MEDITATION

MEDITATION

In the early morning hours,
Cross-legged and hungry for truth,
Having thrown away tomorrow
In the bloom of misspent youth.

What is there left to the motionless man,
But to sit in the twilight and harmonize with birds,
To see the sun rise o'er the mountains,
A picture worth a thousand words.

In the early morning hours,
Sometimes I am grateful,
For the Parkinson's that slowed me down,
And for the dew that glistens.
For the blessings that fall all around,
To the man who sits and listens.

Clearing the mind of its daily clutter
With a poem or meditation,
That God sends down like manna,
A useful recreation.

What is there left to enjoy in life,
When one starts to tumble and fall,
Beyond the help of science,
The darkness of it all.

Clearing the mind of errant thoughts,
A slate wiped clean of fears and faults,
A free pass for a brand new day,
Hustle and bustle all for naught.

Especially sweet on a day for lovers,
When you can curl beside me,
Sex a meditation too,
When you come and gently ride me.

What is there left for the motionless man,
Than to cling so tight to a lover's skin,
And pass the day most lovingly,
In the grip of original sin.

In the early morning hours.
Alone and lifted out of trouble,
The future still a blank check,
i float in this peaceful bubble.

I find it enough to just be alive
Alone in the sunrise, lifted out of time.
I find myself surprisingly, softly wishing,
For another day on this spinning ball,
Prayers to the God I know who's listening,
A million thank you's for it all.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESRVED