FLOWERS IN THE VASES

FLOWERS IN THE VASES

(FOR HAZEL) 

I have a weakness for old ladies.

Any kind of old lady.

I'm really not particular.

I like best the kind of old lady

Who reads Reader's Digest

Cooks fresh rolls and buns

Kisses her grandchildren

Tears in her eyes at the sight of them.

I also like wild old ladies all right

The kind of old lady who smokes pot

And rides a Harley Davidson

Or the spry old lady

Who likes to rob banks for a hobby.

But the kind of old lady I like best

Is the Reader's Digest type

The kind of old lady

Who is genuinely touched by sunshine,

The kind of old lady

Who spends hours in her flower garden

Tending to the roses and tulips.

The kind of old lady who loves a dirty joke,

Who loves to go out for sausage gravy and biscuits

Or a pancake at the Amherst Diner

The kind of old lady who's not afraid to share a fetish

And makes homemade cheddar cheese sticks.

I have a weakness for old ladies

Who cannot live in a house 

That is not furnished with a candy dish.

The type of old lady who would apologize profusely

 If you caught her alone in her home

Sitting without flowers in the vases.

Bruce Potts

Copyright 2024

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

PURPLE SPEAKS

 PURPLE SPEAKS

Purple speaks,

In the glorious sunrise on the mountain peaks.

Purple speaks to those who listen,

Reflecting in the water, purple even glistens.

Purple speaks,

In sunsets over the mountains descending,

In psychedelic beauty,

No beginning and no ending.

Purple talks,

In hyacinths and irises, 

In redbud trees and pansies,

Along my daily walks.

Purple sings,

In some tropical fish and some birds on the wing.

Purple sighs,

Erupting in abandonment over the skies.

Purple lives in every bruise,

That moans and groans in black and blue.

Purple lives in every fall.

Lurking in the corner

Casting a pall.

Purple is,

My mother's lavender bedroom,

A grand mosaic lovely quilt,

Fruit of the pregnant loom.

Purple its mystery and mercy shrouds.

Posing in the heavens, dancing in the clouds.

Purple the favorite color

Of his Royal Badness Prince,

Purple rain comes falling

Across the firmament.

Purple speaks,

To all who will listen,

Purple creeps across the sky.

And the whole world beams and glistens.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2022

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

FORGET ME NOT

FORGET ME NOT

I stand beside this garden,

Wondering how it came to be,

So lovely in this wondrous space.

What deed of faith, what act of grace.

Perhaps it's just it's been there long,

Tilled by someone sweet and strong.

Giving flowers roots that tunnel deep,

The ancient secrets that they keep.

Every kind of flower, every genus,

Every color in the spectrum.

The iris, the pansy, the tulip, the rose,

Each confident in a calm repose.

Beauty springing forth unbidden,

Yet welcome when it comes,

Just a few of God's delights,

That shimmer in the morning sun.

Then I take the leap of faith

From that garden true to me and you,

How the years have quickly flown, like sand unto the wind.

How in that time you've grown to be my grandest, dearest friend.

How we've blossomed and quickly bloomed where we were planted,

Talking all our problems through, not taking things for granted.

Blossoming like the lilacs sweet that burst with color on the hillside,

World of wonder, maze of beauty, love that's true and tried.

Perhaps it's not a stretch to say, we are like that ancient garden.

We carry roots that tunnel deep, roots that guard us as we sleep.

And as long as I am standing and am rooted to this spot,

I'll be your flower on the hill, your sweet forget me not.

-Bruce Potts

Revised Copyright 2014

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED