CRIES THAT GO UNHEARD

CRIES THAT GO UNHEARD

No one ever says a word,
Of plaintive cries that go unheard.
The murder of a homeless man,
The shooting of an unarmed teen,
Of violence that erupts unplanned,
The modern urban death machine.

No one dares to tell the tale,
Of the pirate ship with its ugly sail,
Venturing from the harbor of God knows where,
Marooned and cocooned, how thin the air,
Of the passengers and crew once so fair and cared for,
That vanish in the haze and through the trap door.
The lone and dusty trap door of time,
A minute until nothingness,
Out of sight and out of mind.

No one ever talks of morgues
Where corpses lie unclaimed.
Of missing persons lost to ones
Who silently mouth their names.
Once a year we lay a wreath
On the tomb of an unknown soldier.
Each year his parents grieve for him, 
Much grayer and much older.
Veterans Day and its pomp and circumstance,
Survivors' sage advice,
Hardly seem to compensate
For the unknown and his sacrifice.

Yet the wars wage on, the soldier dies,
His single mother wails and cries.
No one ever talks of grief disturbed and wild.
Alive in the eyes of a parent who alas survives a child.
No one dares disturb the quiet,
Of the morning after the sobering riot.
The bottle in the alley and its careless broken shards,
The white sheets that adorn the heads, crosses burnt on yards.

The gay man beaten and left for dead
Or ridiculed as a teen in school.
No one speaks in the midst of this,
The citizenry can be so cruel.
The injustices they are seen and heard,
They feed on life like some carrion bird.
But alas, we are a quiet bunch,
The southern belles, the ladies who lunch.
Eyes vacant and dead look straight ahead,
And mum is the only word.

No one mounts a podium,
No one takes a stage,
Except a few brave mavericks
Who dare to turn the page.
Into a new and righteous age,
Where the dead they have their day.
Where the slaughtered gay child and the unclaimed corpse
And the unknown soldier at last have their say.
The change we seek is sometimes weak,
But the day is dawning when at last we speak.

Where someone dares to say a word,
Of plaintive cries that go unheard.
The murder of a homeless man,
The shooting of an unarmed teen,
The violence that erupts unplanned,
The modern urban death machine.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

TREAD LIGHTLY, TREAD SOFTLY

TREAD LIGHTLY, TREAD SOFTLY

Tread lightly, tread softly, 
Where my heart is concerned,
It's been trampled on, pulled apart,
Spat upon, burned,
By fair-weather friends who flitter through,
Then change their minds and flee.
They do not like my politics,
My sexuality.

Like cunning magpies, 
They forge their way in,
Then take to the sky in droves.
They love the sinner, hate the sin,
How dare they stoop to condescend,
It's Anita Bryant all over again,
Queen of the orange groves.

Tread lightly, tread softly,
I'm a man with nothing to lose,
And so I dare to speak for those
Who can't afford to choose.
I owe my own allegiance
To nothing but my truth,
I take my fight into the streets,
And into the voting booth.

So what if I worry about my dear gay brethren,
Who carry the weight of the rainbow flag,
And all it has come to mean.
So what if I have a queer agenda
Hidden up my sleeve?
I'll go to my grave willingly
For the things that I believe.

Tread lightly, tread softly,
For my heart is more glass than stone,
And can shatter in a million pieces,
When a cold, cruel word is thrown.
For all my swagger and my bluster,
I'm really fighting gallantly,
While all my imperfections
Cluster all around me.

Tread lightly, tread softly,
My heart's a tad bit bitter,
The low achieving runt of the litter.
How do i harm you by speaking my peace,
And really how dare you say I can't marry?
Just another boulder for this weak heart to carry.

Tread lightly, tread softly,
And do your best to understand,
Walk a mile in my well worn shoes
Before you judge this man.
We choose who we love like the color of our eyes,
It is somewhere in the DNA, it is written in the skies,
So much ado about an inborn trait, and such a torturous ride,
The bullying, the terror, the all too frequent suicide.

These words are the naked truth,
Read them well, my dear gay youth.
For they will try to destroy your faith,
With their Scripture sanctioned hate.
But it is they not you who will be judged,
Your only crime is to dare to love,
And love is never wrong when it is given faithfully,
To one who loves you in return,
The way my man loves me.

Come and let us build a world without such fear and enmity,
Where gay and straight step up to the plate,
And fight for the right to be free.
To hold and cherish, love and honor, and marry who they please.
In the meantime mind your thoughts and tongues,
Careful what you say.
Tread lightly, tread softly, there are hearts strewn in your way.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

POSTCARD FROM THE LEDGE

POSTCARD FROM THE LEDGE
         (FOR GAY YOUTH)

It gets better if you wait awhile,
The flood gates open, then you smile.
The bully and the terrorist
Give way to an amethyst.
The shining man of all your dreams,
Waits patiently behind the scenes.
So put away the razors, 
Put away the hangman's noose,
Hitch your wagon to a star, 
Rejoice, be young and footloose.

It gets better if you be yourself
With a great big exclamation.
And let the madmen mutter
Their words of condemnation.
For the time will come when good fortune pours
Its sweetness softly into yours.
When hate and fear turn into dust,
Since time began, it's been ever thus.

And living well's the best revenge,
In this or any season.
Take pity on the sons of bitches
Who hate without a reason,
I speak from my own history,
Which surely you can trust.
A past where all the bastards dared 
Yell faggot from the school bus.

When I knew that I was different
And that I did not belong.
Yet still I knew that deep within
Was a new and glorious song.
Then college and the roommates
Who gave me the cold shoulder,
And I felt a lot like Sisyphus
Weighed down by his boulder.
Frozen out and living in a silent, scornful hell,
Until I met likeminded souls,
Who smiled at me and wished me well,
Who took me underneath their wing,
And taught my spirit how to sing.

It gets better if you give it time.
Fast forward now to out at work,
To a lover so divine.
Who wrapped my wounds in silver threads,
The man with whom I now reside.
Fast forward past the bigotry,
Fast forward through the tears,
Fast forward through what now seem an avalanche of years.
Such a waste to end it all with a twitch of a trigger finger,
Better just to wait it out, ignore the slings and zingers.

It gets better if you wait awhile,
The flood gates open, then you smile.
Put away the razors, put away the noose,
Put away all errant thoughts, rejoice, be young and footloose.
If your life ends, the bastards win.
So thumb your nose at all of those
Who dare to push you o'er the edge,
And live to be a man like me,
To write your postcard from the ledge.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

MASKS

MASKS

Oh, the mask you wear is bound to make me cry,

Hiding in your plaintive wail to the approaching autumn sky.

Soon it will be cool again, paper leaves afire,

Soon you shall throw me down again in the winter mud and mire.

And we will all chant songs of hiding in our tear ducts,

And we'll all paint our faces like happy braves in heat.

And we'll all sprain our hearts in wicked contortions,

While the power brokers grovel at our feet.

Oh, the masks we wear are bound to make us sin.

Too much self denial leaves us nowhere to begin.

I've hid behind convention and I've hid behind the rules.

I've dressed myself to walk a sexless hero.

I've blended into the brick walls,

Like Johnny Average in the schoolyard.

I have shaved my head and ducked behind the nameless, faceless fools.

And oh, the mask I wear is bound to make me cry,

Hiding in my plaintive wail to the approaching formless sky.

Soon it will be cool again, the paper leaves afire,

And you shall throw me down again in the winter mud and mire.

-Bruce Potts

Revised Copyright 2014

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED