SURPRISES

SURPRISES  

Yellow faced sky and those pinkish clouds of day

That always gather before the sunset sinks and fades,

Reflecting into the murk of a lackadaisical river.

Children with fat faces

Watch their reflections 

Bulge in the rippling waves.

Snowmen romp in the ninety degree heat

And the dead are holding 

Relay races in the cemeteries.

The mice are eating cats

And the vampires turn into bats

And fly into the sunshine 

Away from the security ot their dark, hollow caves.

And under a smiling shady tree,

I read a letter from my lover

Written in teardrops and crayons

That says 'I love you, I'm coming on the evening flight"

Wine-faced sky, my love's returning,

Surprises light approaching night.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2026

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

DAYS OF SILVER

DAYS OF SILVER

(FOR KYLE, ON OUR 25th ANNIVERSARY)

These joyful days of silver I'm so proud to spend with you,

25 years ago you came and chased away my blues,

Parkinson's had just arrived and you became my dopamine,

A smart and dashing dynamo, a slender tender love machine. 

Off we went flying on our magic carpet ride,

Of concerts and travel and love true and tried.

We walked the streets of San Francisco, saw Britain, Paris, Rome,

It was the farthest we'd ever been from our home.

Shared our first time airplane flight, our first case of jet lag,

You sent me to the moon and I planted my flag

Joyful days we spent at Virginia Beach, Quebec and Montreal,

As lover and companion you always gave your all,

Then came the dreaded days when I began to fall.

Parkinson's crept slowly at first, but it finally overwhelmed,

You drove me to every doctor visit and bravely took the helm

Of this shattered shipwreck excuse for a brain,

You kindly and gently brought me in from the rain,

Always there to extend a hand when I take a tumble,

Solace sweet as honey when my world just seems to crumble,

A patient, loving carer who goes beyond the pale,

You turn this shipwrecked life around, allowing it to sail.

I will not lie, life is no longer a walk in the park,

It's clutching and clawing and damning ithe dark,

But you always seem to know what I need, 

Sweet compassion when I bleed, 

Tender romance or a kick in the pants.

Never doubt how much I admire, 

The way you stoke and light my fire.

As long as I live I will pillage and pilfer,

Each drop of joy from these sweet days of silver.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2026

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

APPARITIONS

APPARITIONS

I see apparitions,

People and things not really there,

Like the fat man in our dining room,

Sitting on our one good chair.

Beside him sits his fine wife Mabel,

Who has emptied the contents of her purse 

Upon the dining room table,

Probably hoping to find a cough drop or a piece of candy,

A Werther's original would sure come in handy.

And where are the waiters with the starters and drinks?

My, but I'm tired and could use the forty winks!

 I pass the fat man and Mabel on my way to my room

 Where I find an old lady sitting at a loom.

She doesn't look up from her weaving,

So I pick up the novel I've been reading,

Continuing where I left off.                       

When morning came, the old crone was still weaving,

Showing no intention of leaving.

And another shady figure had arrived in my room,

A girl barely eighteen, carrying an infant in her arms,

Her presence set off all kinds of alarms,

I pulled a CD from my music shelf, thinking it would calm,

For music has been such a healing balm,

It wasn't metal music, nor was it steel

It was "Come In From The Rain" by Captain and Tennille.

The young girl had written insulting words on the CD case,

A list of grievances against me she would not say to my face

My partner knocked, then came into my room,

I told him all about the girl and the old crone at the loom

The fat man and Mabel at the dining room table,

The defacement of the CD case.

You are seeing things not here, my partner said,

Patting me fondly on the head.

It was not mitosis nor osmosis,

It was Parkinson's psychosis,

A phenomenon occurring in the late stage of disease,

With wild hallucinations and delusions if you please,

So I now see apparitions,

People and things not really there, 

Like the fat man in our dining room,

Sitting in our one good chair.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2026

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

MY FRIEND

MY FRIEND 

Stoical and true, stalwart as a towering statue

Found in some European park,

My friend stands over me,

Protecting the thin layers of my onion-skin soul.

And I love my friend,

Because he is so gallant and understanding,

Immovable in his caring,

Like a mother who glues herself to her newborn,

He glues his thoughts of poetry and flowers 

To the fabric of the puzzle we have built,

Forged in fire with clasped hands, the interlocking pieces.

And I love my friend because he showers lilacs and lamplight,

Across the patched surface of my world weary head.

Making the path through the thorns and thistles,

Aglow with the warmth of summer flame.

Stoical and true,

Stalwart as a great statue,

My friend stands over me, 

Protecting the thin layers of my onion-skin soul.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2026

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

BIRDS AT PLAY

BIRDS AT PLAY

Birds at play on the lawn,

With their worms and their twigs and their chirping.

Birds at work in the trees,

With their spouses, their young, and their merriment.

Birds at play, in the world of the Spring,

With their pecking, trilling, and hopping.

Doing their specialized form of be-bopping

To the music of the sunny blue.

Birds at play,

Cheering the way,

For the lives of me and you,

The robin with his red breast trills a happy tune,

While the nightingale comes after dark to serenade the moon.

Birds at play in their treetop flats,

Devouring worms, avoiding cats.

Birds at play in the trees, ignoring human folly,

Making daydreams come alive, our waking moments jolly.

Birds at play on the lawn,

With their worms and their twigs and their chirping.

'

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2026

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

PAJAMAS WITH FEET IN THEM

PAJAMAS WITH FEET IN THEM 

Falling in love with you

Has been like falling in the mud with white pants on.

You preach to me your Sunday morning sermon of dissent.

My heart collapses 

In the soiled, smoldering ashes of a ruined house.

I fell in love with you who did not know me

And I played my lonely come-on game

Only to awaken to a cold shower on a winter morning.

Losing you

Is like losing a goldfish down the drain.

Lost love empties into lost time.

Oil spills on the sea

Make everything bleak and distant.

I am crying on my own shoulder,

Leaviing when everyone else is staying,

Missing the last train,

Touching someeone's hand for the last time,

Traipsing over land mines of despair and fear,

Hopelessly lost in yesteryear,

Sleeping alone, in pajamas with feet in them.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2026

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

This poem was probably written in high school and belongs to my vast catalogue of lovelorn poems . I didn't find true love until I was 38 and met Kyle, my partner of nearly 25 years. So if I can find true love, there's hope for everybody.

I WISH FOR THE STARS

 I WISH FOR THE STARS

I wish for the stars,

The stars hanging in your heart.

I wish for the silence,

The silence of your glance.

I want you in my arms,

Not for my wandering.

I will stay stone awed

By your place in my bosom.

I weep for your happiness,

Under midnight's raucous cloak.

I fly in the face of you,

In love with the smoke rings.

I wish for the stars,

That you sprinkle in my dreams.

I wish for the fragrance,

Of all my life in you.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2026

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

CEILINGS

CEILINGS

I wove tapestries on  a thousand ceilings 

That night when you lay reckless in my fingertips and thoughts.

I used for inspiration the feelings 

That sprang along the passageways.

I played loud love songs into the afghan 

You once wrapped around your body, 

When this bed was our bed.

And these ceilings in these rooms were our ceilings.

I sang torch songs long after reasonable hours,

And when the sun went down, I wove to the light of candles.

 I dreamed tempestuous patterns, sighed exacting withered sighs.

I thought one too many carousels of celebration,

One too many thoughts of us in motion.

I wove psychedelic screams in all the corridors.

I wove heartbreak in a funk above the fireplace.

I wove you in every naked semblance of a man.

I wove until my heart collapsed from heat exhaustion in the desert.

i wove tapestries on a thousand ceilings.

I wove screeching loud love songs into the afghan.

And after I had woven the night white,

I ate breakfast on a dirty plate of Tuesdays.

Bruce Potts

Copyright 2026

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Note:  This is a poem of unrequited love from the archives, that I wrote either in high school or college

RADIO

RADIO 

Radio,

Play your songs.

You've been such a kind friend

To someone like me, just trying to hold on

I like you smooth disc jockeys

And I like those Top 40 hits that you repeat,

Every four hours or so.

They make me feel awake and alive. 

I even like your commercials 

With that glossy ad man's jive.

I like your weather reports

The sunny way you look at life

Through sunny microphones

 I like your traffic reporters

That lead us safely home.

How I love you smooth disc jockeys,

And your sweet Top 40 songs.

Radio, keep playing strong.

You've been such a kind friend

To someone like me,

Just trying to hold on.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2026

ALL RGHTS RESERVED

THE MAELSTROM

THE MAELSTROM

Perilously disease progresses,

Leaving me trapped inside my own body, 

These days the meds are downright shoddy.

The DBS has lost its promise.

The doctors for once at a loss for words.

And I cannot say I blame them

I've had a long time of freedom and grace,

Perhaps it's time to pay the Fiddler.

To look him in the eyes and face.

And thank him for the glorious times I've had

On this amazing race.

Truth be told I have prayed for death, 

If life can get no better than this

Having lost my vigor and my bliss.

And indeed my hopes and plans.

It's hard to admit I have lost the plot

Holding court with hapless hands

Twenty-five years have passed since I was diagnosed

It's a wonder I am still alive, dancing on the earth,

It's a wonder I'm still writing and still somewhat verbose,

Still fighting for life and for all it is worth.

But the strength is somehow leaving me, the will to live has followed,

What little resolve I thought I had left, Parkinson's has swallowed

Still I deign to hang around, for as long as there is life, there's hope

I hang on as I swing perilously toward the end of my rope.

Perhaps I can rally the troops again, though they are tired of fighting.

False hope breeds contempt, and the fires they need igniting.

But I am lost and playing dumb, getting sucked in by the maelstrom. 

Standing in llne, minding the queue, 

Drowning in its sure swift current, witn little hope of rescue.

- Bruce Potts

 Copyright 2026

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

HATS OFF (FOR KYLE)

HATS OFF (FOR  KYLE)

Hats off to you, my darling man,

You see me in a way that no one else can.

I've loved you since I laid eyes on you,

Am thrilled to call you mine,

I'm 64 and you're now 59.

So let us slice the cheesecake,

Enjoy the sweetness of the wine,

Cuddle and commiserate

On the swift passage of time.

How quickly it has flown,

For those confined to flesh and bone.

Hats off to you, dear man,

My beginning and my end,

How the road can buckle, 

How the road can bend,

And oh my but you're aging well,

Scarcely a wrinkle on that face so handsome,

It would surely command a hefty ransom.

By thieves who crave your beauty tips

That tantalizing touch, those luminous lips,

That sweet scent of Spice Bomb when I lean in for a kiss.

So hats off to you, have a happy birthday,

Make each day a blissful mirth day.

Let's raise a glass and toss some balloons,

Whistle me one of your sweet Blondie tunes,

Open your gifts, slice the cheesecake.

We'll see how much merry two men can make.

We can cuddle and commiserate with song and with wine,

And mock with our vigor the passage of time.

Celebrate the days gone by and greet those still to be,

We'll face them all together, forever you and me.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2026

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

MY CD'S ARE SLOWLY KILLING ME

MY CD'S ARE SLOWLY KILLING ME

I eat frozen dinners and processed foods.

I'm a man of many and various moods,

I also eat three gorgeous red apples a day,

A ton of blueberries and sweet red grapes.

Hoping an untimely death to escape.

I resolutely have sworn off the lure of red meat,

I only will consume it as a rare special treat.

Poultry is my meat of choice and I love me too some fish-

For protein and Omega 3s, they make a perfect dish. 

Imagine my surprise, when I saw a treatise in the paper,

That made my normal pulse to quicken.

That said it was harmful to eat chicken.

Something about bird flu, viruses and all that.

Good grief, balderdash, Jumping Jehosaphat!

How in the world am I to live if you take away my favorite dish?

Now the papers warn me of the mercury in fish.

And when chicken and fish are microwaved to get to dinner faster,

You have, alas, the makings of a terrible disaster 

For the heat can trigger serious stuff that is most dire and drastic,

Releasing the perilous particles of the dreaded microplastic.

It creeps into the abdomen and the stomach microbiome,

It settles in quite easily and makes itself at home,

Causing abdominal pain and bloating, the subject of much fear and loathing,

The case is open and shut, it can wreak havoc with your gut.

The microplastic can also affect your airways and your lungs,

It reeks of oxidative stress, you breathe it through the air,

No matter if you're old or young, these particles are everywhere,

How this plastic tempts and teases, conjuring up diseases

Endocrine disruption and COPD, these plastIcs live in you and me,

Causing weight gain and insulin resistance, some say even cancers.

When it comes to microplastics, there are no easy answers

I still heat plastic bowls of frozen dinners in the microwave,

I'm foolish for that probably, either foolhardy or weirdly brave.

But what bugs me as a musicologist is i need all my CD's,

I rely on them to cheer me as I drink life to the lees

I have hundreds of them in my bedroom in sturdy plastic cases

I swear I see them taunting me with their twisted gleeful faces.

They surround my bed quite alarmingly on sturdy wooden racks.

Snickering as I'm sleeping, thinking I don't know the facts,

That though their music's thrilling me, my CD's are slowly killing me,       

Leaching noxious particles throughout my humble room,

Slinking through the ambient air like salt into an open wound.

Flailing about in a sea of doubt, I might need measures drastic,

To save me from the tyranny of the dreaded microplastics.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2026

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

UNKNOWABLE

UNKNOWABLE

Your pulse quickens.

Your blood thickens.

You slip and then you fall, 

Hard against a wall.

You then stumble backwards onto the floor, 

,

Your balance not so sure anymore,

You crash into a bedroom mirror,

Your road to glory drawing nearer.

What you know you must do is stark,

Traversing broken glass  in the dark,

Try to crawl toward the phone on the floor and look, 

Should I call 911 or film this for Facebook?

Why, call 911 of course, are you dull?

Do you have half a brain in your thickened skull?

Do not insult my brain please,

It is riddled with disease.

Besides if you're so smart, 

You could have saved us with your art.

I weary of this said Mr. God,  

 

You are getting tiresome and quite odd.

He pushes some buttons and pulls some knobs.

You try to stand back up but falter,

Falling prostrate on the altar

Slipping into the pull of the unknowable.

-Bruce Potts 

Copyright 2026

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

-

MINNEAPOLIS

MINNEAPOLIS

Oh, Minneapolis

You were never made for this,

Mayhem, violence in your streets,

Heightened fears and heightened heartbeats. 

Changing hearts and changing minds

Can sometimes take a long, long time.

Sometimes it isn't nice,

To protest when your foe is ICE,

Renee Good and Alex Pretti have become your rallying cry,

As innocent people are snatched from their homes and accusations fly.

Are you an American, do you deserve to be here?

Answer all our questions, or we'll make you disappear.

Oh, Minneapolis, 

You were never made for this.

Renee shot three times in the face,

Because she didn't know her place.

Alex shot ten timess, bleeding out on the concrete,

The coarseness of senseless death in the street.

Just watch the tapes, they do not lie.

You scream your lungs out asking why,

Shaking your fist at an uncaring sky.

Well, tell me now, Mr. Trump and Mr. Miller,

How does it feel to be a killer?

No warm blood in those cold, cold veins.

ICE is the way you convey your disdain

What's it like Misters Trump and Miller,

Knowing you are ruthless killers?

As surely as the agents who fired the guns,

You are as guilty as anyone.

Oh, Minneapolis,

Raise your fists

 In nonviolent peaceful protest

I pray you someday heal from this,

That you continue to resist.

That you rise above the enmity,

God bless your valiant, gallant city.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2026

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

CONSTELLATIONS

CONSTELLATIONS

Where exactly is it we go when we die

Does the soul linger on, hovering above the operating table

The hospice room, the car crash,

The slashing of the knife, the crack of the pistol,

Cognizant of its surroundings?

Does the spirit stay behind to comfort the mourners.

Counseling them in their abject grief

Hoping to provide a little succor or sustenance?

Or does the spirit simply fly away. 

Knowing it is time,

Saying so long and farewell

Disappearing into the ether or blinding white light,

With loved ones who have gone before 

Inviting them to a fine initiation banquet

In a land where the streets are paved with gold?

Perhaps the spirit transmigrates into another corporal form,

Eager to perfect itself with another life, another body

Fervently hoping for the grace to finally get it right.

Or perhaps the dead hang out with the 88 constellations

That hang high in the heavens, sometimes hard to see,

Obscured by clouds or the smog of our cities

Like Orion The Hunter, Andromeda, Queen of Ethiopia

Cancer the Crab, Scorpio the Scorpion, and Pisces the Fish

Or one of the other 83 that reside in that realm

Perhaps the dead look down at us from the vastness of space.

Mystical stars, ensconced in a clear autumn sky.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2025

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

I LONG TO BE PROLIFIC

I LONG TO BE PROLIFIC 

I long to be prolific, it would give me such a lift

To write my life in silhouette just like Taylor Swift.

Whose poetic word play I admire

I'd love to set people's hearts afire as only Taylor can

To turn out copious verses written in longhand

My God that gal is wordy, for a woman in her 30s

I long to be prolific, it would teach me such a lesson

To be as creative as Willie Nelson,

A man in his 90s, with two new records in the span of a year.

I can manage only one rhyme a month in my writing nook here.

With Parkinson's and failing eyesight I creep along in languid pace.

Struggling to even finish the race.

I long to be prolific with the amazing grace of Judy Collins.

Still writing, making records and touring even in her 80s

Even writing books with themes and topics weighty,

For most of my life she has always been there,

Lifting me from trouble and the depths of despair.

Making music since '61, the year Ithat I was born,

Soothing souls, fighting injustice, healing the forlorn

tt would make me happy truly, to be prolific as Judy.

Well, I wouldn't say I'm a "tortured" poet and i surely am no showgirl

But it would give my soul a lift to turn the poems out quicker.

As I spin my poison pen in my charming chair of wicker

Feeling despondent, morose and moody,

That I can't be prolific, like Taylor, Willie ,and Judy.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2025

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

ENAMORED

ENAMORED

(For Kyle on our 24th year anniversary)

Like a stream in a desert, arid and warm,

Rain cooling the earth with a brisk summer storm,

Grace and beauty flowing, making all things new,

I am enamored, so enamored with you.

Like the dew in the morning that sweetens the grass,

Like a quick gulp of whiskey from a small shot glass.  

Like the well tailored man of great style and class.

You have made me one of your chosen few

And I am enamored, so enamored with you.

As the lifeguard is to a clear blue pool,

Like the student who's loyal to his school,

Like a wise king welcomes the motley fool,

You have kindly welcomed me too,

And I am enamored, so enamored with you.

Like a clown in a circus paving the way,

To a happy, bright, splendiferous day,

Like sunlight is to an arbor,

Like a ship is to a harbor.

Like a lighthouse guides the sailors, ever tried and true

You have gallantly guided me too

And I am enamored, so enamored with you.

Like a town crier with his proclamations

Ending each one with an exclamation,

We have been together now 24 years,

Had quite a few laughs and a smattering of tears,

You are my every mystery and my every clue,

You fill my heart with happiness, as all good lovers do

And I am enamored, so enamored with you. 

 -Bruce Potts

Copyright 2025

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

VACANCY

 VACANCY

These days I just can't concentrate,

My thoughts shot down like beer cans on a fencepost,

Suicide bombers falling to the ground,

Making a lost and lonely sound that only I can hear.

Afraid of giving in to the false god of fear

But, oh, it does get lonely, and in the night I scream,

Awakened by a nightmare or a waking dream.

Wondering if I am wearing that infamous Parkinson's mask

Too tired to really care too much, too proud maybe to ask.

I'm like a vanquished soldier or a broken, bent oak tree,

Like a ghost that haunts an old hotel, adorned in vacancy.

 

I find myself half blind, squinting at my screen

Blurry the words, they tease and teem

Have several different eye diseases,

But I don't know what they mean,

Corneal epithelial basement membrane,

Did I spend too much time downstairs?

Saltzmann's nodular dystrophy of both eyes,

No wonder I get stares.

Irregular astigmatism of both eyes,

I should win some kind of prize.

Nuclear sclerosis of both eyes too.

I know it sounds like it's a lot, but what's a boy to do?

Like some deluded dreamer beneath the hickory tree

My eyes stare blankly straight ahead, awash in vacancy.

These days my nerves are worn and frayed,

I shun the sun and crave the shade 

lf someone doesn't like me, that's cool

I have Iess time to suffer fools,

I'll just pull up stakes and go my way,

Try to celebrate each day. 

Floating above the scorched hot ground,

Breaking ancient barriers of sound.

I still have dignity, still have my pride,

In a world where hopes and dreams collide.

I'm stolid and solid and in my heart I know I have the key,

To open up this ghost hotel, to fill this vacancy.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2025

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Note:  I am under the care of an ophthalmologist for the above mentioned eye issues.

OH JOY, UNBRIDLED JOY

OH JOY, UNBRIDLED JOY

Oh joy, unbridled joy, to be born in this day and age.

The earth it sings to you and me, its wisdom strong and sage.                    

Your future could go either way on this your next trip through,

Whatever lives you have lived before right now ere lost to you.

Your heart your only compass will tell you what to do.

Steeped in fabled wisdom, the Chef prepares his stew.

Oh joy, unbridled joy, to live out in the world,

Your footsteps treading brave new paths,

The desert sands they simmer and swirl,

The oceans flaunt their oyster pearls,

Many mysteries lurk in this sainted salty brine,

The path unfolds before you, the golden sunlight shines and shimmers,

The moon and stars they sparkle, at eventide they waltz and glimmer.

Like a mobile around a baby's cradle, steady, sure it twirls,

The years they come and the years they pass, nothing golden ever lasts.

Into each life comes a little pain, some drenching rain falls down,

Testing out your mettle with a strange discordant sound.

On you venture undeterred, you find your life's sweet calling,

With manna from heaven falling, you feed your hungry soul,

You find friends and lovers, you surrender control,

You dream, deduce and reproduce, you sometimes play it fast and loose,

On your shoulders you carry the weight of the scales,

Dreams die and diminish and sometimes they disappear,

As the plrate ships let out their sails,

You stand in strange astonishment and wonder what you're doing here.

Why the pirates they peruse and plunder and secret away your treasure

Hiding from you your passion, your purpose and your pleasure.

Oh joy, sweet joy, at last you have turned old,

The winters and autumns also have their charms

When truth and authenticity are the gifts that fill our arms.

We gather at  the coffee house to share our aches and pains,

Illness comes, infirmities thin our waning ranks,

For each extra day of life we prayerfully give thanks.

Finally into the atmosphere. at last we die and disappear,

Floating as pure spirit in the august holy winds,

Living lifted out of time, the cycle it begins again.

Grace has been achieved at last, its shining light reflected,

At last we stand at God's right hand, our spirits now perfected.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2025

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WAGE PEACE FIERCELY

 WAGE PEACE FIERCELY

The consciousness of peace floats, almost unnoticed,

Over greed and industry, and their vain splashy showing

The consciousness of peace                

Concerned only with strong, silent knowing.

Not worried about displays of might,

Extolling quietly the good and the right

Peaceful resistance not bombs, to fill the skies at night

The consciousness of war is proud and boastful.

Grandiose showa of dazzling strength and power,

The torture and the war crimes, the trampling of the flowers,

The consciousness of war is enamored of its might,

Parading on display on the streets of D.C., of North Korea, of the U.S.S.R.

The consciousness of war shoots missiles under cover of night.

Destroying hospitals and schools, the bastions of the innocent, 

Women, children and the elderly, are felled by its armaments.

Blood soaked streets that reek with carnage and the stale odor of smoke,

Noxious fumes that strangle and choke.

War prisoners tortured within inches of their lives

Making widows and widowers of husbands and wives.

The consciousness of war sometimes is necessary,

To defend against Fascism and all in its path

After much consideration and doing the math,

After much deliberation in situation rooms and Parliaments,

Not undertaken lightly by ambitious greedy malcontents,

Clamoring for newfound status and acquisition of land,

The consciousness of war haunts gentle forests and desert sands.

Consciousness of war too easily gains the upper hand.

Meanwhile the consciousness of peace longs for its day,

Circling quietly above the noise and the fray.

A viable choice is that of nonviolence,

Peace eschews the torrid twins of revenge and recompense.

What say you, discouraged earth, recipients of the scourge of battle,

As cannons fire, missiles fall and dreaded sabers rattle?

The blood of the wounded, maimed and dead echo in chorus, 

Imploring you consider, heed us absolutely.

And wage peace fiercely, calmly, resolutely.

-Bruce Potts

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