooked bed I rise,
To greet the day and its crooked sun,
It shines too bright, you know the one.
Turn on my crooked tv and feast my eyes,
On crooked politicians and their crooked little lies.

Then my crooked little mind,
Decides to go on a crooked walk,
Can't make it to the corner without falling on my head,
On the pansies and the rhododendrons
In some crooked flower bed.

I help myself up with my crooked cane,
And leave a note to my crooked neighbors,
Your garden is a lovely mess of beauty,
You really should do your neighborly duty,
To protect it from the crooked man,
Up so early and up to no good,
Falling on your plot of land.

Crooked is the walk I walk,
Nonsense is the talk I talk,
A spin on the teenage mumble,
You parents of teens you know it well,
Resembling a pout or a grumble.
Yet it really is the best I can manage,
Walking and talking like a beast or a savage.
Ask me no questions, they only frustrate,
Forcing me to be over industrious,
They only further illustrate,
And confirm just what I meant,
When I told you in the first place
Of my speech impediment.

Then it's home for my crooked lunch.
Of ice cream and of crooked punch,
That chokes when it goes down the wrong way,
Leaving me coughing up half a lung, 
Until I maintain equilibrium.
I dial 911 on my crooked phone,
Tell them that I'm here alone, 
That they ought to send a squad car by,
With a built and hunky cop,
To wit I've had a choking fit,
That only a hunky cop can stop.

Making whoopee with Whoopi on The View,
is often all I care to do,
I have a lady crush on her,
Rosie Perez and that Nicolle Wallace too.
And I really get my groove on when Mario drops by,
The cute Cantone, that Liza clone,
Who always my crooked body wracks,
With paroxysms of crooked laughs.
I'm not sure the View is crooked,
For Whoopi she would not allow it,
But should it take a turn for the bent,
I should not disavow it.

Then it's on to the crooked soaps I watch,
The days of our awesome crooked lives,
Will, Sonny and that rascally Paul,
Who haunts you with his puppy dog eyes.
Then on to GH, perhaps the one I love the best,
Port Charles which is inhabited by the hunky Nathan West
it should not surprise you nor should it stun,
That i ask for him by name when I call the 911.
Take me, I tell Nathan, for it's GH or bust,
Corinthos and Jerome, those crooked gangster hoodlums,
They may be easy on the eyes, but harder still to trust.

Then it's time for my crooked nap
 'Til my crooked friend comes home,
He works all day to support his habit 
Of shoring up the crooked me,
And gets even for his trouble
With incessant vacuuming.
Crooked is the house i live in.
Cute though, and devoid of crumbs.
That Kyle my partner and crooked friend 
Detonates just like a bomb.
Crooked I live and crooked i'll die,
In this crooked one man show.
Promise that you'll tune me in, 
Just once before I go.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2015
ALLRIGHTS RESERVED

Saturday, May 2, 2015

YOUR MUSIC BLOWS ITS GENTLE WINDS

YOUR MUSIC BLOWS ITS GENTLE WINDS
(FOR GRACE GRIFFITH)

When life is like a desert, and I have lost my way,
Your music blows its gentle winds across my barren plain.
Bound by the beauty of your lovely siren songs,
You're a kind friend and companion to buttress me along.

Under the cover of your Brigid's Shield,
I take my holy refuge,
Deep within my darkest night,
When fears and doubts loom huge.
i remind myself if you can do it, I can do it too.

I am sailing, I am sailing on your magic wings of sound,
I fly upon ethereal tunes, high above the common ground,
I wonder where the lions are, they no longer come around.
I often question why they're gone and soon I realize,
Your songs have laid them down to sleep,
Like magic lullabies.

Here in my water, fire and smoke,
Surrounded by autumn leaves,
This Parkinson's a house guest
That brings me to my knees,
My favorite Parkinsonian, you bravely soldier on,
May morning it awaits us,
Somewhere a shining dawn.

Somewhere there is a sally garden,
Where you bid the flowers grow,
You make the wood thrush sing again,
You melt the ice like candle glow.
You open up your mouth to sing
And clear the stormy weather,
The clarion call of your voice it rings,
Turns this moment to forever.

Singing minstrel songs to me,
The Norwich bells they ring,
The nature boy he comes to me,
A tune of yours is what he brings.
A song to sweep me up,
To help my ship come in,
When I'm far from any harbor,
When my mettle has worn thin.

When life is arid and oh so dry.
When all I want to do is cry,
Your music blows its gentle winds,
Across my lost and desolate sky.
It's then I adjust my attitude,
Close my eyes and think of you.
Wish you well and softly pray,
All good blessings sent your way.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Note: Grace Griffith is a Washington, D.C. based singer who has one of the most angelic voices in contemporary folk music. Her singing voice has been compared to Judy Collins and early Joan Baez, and she was the late Eva Cassidy's champion, instrumental in drawing the attention of her record company Blix Street  Records  to Eva's music and securing her a record deal. I first wrote this poem for her back about six years ago when I first discovered her music. She, like me, suffers from Parkinson's disease. Her likely last CD "Passing Through" was recorded after her Parkinson's had progressed significantly, but you'd never know it. It would be well worth your time and money to explore Grace's wonderful music! I've managed to weave a few of her song titles into this poem.

SERENADE OF TWILIGHT

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