WHISPER ME THE GRAVEYARD

WHISPER ME THE GRAVEYARD

Whisper me the graveyard, when it's time for me to go

Whisper me the graveyard, in tones so hushed and low.

Make it a suggestion and not a stern demand,

And I'll turn up the hearing aid and try to understand.

Whisper me the graveyard in autumn when the sky,

Is blue as the cool pigment in my handsome lover's eye.

When the moisture of the morning dew clings to the dried up leaf.

Speak to me of the graveyard from the depths of your belief.

Whisper me the graveyard in springtime when the flowers,

Spring forth in vibrant colors and I can while away the hours

Breathing in the fragrance of the iris and the rose,

Making friends with the lonesome wind as it gently blows.

Whisper me the graveyard in summer when the heat,

Makes the granite tombstones sweat and beg for sweet relief.

When lightning cracks and thunder roars and terror fills the sky,

Give me hope and harbor and the courage still to try.

Whisper me the graveyard in winter when the snow,

Holds fast to the tree branches that sag and hang so low.

When the harsh clouds and their bitter judgments echo far and wide,

And I long and lust for a warmer clime where I can now reside.

Whisper me the graveyard and help me face the truth,

That I am not the vibrant soul I once was in my youth.

Don't screech to me the graveyard in a tone righteous and bold,

Or haul me to the mortuary before the body's cold,

Just turn up my hearing aid and say it loud and clear,

That the sands of time are calling me to conclude my business here.

Whisper me the graveyard in my ear so clear and strong,

That I believe deep in my bones it was my thought all along.

  

Whisper me the graveyard, in words so hushed and low,

And burn me in the fiery furnace steady as you go.

Spread my ashes liberally in the waves along the sand,

Whisper me the graveyard and at last I'll understand.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2023

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

DO NOT CALL IT LIFE

DO NOT CALL IT LIFE

Spend your precious time on the run
From the sound of your inner voices.
Stay trapped in the box, you know the one,
Where you've locked away your choices.

Dance in your sad, sinister, self-defeating ruts.
Do not stop to be yourself, to be yourself takes guts.
Do not stop to think you might be lying through your teeth,
As you chomp at the bit of unbridled strife.
Hang on your door a green and crimson wreath.
Dance, but do not call it life.

The whirlwind will catch you someday,
Pathetic little liar,
Careful lest your pants catch fire.
The whirlwind will come and catch you off guard,
The hiding and deception are hard.
You join the ranks of other lost souls,
Who have prayed for redemption but been swallowed whole,
By the weight of their guilt and their basic desires,
That flame and die on the funeral pyres.

Run from yourself in your desperate shoes
When you can't let the real truth come shining through.
Like some pusher armed with mind numbing pills,
That are good to cure a myriad of ills.
To titillate the bloodstream, to dull those fleshly dreams.
If all else fails you can go in hock,
Try your hand at electric shock.
There's no way you can go too far,
To avoid being the man you are.

Spend your precious time on the run,
Find an unsuspecting woman to marry,
You are running out of time to tarry.
Then close your eyes and fantasize,
When it's time to consummate the marriage,
Of the tall dark men with the stars in their eyes.
And not the vows and the baby carriage.

You can lie to me and lie to your friends,
You can lie to your wife and try to make amends.
But you can never lie to yourself, though your future's a blur.
Such a shame the word gay was always bandied about as a slur,
Such a shame you learned to despise the thing you were.
Such a shame you heard their words and took them so to heart.
Those words they killed your spirit, right from the very start.
The gilded closet its promises dangles,
But soon like an albatross it cripples and strangles.

Such a shame your parents would hurl you from their home,
If they found it was another guy on the other end of the phone.
Such a shame they hate you for spilling precious seed,
That on your fondest hopes and dreams they only piss and feed.
Such a shame it has to be, but someday soon you know it's true,
There comes a day of reckoning when you're going to have to live for you.

Spend your precious time on the run,
Like a race horse startled by the fire of a gun.
You can still dance if you want to, in self-defeating circles,
All across this damn twinkling city.
But do not ask for pity, and do not call it life.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

A poem originally simply called "Life" that I wrote in my college days as sort of an open letter to myself. I knew I was gay in my heart but had come out to no one at that point and had already unwittingly misled two women. This poem was sort of a cautionary letter I wrote to myself. I came out as a gay man shortly afterwards. I did a rewrite for 2013. The line about parents hurling you from their home does NOT apply to my very loving parents, but it does, sadly, apply to many gay men and women, even in this "enlightened" age.

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