MINNEAPOLIS

MINNEAPOLIS

Oh, Minneapolis

You were never made for this,

Mayhem, violence in your streets,

Heightened fears and heightened heartbeats. 

Changing hearts and changing minds

Can sometimes take a long, long time.

Sometimes it isn't nice,

To protest when your foe is ICE,

Renee Good and Alex Pretti have become your rallying cry,

As innocent people are snatched from their homes and accusations fly.

Are you an American, do you deserve to be here?

Answer all our questions, or we'll make you disappear.

Oh, Minneapolis, 

You were never made for this.

Renee shot three times in the face,

Because she didn't know her place.

Alex shot ten timess, bleeding out on the concrete,

The coarseness of senseless death in the street.

Just watch the tapes, they do not lie.

You scream your lungs out asking why,

Shaking your fist at an uncaring sky.

Well, tell me now, Mr. Trump and Mr. Miller,

How does it feel to be a killer?

No warm blood in those cold, cold veins.

ICE is the way you convey your disdain

What's it like Misters Trump and Miller,

Knowing you are ruthless killers?

As surely as the agents who fired the guns,

You are as guilty as anyone.

Oh, Minneapolis,

Raise your fists

 In nonviolent peaceful protest

I pray you someday heal from this,

That you continue to resist.

That you rise above the enmity,

God bless your valiant, gallant city.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2026

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

DAYS I QUITE ENJOY

DAYS I QUITE ENJOY

There are days I quite enjoy,

Being quite the naughty boy.

On  a wintry day when there's snow and ice

When the sun is out and the mood is nice.

And the streets have been plowed within an inch of their lives,

By trucks with plows as sharp as knives.

When fortune makes my heart to bleed

For a respite from the winter ennui.

To venture out from my garage

In my vintage Toyota car

Into the day's supreme mirage,

Some vittles from the store to buy,

Paid for in cash 

Things for a blithesome birthday bash.

Or some other solemn reason,

To mark a  lonesome season.

There are days I quire enjoy

Being quite the naughty boy.

Leaving the house quite on the sly,

Beats staying at home or waiting to die,

Until I come back home,

Accomplished and alone.

Get stuck turning into the drive,

On a mound of ice and snow besides.

Then I'm in a mighty pickle,

Left without a plow or sickle.

With only a plastic shovel,

A desire to creep inside my hovel,

Hide myself away in shame,

No one but myself to  blame.

An aborted day of fun,

Under the winter sun.

The only thing I enjoy,

About being a naughty boy,

Is the rush of being such,

That only lasts a little while,

'Til shoveling and motor gunning,

 Ceases soon to entertain,

A silly man with half a brain.

Perhaps I do enjoy too, the final respite from my labors,

The help received from thoughtful neighbors,

That put my car back in its place,

And a grateful smile upon this face. 

There are days I quite enjoy,

Being quite the humble boy,

Never again to gamble on dangers,

But thankful alas for the goodness of strangers,

Who pulled me through in the nick of time,

Who inspired this most auspicious rhyme,

And who left this Parkinsonian in quite the writing mood,

To express his heartfelt gratitude.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2021

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED