THE OLD MAN

THE OLD MAN

The old man in me, is sick and tired
Of riding high and living huge,
Tired and so dissatisfied
With secrets and with subterfuge.

The old man in me, he fusses and fumes.
The past he digs up and exhumes,
Turns it over in his head,
Sides with the dying and the dead.

The old man in me is scared of chihuahuas,
Cringes at little lap dogs,
Pot bellied pigs on leashes,
Alligators in the bogs.
The old man in me cringes,
Comes off his creaky hinges,
Flees when there's a knock on his door,
Shies away from anything more,
Than a luncheon date with friends.
The old man in me roams his neighborhood streets,
With proclamations of the end.

The old man in me is up for Chinese checkers,
Too dumb for the rigors of chess,
The old man he dreams of a wrecking ball,
Demolishing all he loves best.
The old man in me he dreams of his youth,
Determined to dig for ancient truth,
Fearless of what he might find.
The old man in me gets short of breath,
Rants and raves with his cane raised in air,
The old man in me knows no respite,
From the deep dark hole of mad despair.

There's a young man in me, buried deep.
Who I sometimes visit in my sleep.
He's buried in the dirt and the muddy grime,
Lost in the abyss of aimless time.
The old man in me knows it's wrong,
To long for when he was young and headstrong.
He staggers onward, trying to cope,
With the smothering, silent loss of hope.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

SOME BRILLIANT PEACE

SOME BRILLIANT PEACE

Today I speak of triumph,
Through a voice that's compromised.
Today I speak of wonder,
Though seen through damaged eyes.
Though much has slipped through clumsy fingers,
These hands are clenched in fitful prayer.
A lust for life still lingers,
And greets me unprepared.

Today I see beyond the body,
With eyes that pierce the veil.
A shooting star aimed straight from heaven,
I plucked it by the tail.
And it's become my alibi,
My second chance, my reason why.
My newfound stash of rainy day cash,
Like manna falling from the sky.

It's most amazing in its staging,
Its changing of my mood.
It's vexing and perplexing,
But I'm loath to change this attitude.
This waterfall of giving thanks
For every scrap of breath,
A lease on life renewed each day 
From the ponderous murky depths.

I creep through my day slowly,
But at the very least I creep,
And I'm only now accepting,
I may be decades from the final sleep.

And I may not do it perfectly,
And I may not do it fast.
But I have slowly built my empire 
And have found some brilliant peace at last.
A peace that glimmers, see it shine,
In my crazy bloodshot eyes,
Redeemed by the holy bread and wine,
In my desperate heart it thrives.

We all are floating on this ship,
We find it hard to breathe,
No way to gauge the way Fate tips,
A fond farewell or a reprieve.
The rain it pours, but as it goes,
In the sky it leaves a rainbow. 

So arise and speak of triumph,
Though your voice is tired and thin.
Arise and speak of wonder
And prizes left to win.
Alas, pick up your mat and gladly go your way.
For death and illness now are vanquished,
And joyful falls a brand new day.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

SAMSON

SAMSON

Bald Samson walks a barren road,
Regretting all the hair he sold,
To the wicked Delilah, her beauty so stunning.
She got what she wanted with her wiles and her cunning. 

The wishing well is all but dry,
Barren in its desert home.

He walks these plains a haunted man,
Whose precious dreams have up and flown.

Cornered by the memories
Of water trickling through the pass,

Samson's throat is cracked and choking
On dreams he prayed would last.

He cannot count on sunny weather,
He cannot hope for placid seas,
In the cruel eye of the hurricane,
Felled by the savage breeze.

The millionaire is penniless,
Rummaging through the dumpster bare
For scraps from which to build a meal,
His hunger permeates the air.

Where once he held her to his breast 
As gentle as a desert flower,
Delilah sharp has drawn his blood,
And crimson dreams turn sour.

The canteen spills, the water leaks,
The spirit's moored and tethered.
The sailor's lost and rudderless,
The prisoner's tarred and feathered.

Grief stricken Samson is out of his mind,
When he learns his baldness in the male pattern kind.
He learns that his life is bounded by hours.
He cannot count on lighthouses,
The guards sleep in their towers,
He'd best not hunger for a cure,
The doctors have no powers.

The wishing well is all forlorn,
Samson's head is bald and shorn,
Delilah laughs in the distance, clutching her clippers with glee,
While Samson waits for the noose impatiently.

He swings aloft, he swings alone,
His strength is sinking like a stone,
He walks these plains a haunted soul,
Whose finest days have all but flown.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 

WHEN I'M OLD AND IN MY LIZARD SKIN

WHEN I'M OLD AND IN MY LIZARD SKIN

When I'm old and in my lizard skin,
I will ponder down each road I've been,
And likely I'll find something to lament about them all,
When i'm old and oh so wrinkly,
Like a crispy leaf in fall.

When I'm old and in my Sunday tweeds,
Wherein perhaps they'll bury me,
I'll ponder heaven and I'll ponder hell 
But alas I'll never know,
Where or in whose company
I'll be when it's time to go.

Will it be a fall from an elevator,
Or the last meal of some alligator,
To finish off my stay on earth?
Or a bumbling fall backwards down the stairs,
With a knot on the head for the angels to nurse.
Will the Parkinson's get me, or some rare kind of cancer?
I breathlessly wait in the wings for an answer.
Will the lungs go first or will I be fainthearted,
Or will this slow brain death finish what it started?

And will you be there in your botox and your perfect sparkling teeth,
Still thin as a skeleton, your hair a bedazzling wreath?
A sleeping companion still to this man encased in tin?
Or will my sleep disorder make me too cantankerous by then?

All fair questions awaiting reply,
I'll cock my head with an ear to the sky,
Will the depression meds give up the ghost
And leave me more depressed than most
With a bent toward suicide?
Right now at this idea I snort,
But I save it as a last resort.
When denied too long of earthly pleasures,
One tends to cling to desperate measures.

Though i love this life, i have to admit
At times it's a river just waiting to crest,
I'd love at times to take my rest,
In the river of forgetfulness.
Strike down the halls of memory,
Burn them beyond recognition.
By then i should be old enough to trust my intuition.
And before my dusty soul has flown,
To rely on just my wits alone.

It is all these things I wonder,
It is these strange things I ponder.
I have regrets which I cannot change,
Some things I'd like to rearrange,
Down all these roads I've been,
I'll likely die still pondering them,
When I'm old and in my lizard skin.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2014
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED