IN ONE CORNER, DESPERATION

 IN ONE CORNER, DESPERATION

In my corner, here I sit,

Wondering just where I fit.

Kind of a recluse, and not of much use

For anything these days.

Heavy of limb and painful of hip,

Too many crashes in this fleshly Mother Ship.

I've more or less stopped doing,

In favor of just being,

I am finding consolation,

With a brand new way of seeing.

In my corner looking frazzled,

Where once I charmed and once I dazzled.

No meds and I am stiff as stone,

Too many and limbs have a mind of their own.

Opposing forces fight for my soul,

As I prance and lurch about,

There are no simple answers,

No easy way out.

In one corner disease and death,

In another corner counting breaths,

In dyskinetic meditation,

A prolonged hesitation.

In one corner, sweet surrender,

Heaven bound I sail,

A disillusioned Ishmael,

Doing battle with the great white whale.

In one corner there's a slasher,

Knifing out my soul,

In another corner my better self

Struggles for control.

Who knows which fighter will survive,

Continue on to win the race,

In one corner desperation,

In the other, days of grace.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2022

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

TOY SOLDIERS ON THE WINDOWSILL

TOY SOLDIERS ON THE WINDOWSILL

Like trained assassins poised to kill,
The brain cells left have had their fill.
They are toppling off their perch,
Watch them as they leer and lurch.
Fodder for the front page, grist for the rumor mill,
The few, the proud, the teetering,
Toy soldiers on the windowsill.

The vertigo is setting in, the enemy is winning,
I lay down flat upon the bed and the whole room starts its spinning.
Like suicide bombers on a tear, seemingly out of nowhere,
They aim at an already compromised brain, balance shot to smithereens,
A tilt-a-whirl, the Rebel Yell, they pulsate through my dreams.
All the king's horses and all the king's men,
Are fleeing the scene, fearing the guillotine,
Fearing the next ineffectual pill.
Leaving their sentry posts like cowards,
The toy soldiers on the windowsill.

Like sparrows they are falling out of the sky,
Wherever brain cells go when they die,
Leaving the spectators to murmur and cry.
What is the reason and what is the point,
Of protecting a withering and a perishing man?
It's every brain cell for himself, just get out while you can,
Before you're tried for treason or stealing from the till,
The few, the lost and lonely, toy soldiers on the windowsill.

Unschooled in modern warfare, lost to the golden age,
Dodgers and dissenters all, they unleash the tide of rage.
Once the cells of this sickly brain, they did an honest day of work,
Their duty they once honored and their calling dared not shirk.
But a kingdom divided against itself must soon crumble and crash,
Its buildings they have turned to dust, its villages to ash.
Who knows where we go from here, i only know we've had our fill,
Of the sinister grins on the strange double chins,
Of the Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dumb twins,
The murderous grins that frighten and chill
Of those errant toy soldiers on the windowsill.

They must have gone and unionized, those petty rapscallions,
I paid them once a living wage, they perched upon the finest stallions.
Perhaps it's a case of faulty genes or I gave them too many pesticides.
I only know they have turned on me, and turned my world upon its side.
To serve and protect no longer their creed,
They duck and desert in my time of need.
I am too poor, alas, to pay their cruel outrageous bill.
Like lawyers who tower with inflated hours,
The sneaky toy soldiers on the windowsill.

The vertigo comes faster, faster, the stomach does its dips and dives,
The soldiers they just blink and smile and give each other high fives.
In my brain it is cold and sleeting, life is frail and oh so fleeting.
Like trained assassins cruel and stark, they fire their rifles, hit their mark.
Fodder for the front page, grist for the rumor mill,
The few, the proud, the teetering,
Toy soldiers on the windowsill.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

TURN TO GAUGE THE THUNDER

TURN TO GAUGE THE THUNDER

Turn to gauge the thunder, as the sun sets dimly in the west,
You know you're going under and you hope you've done your best.
Turn to gauge the thunder, is it real or just a test?
For years you've longed for respite, ached for your final rest.

So good to taste the rain begin to gently fall,
To coat the dusty corners of your upturned mouth.
So good to fade and to know you've given it your all,
Turn to gauge the thunder, does it come from north or south?

Is it a false alarm that blows again from off the stern Gulf Coast?
Is it a warning yet or still a watch, an iffy storm at most?
Turn to gauge the thunder from atop the lighthouse tower,
Is it only the beginning or have you met your final hour?

This disease is unpredictable, this disease is like a twister.
A funnel cloud that claps so loud, a bruise or just a blister?
Turn to gauge the thunder, is it time to call the papers,
To send them the obituary that highlights all your capers?
Time to draw the curtains closed and draw all the relations near,
And sink down low into your pillow, then blithely disappear.

Can you feel the rigor mortis or is it just rigidity,
Stiffness of the mundane sort, insipid immobility?
Turn to face the rumblings of icy sleet and hail,
Climb aboard the pirate ship with its torn and tattered sail,
Feel the organ systems go and slowly start to fail.

Turn to gauge the thunder, is the grand Titanic sinking,
Or is it just I'm tired of it all, engaged in wishful thinking?
So hard to know if it's far too late or do I still exaggerate?
Sick to death of this slow demise, this twinge of twisted fate.

The boring strange monotony that cloaks so many of my days,
That lures me back to the land of sleep and the old familiar haze.
Where every dream is of looking for work and falling from a ghastly height,
The interviewer's vacant stare beneath the foul fluorescent light.
The awful sameness of these reveries, that leaves me feeling ill at ease,
And sends me falling, lost and flailing, down these stairs without a railing.

Turn to gauge the thunder, as the sun sets primly in the west.
Know you're going under, and know you've done your best.
Use your head to calculate, is it a watch or a stern warning?
Should you try to stall for time, will you live to see the morning?
Turn to gauge the thunderclaps, fading in and out of naps.
Close your eyes for the surprise, and fold your earthly maps.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

DRAWING ME IN

DRAWING ME IN

I thought I was a goner, falling into the abyss,
Dreamed of friends and loved ones I knew that I would miss,
Thought of goodbyes to my lover fair, as I ran my fingers through his hair.
How could I have missed the clues that Fate had left behind,
A wonderland within my reach, of roses and of wine.

How could I have misread the message in the bottle,
That whispered strength to forge ahead, with full and open throttle.
How could I have ascertained that life was for the taking,
Too depressed to lift my head and calm my inner shaking.
I thought the world was bitter and left no opening,
For a man consumed with stiffness, absorbed with merely coping,
Who built those tall and rigid walls still surrounding him.
Who decried his place in history as a man made out of tin,
All the time I spent shutting out with bitterness within,
The world in all its majesty was merely drawing me in.

Drawing me in to the sacredness of the moment,
Opening my sad eyes to a brand new day,
Another 24 hours, another 60 seconds, 
Is all we are promised anyway.
I thought life was a chore I could do without,
That I could not begin again,
Yet all the time I spent shutting life out,
I found life was drawing me in.

Drawing me in to the banquet table, pointing the way to the feast,
Turning away the angry young man and harpooning the savage beast.
Sending a bucket of sorrows not rightfully mine over the waterfall,
Teaching me in the days that remain the importance of standing tall.
Have pity on the hopeless man who believes his bitter lies,
Set to cut the binding cord and sever all his binding ties.
Heaven help the desperate man, gun pointed at his head,
Whose steps fall hard and wooden, whose arms are stiff as lead.
Lead all the sick to justice, give them strength to cope,
With the albatross of sorrow comes a talisman of hope.

Turning me away from my darkness and bile,
Replacing my forlorn frown with a smile,
Leading me to a sheltering place,
That covers me with hallowed grace.
If only for another 24 hours, or the sixty seconds I have left.
I can be a joyful man or I can be bereft.
To everything there is a season, we must not fail,
To give our melancholy and our grief its due,
But then let out your billowing sail,
Leave some room for happiness too.

I thought I was too late to the ball,
I never went to my senior prom,
Was all too poised to call it quits,
My soul a walking time bomb.
I thought the world a tragedy, until it showed me otherwise,
And cast a knowing look upon me with kind, compassionate eyes.
I decried my place in history as a man encased in tin,
While all the time I was shutting it out,
The world was drawing me in.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED