NOT BORN FOR GREATNESS

NOT BORN FOR GREATNESS

I was not born for greatness,

Not even on the wait list,

I try but all I do is cry

Then go back to my boisterous nap,

Such a disingenuous chap.

Perhaps one day, I'll earn my wings,

Aspire to great and lofty things.

But for now I slouch and hide,

Mindful of the dark divide 

That poaches so many of my desperate days.

Carrying those away.

Why are my eyelids always fluttering

Why am I lost in a dreamless sleep, 

Why do the antidepressants I take

Only serve to make me weep?

Why when I wake up in the morning

Are the contents of my night table scattered on the floor?

Is it a prank from my boyfriend, is it just the wind?

Must be my REM sleep disorder acting up again.

I was not born for greatness,

Not even on the wait list.

I may have some greatness stashed away,   

Being hoarded for some stormy days

But by the time I excavate the greatness, 

its goodness shatters to pieces in the hall,

I brace myself for the tumble and fall

Once again, the Parkinson's wins

Clumsiness its evil twin turns the front door key.

And I must learn to make my peace with mediocrity.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2024

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

ORTHOSTATIC

ORTHOSTATIC

I am orthostatic,

Blood pressure dropping when I stand,

When the room begins to spin

And your legs can't comprehend

Just what's happening

You know to sit back down and chill

No dancing on the windowsill.

Such a helpless feeling

When you should be dancing on the ceiling,

Lionel Richie would not be pleased, 

At this new phase in my disease.

I am sitting down like a libertine,

While swallowing the Midodrine,

The latest addition to my arsenal of potions

To aid and abet my locomotion.

Unlike being automatic, photographic, acrobatic,

Unlike feeling sharp and sure,

I end up feeling down and dour,

Unsure of where to go.

i am orthostatic, charmed by the vertigo,

Teetering on the brink of disaster 

I swear I can't dance any faster.

Orthostatic's an impressive word, it sounds downright benign.

When I am orthostatic, I cannot walk a straight line,

Swear I am fine, no, I'm not drunk,

But all the blood to my legs has sunk.

It's just a hypotension thing

You probably would not understand

How Parkinson's and orthostatic

Tend to saunter hand in hand.

I am orthostatic, limping and lunging,

Blood pressure falling, dangerously.plunging

Into the murky depths of sweet forgetfulness.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2024

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

THE GREAT CANCER SCARE OF 2023

 THE GREAT CANCER SCARE OF 2023

Let me just tell you what happened to me,

'Twas the great cancer scare of 2023,

Wherein I failed my wellness visit Cologuard test,

Meaning cancer at worst, a false positive at best.

Immediately my mind imagined the worst,

Colon cancer slammed into my thoughts,

Grabbing hard, not letting go,

The next step the unwelcome colonoscopy,

Sure I was of my demise,

Seen through disbelieving eyes.

How could I have cancer on top of PD?

The ordeal seemed a bit harrowing for me.

Yet others have shouldered just as much if not more,

Could cancer really be darkening my door?

It took weeks to schedule the colonoscopy,

Until then I lived in a free fall,

Wanted to curl up in the smallest of balls,

Telling only a few friends of my plight,

All of whom told me I would be all right.

The prep for the colonoscopy was actually a breeze,

I chugged that laxative with exquisite ease,

An interesting night and morning after with diarrhea,

My PD slowness and my swallowing were calmed for once,

It was all quiet on the western front.

For the procedure I had to turn off my deep brain stimulation.

Then was knocked out alas for the duration,

Woke up to find it was just two benign polyps, nothing more,

No cancer found and my peace of mind restored.

I have lost my fear of the dreaded colonoscopy,

It was painless, easy and worry free,

I have an important save the date,

For the same procedure in 2028.

So for the best lifesaving tip, get your regular colonoscopy

I'm guessing that's the greatest lesson,

It's the best use of your time for maximum peace of mind.

And so grateful am I to have at last broken free,

From the great cancer scare of 2023.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2023

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

TAKEN DOWN BY A WALKER

TAKEN DOWN BY A WALKER

Fell backwards, and hit my head on a walker,

That leans against my bedroom wall.

Even a simpleton would see,

The absurdity of it all.

Felled by an assistive device,

How the back of my head did ache,

Not to mention my hip for heaven's sake.

To be fair I have a snazzier walker that I do use,

Kind of like a baby stroller with wheels,

This other walker is a savage foe,

My dignity it steals,

Jealous to be on standby should the newer walker fail,

It sulks just like a spoiled child,

My Achille's heel, my great white whale.

And that is not the worst of it,

I have fallen while using a cane,

Another assistive device to which I assign the blame.

Tis only in my imagination that walking is easy,

Not one foot at a time nice and breezy.

Into the battle each day I go, with hip protector on,

Fighting with the balance shot, an easy stride now gone.

When did one foot in front of the other become such a chore?

Something taken for granted when walking out the door.

Taken down by a walker in the prime of life,

The irony it cuts and slices like a knife.

It is not fair nor is it nice,

To be harmed alas by a helping device.

Perhaps since it's October, I've had an early Halloween,

Spooked by Mr. Parkinson and his cruel regime.

Nothing left to do but grin and bear and soldier on,

Thankful I've thus far broken ribs, and not a leg or arm.

Grateful in knowing that it could have been much worse,

No blood spilt because my head is hard.

No ambulance called or hearse.

Perhaps I'll put the culprit walker in the closet dark,

Leave it to ponder what it's done, vicious as a shark.

Fell backwards and hit my head on a walker,

That leans against my bedroom wall.

Even a simpleton must see the absurdity of it all.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2022

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

RIB CAGE CRACKED ON STAIRS

RIB CAGE CRACKED ON STAIRS

Falling, falling, out of time,
Out of sight, then out of mind.
We all have a cross to bear,
Mine's a rib cage cracked on stairs.

Everywhere I go, I stumble,
Recklessly i slip and tumble,
In the winter, in the snow,
In the springtime, in the grass,
Watch me as I bust my ass.

Falling, falling like a star,
From the heavens tossed so far,
Look for me in every beanstalk.
But you'll likely find me on the sidewalk.
Moaning, groaning, struggling to rise,
A newborn colt who needs a nudge,
Just help me up but please don't judge.

Falling, falling, down the slope,
Lost amidst a flowered hillside,
When you fall from high and aloft,
It helps to find a landing soft.
Sweet the smell of the wildflowers,
As I await the savior,
Who will lead me from these desperate hours,
Showing me some favor.

Falling, falling into your sweet arms,
Falling victim to your charms.
Alone with you at close of day.
I stumble yet I find my way.
You hold me close, you bind my wounds,
Here inside this quiet room.
Falling, falling sweet as sin,
Falling deep in love again.

Falling, falling, drifting far,
From some lost forsaken star,
We all have a cross to bear
Mine's a rib cage cracked on stairs.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

TODAY I NEED TO CRY

 TODAY I  NEED TO CRY

Sometimes I just need to cry,
Pay no heed to the teardrop
That is forming in my eye.
Leave me to my lonely room,
A radio playing a lonely tune,
Across my dark and vagrant sky.
I could not even tell you why,
But today I need to cry.

Sometimes I need to fume and fuss,
To behave just like a sourpuss.
Best not to mess with me when I'm like this,
Stay on your side of the dark abyss
Into which I'm falling.
Do not mess with the mission of a motionless man,
Who is following his calling.

Sometimes I just need to wail,
To curse and cavort, to let out my sail,
To wobble my way far from dry land,
To fall with bare feet into the hot sand,
Like a baby colt in the desert sun.
Sometimes I just need to wail,
Beyond earshot of anyone.

Sometimes I just need to drown,
In an ocean of my own damn salt.
If I should cry myself to death,
Heaving out my final breath,
You mustn't think it your fault.
Give me room to move about,
To hissy fit, to scream and shout.
If I should drown in my own emotion,
There are far worse ways to die,
There is no tonic or no magic potion,
Just give me leave to fly.
Into the heavens, into the stratosphere,
If only for a day to be anywhere but here.
Stuck inside a stubborn body who does not care to move,
Perhaps I have a stubborn streak of which you don't approve.

Just turn out the light and close the door,
Leave me to this padded room,
A radio that comforts with some tune of long lost sorrow.
My tarnished thoughts turn toward the morrow,
Toward the sweet by and by.
I could not even tell you why,
But today i need to cry.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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.

LIKE A FIRE ON A WINDSWEPT PRAIRIE

LIKE A FIRE ON A WINDSWEPT PRAIRIE

Like a fire on a bleak and a windswept prairie,
The hand of death sweeps over me, bitter and contrary.
The breath of death with icy cold freezes in its stranglehold.
I am taciturn and lonely, circumspect and wary.

Like gasoline upon the fire, I feel my world explode,
Struggling to break free of this grueling gruesome load.
Onward I stagger, pain like a dagger that overtakes the heart.
I know not where all this will end, nor where it got its start.
The day I gave up hoping to focus on just coping.
The funds I'd earmarked for disaster are dissipating faster.
Faster than a fire through a rat-infested warehouse,
I am sinking in this quagmire just as quiet as a mouse.

Like firemen who are striking, clamoring for a decent wage,
My brain cells they are fighting to get these words upon the page.
Not hard hats nor axes nor the vaunted jaws of life,
Can reverse the fearsome damage of this torn and twisting knife.
So subtly it works its cruel black magic on the brain,
Like a fire on a windswept prairie that begs and pleads for rain.

Rain that falls and swallows flame, rain that gently calls my name,
Speaks to me in riddles of a gallant past.
My body fell and flattened fast, the drugs no longer seem to last.
They like to play and trifle with me, opening windows of opportunity.
Then slamming them shut with a cool, detached delight,
Cold and cruel in bitter spite, 32 in Fahrenheit,
Like a burnished chalice of poisoned wine, that intoxicates before its time.
My final relief from the motherlode these indifferent electrodes,
That perch atop my Martian head, careless as two lumps of lead.
Tremor still a no show, balance failing and stiffness flailing,
I am lucky to be standing, on the stairs and on the landing.

My stars are dark and misaligned, the earth spins lost and out of time,
Each revolution senseless,  a journey adrift and arbitrary.
Like sand against the coastline spent, a fire on a windswept prairie.

Just when I feel there's no relief, no antidote in sight,
You bring to bear your awesome strength, your all engaging might.
The civil war that's gone before, its gunfire strangely burns no more.
A brief and welcome new reprieve, a story I can still believe,
Wraps me in a warm embrace, finds new meaning in your face.

Just when it all seems useless and forlorn,
You come to me and cradle me like a fortunate newborn,
Holding me tight and chasing the fright into the portals of the night.
Your spirit softly fills the room, making it bright and airy,
Sweeping upward like a plume, like a fire on a windswept prairie.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

CUT-THROAT

CUT-THROAT

Blindfold me and lead me upwards to the chamber of my doom,
A hanging judge, a swinging noose, a waiting burial tomb.
You will claim this song's too somber to merit a reply,
And lead me to the forest, leave me there to die.
But you are cut-throat, you are vicious, and your bullets lace the sky.

Tie my wrists and tie my ankles oh so very tight,
And swing your noose beneath my neck, the periphery of my sight.
Mock me with your promises and your lies of recompense,
Then slay me like a dragon, oh fond one with your death mints.

You are surly, you are evil, though you wear your coat of fur,
And you surely must remember how you used to sit and purr,
And praise me your lone wordsmith in a land of deaf and dumb,
You are cold and merciless and my blood it coats your tongue.

I cannot swim against your tide, my breast stroke it cannot sustain,
Jab your scissors in my eyes and watch the aqueous humor rain.
Take me underneath your wing, for I cannot speak and I cannot sing.
Shoot your cannon in the air and taunt me with your wheelchair.
I am shuffling, I am lame, I can't remember my own name.
You are callous, you are cut-throat, you're the one to blame.

Tell me I am hateful, tell me I am cruel,
But I cannot any longer stay to be your motley fool,
Blinded by the lessons in your sordid little school,
Sinking in your quicksand, your muddy perilous pool.

Blindfold me and torture me with your chains and with your whips,
Taunt me like a dominatrix with your bloodshot little hips.
You will say I am too somber, but your lips they curl and lie,
You are cut-throat, you are vicious, and your bullets lace the sky.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WOLF AT THE DOOR

WOLF AT THE DOOR

There's a wolf in waiting at my door,
Ever so slightly he whines at the moon.
In the midst of strife, in the twilight of my life,
His song is discordant and out of tune.

This mighty excuse for a canine,
Whose moans resemble a whine,
I guess he means to threaten me,
In all his churlish devilry.

But I have come to know him well,
To worship at his evil altar,
To tempt him with the smell of blood
As my steps they flail and falter.

There's a wolf in waiting at my door,
Baring fangs and pacing the floor.
I tempt him with a sacrifice,
The flesh and bone they do entice.
I tell him I'm not ready yet,
But will be soon and do not fret.
For human life, it is short and staggers,
Like a drunkard felled by demon daggers,
That slice like phantoms in the dark,
Snuffing out the slightest spark.

The wolf just smiles in disbelief
And bares his nasty yellow teeth.
And lunges hard against the wood,
In this God forsaken space
Where my feet once stood.

The wolf is impatient, carnivorous, cruel,
And man is a petulant, self-involved fool,
Secure in his knowledge there is always more time,
Sure of survival, skating thin on a dime.
Cutting down the wondrous trees he once planted,
Taking his friends and his lovers for granted.

Meanwhile the wolf shows signs of distress,
Tired of his relentless waiting,
Tired of whining, now he bays,
Relentlessly he taunts and haunts me,
Twenty-four hours a day.

The wolf is always at my door,
And will be now forevermore.
Baring his teeth, sharpening his grotesque nails,
Tightening his grip on this sinking ship,
Ripping a hole in the flapping sails.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

ANGEL WITH WING SINGED

ANGEL WITH WING SINGED

I am a tired, fallen angel with his wing of fleece singed,
Just this side of madness and about to come unhinged,
A Hansel/Gretel look-a-like in the forest seeking crumbs,
The winter it is coming, the toes and fingers numb.

I am a lost and lonely drunkard with his bottle in the alley,
A suicidal artist fretting his final proof and galley.
A banished monarch in the snow, his army all deserting,
Both my wounded body and my broken ego hurting.

I am a city planner smothered by his ghastly pile of red tape,
A disillusioned superhero, grounded here without his cape.
A lone ranger riding alone on the dark and desolate plains,
Lapping up whatever squandered joy remains.
Here with my godsend Tonto who I hold tight to my breast,
Broken shell of the man I was, brightest and the best.

I am a weary traveler, doomed to wail and walk alone,
For sins I have forgotten that for now I must atone.
A woodman of this woeful world, stifled by his renegade rust,
In need of lubrication, for me it's Oz or bust.

I am a moonless meager shadow of the man I used to be,
Crawling through the rush of Noah's flood, alone on hands and knees.
Once a proud and sure adult who did just what I pleased,
The rain it falls like torrents, I am lost to the rushing seas.

I am braced for bradykinesia, the dunce of dyskinesia,
The hapless ham, the flim flam man, the prince of paresthesia.
I am numb for no reason, regardless the season.
I long for the sleep of forgetfulness, the sweet land of amnesia.

I am master of nothing but this merciless melancholy,
This Parkinson's mask, it cloaks my face,
I look downright tragic when I'm jolly.
I'm like some forest maple drained of all its sap,
The clock is sounding 10 am, and I'm ready for my nap.

I am like unleavened bread, I do not want to rise.
I feel the call of God again, I kneel and ask him why.
I pray that he will rescue me, restore to me my vision,
Save me from a hell on earth within my fleshly prison.

I am a tired and fallen angel with his wing of gold all singed,
Just this side of madness and about to come unhinged.
A Hansel/Gretel figure in the woodlands seeking crumbs.
Time is growing shorter and the chill of winter comes.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2014
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

THE BADLANDS

THE BADLANDS

The dust of another withered afternoon
Backfires like a wayward gun.

I am pricked by the cactus,
Worn down by the scorching rays of the sun.

Huddled and sweating, heart in my throat,
While the lizards and the desert vultures
Take their calm repose.

I muddle through another day,
Alone in my desperate street clothes.

My tent is falling down around me,
Your name a prayer that coats my tongue,

In a world of sound and fury,
Heartbreak echoes like a drum.

The hymn of praise I mouth for you
Hangs silent in the air,
And like a ghost you haunt my dreams,
Broken and beyond repair.

The dregs of another muggy night
Swim in my dreams like a frantic fish,
Fins clipped and torn on the ocean floor,
Pining away in mortal anguish.

I am impaled on your indifference,
Squirming like a pig on your twirling skewer,
Cast into this Hades like some common evildoer.
The dust of another ill spent day
Backfires like a wayward gun.
Alone I roam the badlands,
Your prodigal son.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2014
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

I SO DON'T MATTER

I SO DON'T MATTER 

I so don't matter to this world,

Except perhaps as backdrop

Or some subtle form of subtext.

I so don't matter to this world,

Perhaps I'll matter to the next.

I'll even be so blunt and brave,

To surmise there's life beyond the grave,

That if I'll matter anywhere,

For sure it will be there.

I so don't matter to this world,

Except as a sort of footnote,

A white surrender flag unfurled,

A piece of prose you know by rote.

And not to under estimate,

My loving friends and my handsome mate,

I'm afraid I must reiterate,

What I feel in my heart must be true.

I so don't matter to this world,

Perhaps I'll matter to the heavens blue.

Like a toy designed to be poorly tossed,

My joints are stiff as a ball and chain,

Despite the meds and the surgery costs,

Despite my tears that pour like rain.

This body answers to a different power,

A power much higher than me,

And I so don't matter to this world,

Just a lesson in what not to be,

A poor and frail cautionary tale,

A source of mediocrity.

My spirit it falters but the trail it leads me on,

Struggling quite gallantly,

To follow my own sun.

I so don't matter to the world at large,

It's tote that bale and lift that barge.

Nowhere is sometimes where I feel  

Most loved and most at home,

I so don't matter to this world,

Just some quiet souls alone.

And they will gather near me when it's time to go,

To shed this earthly specter free,

Like roses thrown upon the snow,

Discarded oh so carelessly.

I so don't matter to this world,

A sailor upon tempestuous seas.

Nor is this a sad, cheap plea for a chorus of yes, you do,

Just the idle thoughts of idle hands,

That hang as stiff as drying glue.

Perhaps I mattered when announcing songs,
With a voice assured and oh so strong,
Or perhaps when proofreading courtroom drama.
Back when my nickname was Mr. Comma.
Or perhaps when I could write a rhyme.
Oh so perfect and sublime,
That it would leave tears in the strength of its wake,
Back when there was a lot more at stake.

I am in no hurry to say goodbye,

But in case I someday do,

I'll reiterate and make my case,

An ape could easily take my place,

In this frightful human zoo.

I'm filled to the brim with rusted tin,

What else can I possibly do?

To prove I'm more than detritus

Backdrop or a subtext.

I so don't matter to this world,

Perhaps I'll matter to the next.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2014

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Note: Sometimes having a bad day can be a blessing. This poem came out of one, and i am thankful for my bad days and my good. BUT….if your bad days are getting out of hand, please seek help. We need you around!

THE SEASONS

THE SEASONS

The seasons, they whirl and spin anymore,
Kicking dust in the face like a hurricane.
In Dorothy's tale of  a Kansas folklore,
The seasons rudely call my name.

Fall is for the scarecrow,
Dressed in his Sunday tweeds,
Winter for the tin man and all his oily needs.
Spring is for the land of Oz,
Dazzling in rebirth.
Summer for the Revelation,
To burn and scorch the earth.

Spring the land of Glenda,
Summer the poison ivy's itch.
Fall the glee of crimson leaves,
Winter the wicked witch.

With snow and ice descending,
Chaos catapulting down,
Frightening little dogs like Toto,
Trapped in their one horse towns.

The seasons are spinning out of control,
Burning my heart and searing my soul,
Breaking my spirit and bursting my bubble,
My brain like the scarecrow in terrible trouble,
My limbs like the tin man, no longer supple.

No one to scratch my itch,
Except perhaps the wicked witch.
Flying monkeys in my path,
With calculators doing math,
Adding up the time I've left,
Leaving me old and quite bereft.

The seasons, they whirl and spin anymore,
And i am waiting at the door,
The door of heaven where the seasons are one,
Where the days are marked by the grace of God,
And an everlasting sun.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2014
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

AS IF THERE'S NO TOMORROW

AS IF THERE'S NO TOMORROW

I plan to let my engine rev and shift it into overdrive,
To buzz the local plaza, and give the cops a high five.
As long as I am able to go speeding past my sorrow,
I'll live with throttle open wide as if there's no tomorrow.
My dyskinetic feet, they cannot find the brake pedal,
It's a daily test of my moxie, my firm resolve and my mettle.
So if you see me coming, I'm warning you beware,
I'm a man of steel and I'm hell on wheels, 
Cruising through without a care

There are those who say I'm a gloomy guss,
Whose only goal is to fume and fuss,
But they are wrong I'm sure you'll see.
My days are long and sometimes lonely,
I wait here at home for my one and only,
Who works hard for the money, that cursed legal tender,
Leaving me to ponder the terms of my surrender.
For disease it has me in its grip,
Into its whirlpool I slide and I slip,
Come perilously close to letting go,
But I hold on firmly for the sake of the night,
And his arms that hold me fast and tight,
As if there's no tomorrow.

I cannot write a Hallmark card,
I've never lived that kind of life,
I live with the fragments and the shards,
Pain that cuts like the blade of a knife.
Unless you've walked in these rigid shoes,
Do not diminish the depth of these blues,
Nor the lengths I sometimes go to hide them.
Antidepressants only go so far,
My life is like a blazing star,
Soon to fade and flicker out.
I have no currency in this kingdom,
Nor have I any clout.

I only rise and do my best,
To pass the daily Rorshach test,
To find the vivid colors left,
To connect the dots and plummet the depths,
To adjust my meds to the ebb and flow,
Try not to ponder demise and death,
As if there's no tomorrow.

Do not get your feelings hurt if I lash you with my tongue,
I suffer fools not gladly, should they be old or young.
A waterfall of wicked words might come spewing from my lips,
Hot molten vocabulary, bubbling like Vesuvius.
i've been building for some time,
Just follow my bouncing ball of rhyme,
And wear your comfy work clothes,
I should not make a mess of those,
When alas my stack she blows.

I plan to rev my engine loud and long,
Until at last it spits and sputters,
Until my voice its last words utters.
After that live on I may, it's really not for me to say.
Don't tread on me, don't ride my back,
I am no fancy Cadillac,
Much less some sporty Peugot,
I'm coming at last to the finish line,
The church bells chime of borrowed time,
As if there's no tomorrow.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 

POOLS OF MYSTERY

POOLS OF MYSTERY

Pools of mystery, they reach out from the deep,
Enter my silent portals of sleep.
Water comes rushing, it gushes and pours,
I drown in the current, swiftly and sure.

Pools of mystery, they know my sad history,
Tears on my pillow, the remnants of woes,
Unfathomable how I made it through those,
They tug at my life boat, they send me slowly reeling,
Like the vertigo that spins the bed beneath the ceiling.
Like a flowering plant, an overgrown wisteria,
It climbs the trellis, this nameless fear, this brutal, cold hysteria.

Pools of vaunted mystery, in puddles at my feet,
Cold and frigid, the glacier, the ice, heralding defeat,
A fatal, final splash,  a most resounding crash,
The cops they come with night sticks and shut down my mirthful bash.
Never one to take a chance, nor with the devil to flirt or dance.
I only party in my dreams, the nightmares into which I dive.
Headfirst like a kamikaze, they make me feel alive,
And sometimes sorrow, sometimes glory, they lurk and stay behind,
Pools of mystery, stone cold history, messing with my mind.

Where are your days of glory, my son,
See what all your sad hubris has wrought.
All in your youth that you worked and you slaved for,
What little peace of mind your currency has bought.
The questions they rise and they torment a brain,
You wonder if you're going insane,
What led you to this stifled life, where once you raised your voice,
To leave you such a wretched soul, lost without a choice.
Was it just a sad, blind game of unrelenting chance.
An overdose of pesticides, that stopped your youthful dance.
Was it some sin from out your past, that left you sinking sure and fast?
Was it predestined in the womb, was there never any wiggle room?

You gaze up at the tall trees, pleading for answers,
While the cells in your substantial nigra perish like a cancer.
Metastatic, evil, the brain death it goes spreading,
Swift as an assassin, intent on your beheading.
I want a scapegoat, want revenge, I want someone to blame,
I'm standing with my notepad, quietly taking names,
In handwriting that I cannot read, sick of playing useless games,
That hold no promise of fruition, nothing but voodoo and intuition,
And lofty calls for my surrender, haughty calls from the depths of my soul.
Emptiness that hearkens and hastily eats me whole.

I fall from off the mountain steep, into the precipice mighty and deep.
Drowning and floundering in the rushing sea of the helpless tears I weep.
Most times sorrow, sometimes glory, they lurk and stay behind,
Pools of mystery, stone cold history, messing with my mind.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

ROUGH TRADE

ROUGH TRADE

It's a small consolation, it's such a rough trade,
Not the great stuff of which heroes are made,
Back room discoveries, pool table stumbles,
Foul balls on an open court, unnecessary fumbles.

It's quite unredeeming to live with inadequacy,
To throw yourself humbly upon the court's mercies.
To dance a drunken sailor on the borderline of madness,
Haunting dyskinesias mistaken in the sadness.
And the devastating memories of what was before the fall,
Small wonder that a lesser man would rush to end it all.

It is a rough trade we practice and a rough trade we ply,
It is win or it is lose, alas, there is no try.
There is no real justice, there is no real ease,
When the meds are as cursed as the disease.
From humble beginnings I arose and I shone,
Shot out from the cannon, I blazed all alone.
But I burned both ends of my elegant fuse.
The brain synapses staged a strike,
All got up and took a hike,
And left me with a gambler's blues.

Here in the corner I sit and I ponder,
What awaits in the wild blue yonder.
Here I sit in the park beneath a cool oak's shade,
Passing judgment on punishing choices I've made.
A work horse until I was 38, always in hot pursuit,
Of professional goals that swallowed me whole,
Ate away at my misspent youth.

It's a small consolation, it's such a thick bleed,
To one so not used to being in need.
To one so accustomed to living life without a hand,
To be banished to a cipher in this the chosen land.
Always thought I was too young to be,
Choosing Medicare Part B.
Thought that mighty Fortune's eyes
Would always smile upon me.

It's a bitter dispensation, it's such a crude end,
Time came and broke me when I just wouldn't bend.
Leaving me just a tad bitter, a man without a choice,
A deficit of dopamine, the rasping stutter of a voice.

Each new day I greet the pall, the indignity of another fall.
Yet with a strange and dim refrain of gratitude for what remains.
It is small consolation, it's such a rough trade,
Not such great stuff, but a legend that fades. 
Back room discoveries, terrible tumbles,
Foul balls on open court, an empire that crumbles.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013 
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

BRAIN GESTAPO MOUNTING STAIRS

BRAIN GESTAPO MOUNTING STAIRS

The cells are dying left and right,
Even as I sit to type, they vanish in thin air.
Never to return to me,
The brain Gestapo mounting stairs.

The secondary symptoms,
Pain that shoots up and down the back,
The dyskinesias from the meds,
They throw the DBS off track.

This disease evil as Hitler,
How fitting that it struck him down,
In the prime of his misspent life,
With his mistress Eva Braun.

The cells are dying in my brain,
A tortured unrelenting rain,
A private concentration camp,
Where movement slows and muscles cramp.

And each day drawing closer, like a river to the sea,
Each day heralds helplessness and immobility.
And when I smile it’s behind a mask that few can even see,
I am not a navel gazer or a sucker for self pity.

But I live with a monster invading my body,
Washing up like a tsunami on my brain’s helpless shore.
Nothing to do but pop the pills like candy,
And writhe like Chubby Checker, a strange version of the twist,
The doctors tell me less is more, and I struggle to make sense of this.

I am, alas, a lucky man, my wits still with me twelve years in,
And there are folks far worse than me who have stood where I now stand,
This barren space, this desolate place, these grains of shifting sand.
This disease is like some society lady, noisily putting on airs,
Back to the days of the thought police, the brain Gestapo mounting stairs.

A mother ship with no place to land, but someplace hard when I fall.
Less and less a presence in the affairs of my world.
My universe the size of these ceilings and walls
Meanwhile my right side is stymied and paralyzed,
My left it is not far behind,
I’d like to rent a space machine,
And mosey back in time.

Back when I moved more freely and knew what I know now,
The movement I once took for granted could rise again and bow.
But all I can do is wait by the gate for the rest of the brain to disintegrate,
And cherish the good days as they sneak up unawares,
Like the evil Hitler in his prime,
His brain Gestapo mounting stairs.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

HOLD ON TIGHT FOR ONE MORE DAY

HOLD ON TIGHT FOR ONE MORE DAY

I am not a stupid man, I see the writing on the wall,
Mankind has glimpsed mortality since the Garden and the Fall.
Since Eve took a bite of the apple, and Adam joined her in her folly,
And the serpent crawled on his belly and hissed,
We have lived with this knowledge and this strange melancholy.

Each day it is harder to talk and to type, to walk and to carry it on,
I am grateful to come to the end of the cycle when all of my troubles are gone.
And I still feel surprise when I wake to a sunrise and find myself still here.
As the dark of night passes into morning sweet and dear.
With another new dawn with the dew on the lawn, another twenty-four,
To hold my lover, to breathe, to talk, to walk my dyskinetic walk,
To feel fresh air upon my face and to taste the ocean spray.
To drain the dwindling coffers of what this life may offer,
To hold on tight for one more day.

I am not a cockeyed optimist, racing for a midnight cure,
I take it one day at a time, progressively unsure,
How long I can suffer the slings and arrows,
How long I can join in the frenetic dance,
My forehead is lined with creases and furrows,
My life is a game of random chance.

I harbor no grandiose scheme or dreams, for I gave them up for Lent.
My spirit sings for simpler things, my energies are spent.
Sometimes it is quite enough to while away an hour,
Stiff as a statue in some picturesque park,
In sweet communion with the flowers.
To breathe in the fragrance, the tendrils and the tree bark,
To feel the sunshine descend on my face like a prayer,
Not craving more than just to be there,
Still a part of the struggle, still with a horse in this fight,
A bloody boxer just not ready for the fading of the light.

I am grateful for life, for hope, and for friends,
For the little small blessings on which this life depends.
I am thankful for daydreams, for hope and for grace,
For each special soul, for each sacred place.
I am at the railway station, luggage in my hand,
Nothing in my pockets but a hobo’s grain of sand.
My heart is wide open, bursting at the seams,
My mind is racing wildly, blithely chasing daydreams.

I know not my departure time, I’m not sure I care to know,
Just for today my ticket is punched, and the earth it revels in its show.
I am always more holy than just flesh and bone,
I shall mix, alas, with the sand and the foam.
Away my spirit will gallantly fly, with the galaxies will play.
I close my eyes meanwhile and smile and hold on tight for one more day.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

SALT OVER SHOULDER

SALT OVER SHOULDER

Many a year, alas and alack,
I avoided stepping on sidewalk cracks
Lest I’d trip and go on the attack,
Recklessly breaking my mother’s back.

Only once I tripped and failed,
Landed in the belly of Jonas’s whale,
And now I have this strange psychosis,
That I caused Mom’s osteoporosis.

If I were smart I’d cradle a frog in my arms,
They say that frogs cure a myriad of harms.
Perhaps though gay, I’ll go straight on the seas,
For they say naked ladies the storms do appease.

And I never sweep my doorway with a broom after dark,
This is tempting fate at best,
For witches use brooms to travel at night,
And sweeping past midnight brings unwelcome guests.

I save my fingernails in an airtight jar
After I clip and prune,
Witches use fingernails in their nasty brew,
Mixed in the light of the moon.

I salute and flatter Mr. Magpie,
Complimenting him on his lovely wife.
If he knew he was still single,
He’d be miserable for life.
And so I do a public service
And tell an eentsy-teentsy lie,
For magpies they are thieving birds,
Not to be trusted alone in the sky.

I’ve never lit three cigarettes with a single match,
I don’t want my third friend cruelly dispatched,
A soldier felled by the hand of fate,
Old wives’ tales hold a lot of weight.

And I always say bless you when someone sneezes,
I don’t want their spirit slipping away,
Felled by a head cold of sniffles and wheezes,
I want my friends safe for another day.

I take pains never to walk under a ladder
Afraid of some dreadfully serious matter,
Like a nasty bout with the demon gout
Or a strange disorder of the bladder.

And yet I am struck with a strange disease,
I tremble, I shuffle, and I freeze.
And sure as I know my middle name,
I swear that Judas I’s to blame.
The reason for my stiff and useless limbs,
Can ultimately be blamed on him.

It is said that Judas spilt salt at the famed last meal,
A Last Supper shared with Jesus
As the Easter bells did peal.
And that one should always throw salt over shoulder,
I’ve ignored this adage alas and alack
From birth until much older.

I know it sounds preposterous,
Even a bit medieval,
But the salt was meant to appease the devil,
And to somehow ward off evil.

Somehow I’d forgotten that wise little pearl.
And how it has wreaked havoc in my sad little world
Somehow I’ve forgotten that plain and simple truth,
And I’ve been struck down like an old man
In the flower of my youth.

Now I guess it serves me right,
All I can say is alas and alack,
The devil’s Mr. Parkinson,
And he’s always on my back.

And so my disease is a mess of my making,
My misery my own damn fault,
A useless remnant of my former self,
Like the wife of Lot, a pillar of salt.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED