LIFE IS JUST A LITTLE SONG AND DANCE

LIFE IS JUST A LITTLE SONG AND DANCE

I do highly suggestive moves

In bare feet and tights 

Upon this grand raised platform

And I think nothing of it

I write grossly suggestive lyrics

And mind my stones and sticks.

And I give it little thought.

I am neither a tool telling tales out of school,

Nor a motley fool from Shakespeare

But I am glad to know you and proud to have your ear.

I am not a bit like you

Never knowing what to do

I am just a lovesick lad

Who is only passing through

I do highly suggestive moves.

My skin-tight costume bulges 

As I sprint across the high wire.

In my soul there slowly grows

A brightly burning fire.

I sail the ashes of past times

To the cold dark vault of my outer mind.

With the present moment I prowl and I prance

I go with the current and leave it to chance

Life is just a little song and dance.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2024

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

BREATHING

 BREATHING

Breathing is easy, in and out,

Smooth as water from a spout,

Breathing is shallow when you're afraid,

Or feeling regret for choices you've made.

Breathing is automatic, cinematic, systematic,

Breathing can be somewhat labored,

When you find you've fallen out of favor,

With life in all its glory,

Still you rise to tell your story

In black and white and shades of gray.

Breathing it does not appease

When crawling on your hands and knees

Though detritus and rubble.

You wonder if it's worth the trouble,

Inspiration and expiration conspiring.

When your life is bought and sold,

When all your dreams are fool's gold.

Breathing gets harder when you're feeling manic.

Gasping for air in clouds of panic.

Breathing comes harder when you're struck by disease,

Cancer, emphysema, or COPD

When breathing's your only respite,

You think about the infinite,

World devoid of blood and breath,

The sacred land of rest and death,

When the rise and fall of your heaving chest,

Is the one thing that you do the best.

There's nothing else that matters.

When your life falls down in tatters.

You feel it all start to precariously slide,

Still you breathe in oxygen, breathe out carbon dioxide

Breathing it is essential, rhythmic and fundamental,

Take good care of each precious breath.

For in the end they are all you have left,

To bargain with or trade, until your fortune's made.

Inhale and exhale, let your mind run free,

Through your life and all its history.

Smooth as water from a spout,    

A never ending mystery, breathing in and breathing out.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2023

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

NOT DEAD YET

NOT DEAD YET

Just like Buchwald in the hospice bed, no captive to my fate,

My demise is a well kept surprise, it has no fixed or scheduled date.

It actually will suit me fine, for you to mourn me ahead of time,

And toast my life with a gusto that I shan't soon forget.

I'm here, I'm there, I'm everywhere, I'm not dead yet.

Like an overachiever who perseveres and will not quit,

I go for broke, I just won't croak, not even just a little bit.

Unlike the hallowed heavenly host, I refuse to just give up the ghost,

And will not go gently into that good eve,

For I am on this journey sweet that I just refuse to leave.

Hell, no, I won't go, is my answer to the bogeyman.

I'm like Barack Obama, my motto's yes, I can.

And like some old and worn guitar, down to its last fret,

I still can croon a merry tune, I'm not dead yet.

Here is the most chilling thing, for me death has no horrid sting,

It's just I have a certain style, a certain grace, a certain bling.

A certain kind of passion for a certain sense of fashion.

I like bright colors, eschew the black, and somehow I keep coming back.

Back for more like a wave on the shore that cannot be refused,

Like a book that demands a second look, that yearns to be perused.

Death carries no stigma, for me it's merely an enigma,

I'll fly through the heavens like a seasoned vet.

Yet I'm here, there and everywhere, and not dead yet.

Just like Buchwald in the hospice bed, not filled with horror or with dread,

I just don't have the time right now to be the least bit dead.

So to any and all enemies, though I hope I don't have many,

To put an end to my regime, you're going to have to really scheme,

Come up with something really rash, perhaps a little brash.

Some mad and brilliant caper, a boulder from a skyscraper.

A brick to hit me in the noggin' or a vicious sort of floggin'.

Some strange and twisted torture that I will not soon forget,

For now I'll smile and enjoy the meanwhile, not dead yet.

-Bruce Potts

Revised Copyright 2015

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

I LOVED IT ALL

I LOVED IT ALL

In the end I didn't talk so well, had a strange aversion to the phone.
I spent my time taking stock, in my quiet room alone.
In the end I didn't walk so good, I would not leave home without a cane.
Some might say I just gave up, surrendering to relentless pain.

In the end I shuffled when I walked, awkward and a bit confused.
A little scattered in my focus, little more than a burnt out fuse.
But like some grateful orphan child the universe took in,
I wrapped my arms around the pain and claimed it as my friend.
And though I teetered on the edge and in the end would fall,
I swear until my final day I cherished life and I loved it all.

I loved it all, for it was life, the only life I'd ever known,
Into every nook and cranny, a brilliant light had shown.
Sometimes life got scary, sometimes life would reek.
In the end it was an effort to form my words and speak.
But I still had nimble fingers when the pills they did their thing.
And I could document my life in words and emails to my friends.
I could write my life in colors bright, and beg forgiveness for my sins.

There were times I was short-tempered and a tad loose with my tongue.
Not as kind and thoughtful as perhaps when I was young.
There were times when I was selfish, there were times I was headstrong.
I swear I had my moments when all I did seemed wrong.
But I danced if only in my dreams, in real life dance a fractured scheme.
And in my dreams my muscles soared, the milk of human kindness poured.
And at times my mind it wondered if I'd touched a single soul,
With my poems or with my paltry gifts, and that wondering almost ate me whole.

But I rose each day from my broken sleep or the rare nights sleep crept like a log,
And I found a sign from God's design that shone a light through time's dense fog.
Through the doubts and the down and outs that cast upon my soul this pall,
I cherished every ray of light and in my soul I loved them all.
I held my lover oh so tight and relished all the kindred souls.
I held the sun just like a weapon, in these trembling hands,
And vanquished night and saw the light as it tripped across these shifting sands.

In the end I saw the wonder in each vexing circumstance,
Each scattered random act of kindness, each new second chance.
Each new day of treasured bliss, each benefit of the doubt,
Each vestige of this pilgrimage, the loves, the hates, the ins, the outs.
And though hope teetered on the edge, not once did it tumble, not once did it fall.
In the end time was my sacred friend, I savored life and I loved it all.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

IN A NUTSHELL

IN A NUTSHELL

In a nutshell, I am leaving,
Though I know not how or when,
But gird your loins for battle
As below I do descend.

Back to the muddy ground for compost,
The tattered earth for recompense.
Back to the muddy ground for freedom
And sweet forgiveness for past sins.

In a nutshell lives the soul of the squirrel,
Who hunts and gathers for the winter,
Counting up the days and weeks
With a bevy of acorns puffing his cheeks.
Life arduous and precarious,
Surviving by wit's end, dodging the speeding cars.

In a nutshell his life is nasty and brutish
And quite a lot like ours.
The dreary, draining life of men
Who rise each day to labor to support their starving kin,
Only to rise tomorrow to do it yet again.

In a nutshell I am leaving, by grace or by divine design,
As downward I do slow descend
Like a coal miner trapped in his deadly mine.

Back to the muddy ground for compost,
Nourishment for the worms.
This world has been a gracious host
And now it's someone else's turn.

In a nutshell I am leaving, but do not cry for me.
Just dodge the squirrels as you drive.
May peace be yours, and tender mercies.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2014
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

HUNKER IN THE BUNKER

HUNKER IN THE BUNKER

Hunker your soul down in the bunker,
Watch to whom you talk,
For life is real and earnest,
And love is not a cakewalk.
And life can throw you curve balls,
That you always fail to see.
Hunker your soul down in the bunker,
You've lots of company.

This life is a bunker, 
No comforts of home,
You had better get used to walking alone.
The sun bubbles over like some babbling child,
The bunker can burn you,
It is lonesome and wild.

Hunker yourself down in the bunker,
It's a sphere of mystery where we all hide,
It's hell here on earth, so welcome inside.
There's plenty for all to weep and to grieve,
It's where we all labor and plant our proud seeds.
Then the wind comes along 
And scatters them where it will.
Hunker yourself down in the bunker,
Loneliness can kill.

Hunker down in the bunker,
Make your marks on the wall,
Of every last betrayal and every umpire's call,
That turned out to be spurious,
That turned out untrue.
Hunker yourself down in the bunker,
In memory of those who loved you.

Hunker down in the bunker,
Be careful who you trust,
Fellow soldiers flesh and blood,
Their foot-steps turn to rust.
And lips have lied and tongues are tied,
It will ever be that way,
In these days of strange intrigue,
We are hurled into the fray,

What I am trying to say is this,
A serpent's nature is to bite and hiss,
There is evil lurking in the world,
Asses bare that must be kissed.
Hunker your soul down in the bunker,
Save a space for me,
For we are comrades tried and true,
Fighting in this army.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2014
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

LIFE'S IMMENSE BUFFET

LIFE'S IMMENSE BUFFET

So many people suffering,
So much illness, so much grief.
With only brief stretches
Of respite and relief.

The world it spins,
A twirling ball of useless tragedy,
Hurdling forward into space,
Catapulting madly.

Where does it end,
And where is the life,
Hiding lost in all the death?

What phantom criminal is loose,
Looting bodies, stealing breath?

It seems most of my friends are hurting,
It seems their many dreams sold short,
Their one and only life lies useless,
Roles left vacant on cutting room floors.

Why does all this trouble hearken?
Why do gravestones lean so close,
Whisper sweet nothings into ears?
Why has God forsaken his children,
Striking them down in the prime of their years?

So many spirits leaving,
So many souls are taking flight.
Their zest for living vanquished
By a lack of appetite.
Banquet  guests that have had their fill,
And turned and walked away.
Leaving plates of food untouched
On life's immense buffet.  

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2014
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

AUTUMN COME SOFTLY

AUTUMN COME SOFTLY

Autumn come softly, 
Like a feather pillow falling,
Spilling leaves like feathers,
Your chill I feel it calling.
Spill into my hope for more,
My quiet intuition,
Let my half baked hopes and dreams,
Come to full fruition.

Let me float away on this lazy day,
Into this sky of crystal blue.
Let my spirit take it in,
This gentle vibe I feel from you.

Autumn come softly,
Refill my plate,
With a harvest of apples,
That fill up the crate.
A big shiny pumpkin,
With a shit-faced grin,
A handful of walnuts 
And acorns to spend.
The squirrels all busy,
Gathering for the winter.
Your colorful leaves
That bloom and then splinter,
Drifting aimlessly down from the trees,
'Til winter comes in with its bone-chilling breeze.

Autumn come softly, not all at once,
Let summer fade slowly into the horizon,
Spare the old woman, weathered but wizened.
Spare the old man at the local McDonalds,
Regaling his buddies with gallant war stories,
The past and all of its spirited glories.

And autumn come softly into my life, 
Be as a mistress and not as a wife.
Lay with me in fallow fields,
Let your clear, clean breath,
Come feather dusting over me
As I take my rest.
Then leave me be to take it in,
Like a man who knows just where he's been
And where he'll be tomorrow.
Autumn come softly with your chill,
Give me leave from winter
And its sweet, sweet sorrow.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2014
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

SHOULD YOU STAY

SHOULD YOU STAY

Sometimes it hurts to dig in your heels, 
The soles of your feet bloody from the years.

Sometimes you don't even know how it feels,
When the rain and the thunder turn smiles into tears.

But should you stay,
Your faithfulness will sing through the trees,
This jungle of life will hold meaning for me.

And our legend will tunnel through annals of time,
Bigger than both of us, beauty sublime.

Sometimes the pain can sear through your soul,
You long to escape and to loosen your hold.

To flee to the mountains, to be anywhere but here,
The prognosis uncertain, the outcome unclear.

But should you stay,
Your steadfastness will fill me to the brim,
All the saints and holy men will offer up their hymns.

And I will be transported at twice the speed of sound,
To the vestibule of heaven, that sacred higher ground.

Sometimes it's an easy thing, to turn away and flee,
Overwhelmed by the crushing blow of a new calamity.

To watch a loved one suffer, holding death at bay,
His coffin in the rear view mirror, ominous and grey.

But should you stay,
Your goodness will sing through the trees,
The mystery of life will unravel for me.

And our legend will live in the annals of time,
Bigger than both of us, beauty sublime.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2014
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

LIMITS TO MY POWERS

LIMITS TO MY POWERS

Superman in tights I'm not, nor the caped crusader.
Nor some famous evildoer like Satan or Darth Vader.
I came to earth in this fleshly home,
I was born and I will die alone.
And I have been an outcast passing many lonely hours,
Butting my head hard against the limits to my powers.

I meant to be like Iron Man, to fight and not to yield.
Or mighty Captain America who throws his mighty shield.
But I came to Earth for a time to dwell,
Found my heaven and met my hell.
And I crumbled to the ground like a pair of mighty towers,
Etched across the New York skyline, the limits to my powers.

I am not the boy wonder, I am not the Flash,
Nor am I the daredevil, bringing in the cash.
Nor Tarzan in his skimpy loin cloth swinging through the trees.
I came to earth from a place unknown,
I have my moments and my mysteries.
And I will leave a broken soldier, crippled by this strange disease.
And who will care when I am gone, for I am no hero to anyone.

My mind it fills up to the brim, with calculations deep and grim.
I walk with no umbrella through the drenching April showers,
Drowning in the maelstrom of the limits to my powers.

I am not the famed Green Hornet, nor am I the mighty Thor.
I can save no one, much less myself, from what Fate holds in store.
I am the wrong sex to be Wonder Woman, claiming recompense,
I am only Peter Parker, without the Spider Sense.

Batman in his cave eludes me, I am numb and cannot feel.
I cannot move through the heavens blue nor drive the Batmobile.
I am just a prisoner, condemned to lonely hours,
No skylight in my prison cell, no falling meteor showers.
Behind these bars where there are no stars, the limits to my powers.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright  2014
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

THERE MAY WELL BE

THERE MAY WELL BE

There may well be a reason to linger,
On the precipice of a waking dream.
It may well be that Death's shriveled finger,
Is not yet beckoning for a reckoning with me.

There may well be a verdant space on earth,
Where I can chart a future and plan my own rebirth.
I cannot see God's wisdom nor his vaunted master plan,
I shrink and pale before his presence,
There are things I don't yet understand.

There may well be a golden age,
Where I can write my own last page.
A place for someone strange like me,
To step and strutter on the stage.
A cool bright land of psychedelia,
To soak up all my melancholia,
There very well may be, though the chance is slim and slight,
A way to tunnel underneath the fog of this my darkest night.
To swim in the river of forgetfulness, to fortify my castle,
To graduate at a faster rate, to earn my cap and tassel.

There may well be a hiding place, where i can find a saving grace.
A solving of the mystery, an island home for you and me.
Where we can dance a merry jig, call the friends and roast a pig,
We still have time for the wedding, still have time for a honeymoon,
Although the world falls down around us and Fate pops our balloon.

There may well be a reason for this disease and for this fight,
For the breath of angels to feather over me, caress me in the night.
I know not the Father's wisdom, nor that of his Son.
I only know that Death waits at the end for everyone.
There may well be a reason for him to look the other way,
To lay down his hood and sickle and come back some other day.
There may well be a reason to expect a sunny clime,
Before the snow it comes to fall and lift me out of time.

But all I know is the certainty of the moment, the sacredness of now,
I'm standing in the stern of the boat or perhaps it is the prow.
So hard to chart the course I sail, so I hold on fierce and fast,
To the love you've always shown me, a love I know will last.
There may well be a tragedy in the face of our tomorrow,
There may well be a river of respite or a raging tide of sorrow,
Our fortune could swing either way, it is only for the gods to say.
We may as well release them, surrender to their kismet,
And dance a loving minuet into the fading sunset.

I know not how to flee Death's shrewd and shriveled finger,
So in the passway here I wait and fondly still I linger.
Wondering if there's anything to heal me or to set me free,
And I am loath to give up hope, for in truth there may well be.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED