EVERYTHING HURTS BUT YOU

 EVERYTHING HURTS BUT YOU

(FOR KYLE, ON YOUR BIRTHDAY) 

Everything hurts these days but you

The hips especially, having been ravaged by falls

The arms from the stiffness when the meds do not work.

The legs rigid as stout little toothpicks-

 On their slow journey to nowhere  

Everything hurts, like the loss of my brother

Cruelly cut down in his prime.

I had hoped and prayed we would have more time

But the gods who deal out life and death

Who micromanage human breath

Made the decision to spirit him away

And everything it hurts but you in the naked light of day.

Everything hurts but you, like my lower back and spine,

Who conspire at length against me, the cheater and his concubine;

Everything hurts like the blow that I took to the head

When I  fell in the bathroom and copiously bled

Down came the shower curtain, striking my head with the sharp end of the rod

I could have been a goner, but for the grace of God.

Everything hurts but you, like the dyskinesias that threaten to tear me limb from limb,

When the meds are working overtime, and my feet they move like mayhem.

Through all of this, my love, there is you, ever stalwart and  ever true,

You bravely walk beside me on this twisted path of pain 

Through the damaging winds and the driving rain that always falls in spurts

You are my treasured talisman that heals and never hurts.

You slow me down and calm my heart with a warm and wondrous glow.

And today on this your birthday,  I just thought that you should know.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2025

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 

SHOOTING STARS

SHOOTING STARS 

I see stars erupting, boy 

When I look and watch your lips quake.

Hoping your heart to soar, in mystic configurations

When your flesh is hot upon me.

I see moons floating

Combustion ignites our souls

Fusing them into one entity 

We float together

Erotic astronauts

Naked to the human eye.

Boy, you defy my sense of balance

You defy gravity

Send me reeling with no reason

Into the unfolding of the seasons

And all their revelations that somehow always sing your name

Who would blame ua

If we mounted shooting stars

And rode them past imagination

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2024

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

LONERS

LONERS

Loners live in their own special palaces

High up in their minds

They spin ambitious dreams.

Dreams that swirl and nest in the clouds

And loners seldom find comfort

Or shelter in the crowds

Help me find the cool breeze

Of my sought for shelter.

Give me a whirlwind to call my own.

Open up your loving arms 

And call this loner home.

Loners fly in their own silent spaces.

High up in their minds

They sail the rough and rocky seas

And loners seldom pay homage

To romance and its callings.

Help me love your tender body 

In my sought for passion.

Give me a kiss to call my own.

Open up your longed for lips

And call this loner home

Loners live in their own special palaces

High up in their minds

They dance with their own shadows.

Flying so high they skirt the clouds

And loners seldom find comfort

Or shelter in the crowds.

Build me my own palace,

That I can call my own

Be my erotic architect,

Show me your grand building plans,

A firm foundation on dry land

Do not let me live alone,

Gather me up in gracious hands

And call this loner home.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2024

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

THE LINGERING GAZE

THE LINGERING GAZE
       (FOR KYLE)

The lingering gaze,
That cut through the haze
Of all lonely days 'til I met you.

Like a still quiet storm,
The day love was born,
Stifled my night time cries,
With a glimpse of your baby blue eyes.
You filled me with such wonder,
My past a giant blunder
Magically wiped clean 
By the force of your smiles
That calmed and eased all the while.

All the paths I traveled
Soon would unravel,
Like a bright flowing ribbon of magical sun,
Like a box of unopened, unbridled fun.
You cut through my heart's tattered maze,
With the art of your lingering gaze.

Over the years you were never a stranger,
Some nineteen years and counting.
You never turned your back on me,
Through trials and troubles mounting.
Through deaths of parents, uncles, aunts,
Through every kind of test,
Until the end I will call you friend.
My brightest and my best.

Now's the pandemic,and I cannot touch you,
We must stay six feet apart,
A grocery worker for your trade,
Dodging infection on parade,
Still you own my heart.
And if corona lasts 'til the twelfth of never,
I will look to find new ways so clever,
To draw you close to me,
Like the rush of water to the sea
From atop a mountain peak.
Your praises I will stand and speak,
Somehow I will endeavor,
In my own small, errant way,
Even from six feet down the hall,
Blood still pulsing, back against wall,

To stand and be counted, our love still a blaze,
An all consuming righteous fire,
I will let it burn and try to return,
Your infectious long and lingering gaze,
That gallantly rose snd cut through the haze,
Of all lonely days 'til I met you.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2020
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 

RIB CAGE CRACKED ON STAIRS

RIB CAGE CRACKED ON STAIRS

Falling, falling, out of time,
Out of sight, then out of mind.
We all have a cross to bear,
Mine's a rib cage cracked on stairs.

Everywhere I go, I stumble,
Recklessly i slip and tumble,
In the winter, in the snow,
In the springtime, in the grass,
Watch me as I bust my ass.

Falling, falling like a star,
From the heavens tossed so far,
Look for me in every beanstalk.
But you'll likely find me on the sidewalk.
Moaning, groaning, struggling to rise,
A newborn colt who needs a nudge,
Just help me up but please don't judge.

Falling, falling, down the slope,
Lost amidst a flowered hillside,
When you fall from high and aloft,
It helps to find a landing soft.
Sweet the smell of the wildflowers,
As I await the savior,
Who will lead me from these desperate hours,
Showing me some favor.

Falling, falling into your sweet arms,
Falling victim to your charms.
Alone with you at close of day.
I stumble yet I find my way.
You hold me close, you bind my wounds,
Here inside this quiet room.
Falling, falling sweet as sin,
Falling deep in love again.

Falling, falling, drifting far,
From some lost forsaken star,
We all have a cross to bear
Mine's a rib cage cracked on stairs.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

MORNING

MORNING

Morning, when i wake to find you,
Breathing still beside me,
I send a grateful prayer to heaven,
And my lesser self derides me.
For being such a faithless man,
For believing that the shifting sand,
Could pull you from my orbit.

For years I wandered aimlessly,
Lovers mere illusions,
Fairies, gnomes and blithesome sprites,
That flitted through my dreams at night. 
And I in sweet collusion,
Joined in the confusion.

Morning when I wake to see you,
Hair all tousled and divine.
Warm and tender tactile treasure,
A gift in flesh divinely measured,
To the height of my delight.

The sunrise flickers through the window,
Gratefully I kiss your spine,
Spooning in this carnival,
Cotton candy sweet in time.
Flesh and blood you lie beside me,
Far more fitting than a dream,
Every inhale, every exhale,
Rise and fall, you never fail.
Never fail to lift and cushion,
Never fail to answer prayers,
Mornings when I wake and see,
Your face upon the pillow there.

Morning when I wake and see you,
And watch your chest as it gently heaves
For fourteen years it has been this way,
Lying here silently, watching you breathe
May this love be the pastoral scene.
The way you hoped that it could be
As sprites and fairies swirl around us,
As magic fills our waking dreams.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

BARRING SOMETHING UNFORESEEN

BARRING SOMETHING UNFORESEEN

You and I will sail the world, a thrilling, chilling odyssey,
And traipse across this earth serene, barring something unforeseen.

The islands and the coastal towns, the picturesque landscapes of summer,
Will emblazon on our memories their loud and livid thunder.

Love will echo through the forests, tender and so evergreen.
We will walk the beaches arm in arm, drink from the same canteen.

Hike the mountains hale and hearty, knapsacks perched upon our backs,
Sleep in peace in the cool green valleys, clothed in nightfall's solemn black.

See the sights our fathers dreamed of, tethered to their daily grinds,
Taste the fruits our mothers longed for, out of reach on hidden vines.

See London Bridge in all its glory, falling stately to the ground,
Hear the fog horns on the murky ocean pierce the air with warning sound.

Roam the tundra of Alaska, fish the oceans, hunt for game,
When nightfall comes to lay beside you, gently calling out your name.

The years will slip by like a waterfall, sweet Niagara rushing by,
The ocean of my love for you a deep expanse as wide as sky.

Before the curtain closes and sweeps my life away,
I will kiss your lips so tenderly in the beauty of the day,

And whisper softly in your ear each fond wish, each golden dream,
And count you mine 'til the end of time, barring something unforeseen.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

CLOSE OF DAY

CLOSE OF DAY

At close of day, when the sunset pinkish graces an evening sky,
I like to sit and watch the geese streak across the heavens blue.
I think of friends that have passed away,
And one by one my thoughts they stray,
To how fleeting is this sojourn, this earthly path of thorns.

And in my mind I celebrate the day our love was born.
Hold me tight, my lover man, as I hold tight to you,
For never have I known in life a love that burns so true.

At close of day I close my eyes and sometimes out fall tears,
Tears for those that I have lost, souls precious and so dear.
My mother sweet who filled my life with such infectious joy.
And Robin of the radio who thrilled me with his stories.
Tom my brother's dear, dear friend who left for that far shore.
Land of mysteries and of no return, lost to me forevermore.

And I cannot bear the thought, my love, of ever losing you,
So always wear your seatbelt and get immunized against the flu,
Beware the crazy drivers through your long or short commute,
And watch your daily fat intake and stay forever cute.

At close of day when the sun sinks low like a fading, bouncing ball,
I think it just a privilege rare to be alive to see it all.
And all I really care to do is climb in bed beside you
And feel your breathing as it comes so rhythmic in the night,
And ponder how for once in life I dared do something right,
In finding you, in adoring you, the treasure Fate has sent my way.
These happy thoughts sustain me, here with you at close of day.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

LIKE A FIRE ON A WINDSWEPT PRAIRIE

LIKE A FIRE ON A WINDSWEPT PRAIRIE

Like a fire on a bleak and a windswept prairie,
The hand of death sweeps over me, bitter and contrary.
The breath of death with icy cold freezes in its stranglehold.
I am taciturn and lonely, circumspect and wary.

Like gasoline upon the fire, I feel my world explode,
Struggling to break free of this grueling gruesome load.
Onward I stagger, pain like a dagger that overtakes the heart.
I know not where all this will end, nor where it got its start.
The day I gave up hoping to focus on just coping.
The funds I'd earmarked for disaster are dissipating faster.
Faster than a fire through a rat-infested warehouse,
I am sinking in this quagmire just as quiet as a mouse.

Like firemen who are striking, clamoring for a decent wage,
My brain cells they are fighting to get these words upon the page.
Not hard hats nor axes nor the vaunted jaws of life,
Can reverse the fearsome damage of this torn and twisting knife.
So subtly it works its cruel black magic on the brain,
Like a fire on a windswept prairie that begs and pleads for rain.

Rain that falls and swallows flame, rain that gently calls my name,
Speaks to me in riddles of a gallant past.
My body fell and flattened fast, the drugs no longer seem to last.
They like to play and trifle with me, opening windows of opportunity.
Then slamming them shut with a cool, detached delight,
Cold and cruel in bitter spite, 32 in Fahrenheit,
Like a burnished chalice of poisoned wine, that intoxicates before its time.
My final relief from the motherlode these indifferent electrodes,
That perch atop my Martian head, careless as two lumps of lead.
Tremor still a no show, balance failing and stiffness flailing,
I am lucky to be standing, on the stairs and on the landing.

My stars are dark and misaligned, the earth spins lost and out of time,
Each revolution senseless,  a journey adrift and arbitrary.
Like sand against the coastline spent, a fire on a windswept prairie.

Just when I feel there's no relief, no antidote in sight,
You bring to bear your awesome strength, your all engaging might.
The civil war that's gone before, its gunfire strangely burns no more.
A brief and welcome new reprieve, a story I can still believe,
Wraps me in a warm embrace, finds new meaning in your face.

Just when it all seems useless and forlorn,
You come to me and cradle me like a fortunate newborn,
Holding me tight and chasing the fright into the portals of the night.
Your spirit softly fills the room, making it bright and airy,
Sweeping upward like a plume, like a fire on a windswept prairie.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

I MEANT TO WRITE OF SPRINGTIME

I MEANT TO WRITE OF SPRINGTIME
                      (FOR KYLE)

I meant to write of springtime, but winter seized my pen,
And froze it to its bosom like some long gone kith and kin.
The crocuses were buried by an avalanche of ice.
I meant to write of springtime, I tried not once but thrice.
And each time I was thwarted by the vigor of the sleet,
That all my best intentions lay splintered at my feet.

I meant to write of summer, but got swallowed by the whales,
That hunted me like a wanted man in the shoals and in the shales.
They tasted me, then spit me out, my flesh not to their liking,
And I lay half dead on my pale sick bed, flushed and fever hiking.
I tried with what was left of me to recline upon the sand,
And play the game that Fortune staid had laid upon my hand.
But sure as wind sweeps the prairie and sure as man is dust.
I blew away in a flash as ash and never again would Nature trust.

I meant to write of autumn and its blaze orange as it burned,
The autumn a window of color but not for long I learned.
Too little rain, a scorching sun, dimmed all the colors fair,
Then autumn like a banished child vanished into air.
I meant to write of foliage and lovely country churches,
But it all turned into rubble, just another of my fruitless searches.
No matter where I rambled the colors were the same,
Destroyed, downcast, and destitute, I gave up autumn's game.

I meant to write of winter, but found nothing kind to say.
December is the month of death and holidays that do not stay.
January's always jinxed and February's no fun at all.
I meant to write of winter, but the grave to me it called.
And though I felt like heeding, I braved the winter through,
I could not write of springtime until it brought me you.
For you are every reason for the seasons as they turn,
You are every welcome hearth in winter and every fire that burns.
You are every crimson leaf in autumn, every summer beach.
And it is you I cling to when the spring seems out of reach.

Now I write of springtime in all its glorious flowers,
Lying on the beach in summer, whiling away hours.
Now I write of crisp fall nights and winter with its icy snows,
I am at peace with fallow months and the need we have for those.
And if you vow to keep me warm, perhaps one day I'll write of storms,
The reason for man's suffering, in all its rich and varied forms.

I meant to write of springtime, but winter seized my pen,
And froze it to its heathen breast, like a bitter icy wind.
The crocuses were buried beneath a foot of snow.
I meant to write of springtime but each time was thwarted though.
I knew not for sure what springtime was before I felt your grace,
Your beard upon my trembling neck, your lips upon my face.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

THESE SWEET DAYS

THESE SWEET DAYS

I never will forget, as long as I live,
These sweet days in love with you,
Here in this bright and happy home,
The precious time we spend alone.
Touched by the beauty of your eyes,
The sunshine in your grin,
That comes as such a sweet surprise,
And turns my losses back to wins.

I never will forget, long as my life lasts,
The never ending well of joy
Into which my coins have cast.
The way in which you've brightened
Every cranny of my soul,
The way you've shouldered all my burdens,
Crushed my demons whole.
Chased down the dream and cracked the case,
A Sherlock to my Watson,
It may be elementary, but it will never be forgotten.

And never think the flame dies low,
It burns forever bright for us.
Though the future seems uncertain,
We are more than flesh and dust.

And I hope that you will not forget,
As long as you may live,
These sweet days in love with me,
Here in this bright and happy home,
All the love I had to give.
I hope the memory sets you free,
And comforts you on nights alone,
Long after my spirit's flown.

-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

BEFORE THE YEARS HAVE FLOWN

BEFORE THE YEARS HAVE FLOWN
         (FOR ANN HIBBITTS)

I want to get to know you,
Adopt you as my own,
Feel friendship warm and tender,
Before the years have flown.

To lose my fear when I'm around you,
To speak the thoughts that cross my mind,
To feel the weight of the past few years,
Dissolve into the sands of time.

I want to get to know you,
Your irreverence and your wit,
A second mother in my lifetime,
Real and heaven sent.

I want to know the dreams you've carried,
Bright across the drifting sand,

The mosaic brave of choices made,
Hurdled clear across the land.

I want to feel your gentle mercy,
Echoing through my darkest night,

Your watchful eye that ever glistens,
Burning in the skies so bright.

I want to get to know you,
Both your present and your past,

Your hopes for all your grandchildren,
The well in which they're cast.

To make sense of your choices,
To see how bright they shine,

Radiant displays of you,
Both simple and divine.

To see you in my lover fair
And all his sweet array,
Of attributes that glimmer bright,
Like candles on a cloudy day.

I want to get to know you,
Adopt you as my own,
Feel friendship warm and tender,
Before the years have flown.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2014
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

IF GOD IS IN THE DETAILS

IF GOD IS IN THE DETAILS

If God is in the details,
Then you are surely in the dreams,
Of every living architect,
Who knows what beauty means.
For your soul is vast with many rooms,
That issue forth a sweet perfume,
And I am proud and filled with song
To be sheltered in your vision strong.

If God still walks amongst us men,
He must hold tight unto your hand,
And guide you through the thick of night,
The unforgiving desert sand.
And lead you safely, gently home,
Lest you cast your foot against a stone,
And your blood should soak the evil earth,
That knows not what your life is worth.

If God should know the contents 
Of a single human heart.
Surely he'd be struck with awe,
To know the beauty yours imparts.
And time would heal the wounds of fools
At the end of the longest day.
And you would be protected
From the slings and arrows cast your way.

If God is in the details, 
Then surely he has heard our plans,
Of the life we plan to build together,
Lovers hand in hand.
And surely he won't turn
A blind eye to our private dreams,
Leaving us to labor,
All alone behind the scenes.

But God will rise and call us blessed,
Beloved sons with grand finesse,
Bring us flowers on our wedding day,
An impassioned speech to light our way.

If God is in the details,
We are sitting in his hands,
And he has blessed our union sweet,
All across this quiet land.
You and i will live in peace,
Safe in the harbor of our love,
As the lion lays down with the lamb,
And the eagle courts the dove.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2014
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

CARRY THEM HOME

CARRY THEM HOME

All your restless energy bottled up within,
All the secrets hiding in the deep folds of your skin.

All your tears at twilight when your road comes to an end.

Bundle them up like precious cargo floating out to sea,
Gather them in your uncertain hands, carry them home to me.

All your efforts wasted like pearls thrown before swine,
All your stubborn water that will not change to wine.

All your useless, futile tries to stall and turn back time,
Carry them to my doorstep and I will make them mine.

The weakness of the flesh that tempts your lover's vow,
The fantasies of other men that tantalize you now.

The urge to wander far away with some new exquisite beauty,
Sweep them up in your ash and dust, carry them home to me.

The disappointments and regrets that rise and follow you,
All you once held to your breast as tantamount and true,

All the manmade barriers dividing me and you,
Let them go like flakes of snow in a sky of midnight blue.

All the nervous tension that courses far and wide,
All the hope that withers, the fire that slowly dies.

All the routine, mundane things you do to pass the time,
The prose that does not always flow, the poem that does not rhyme.

Bundle them up like precious diamonds, shining brilliantly.
Gather them in like treasured friends, carry them home to me.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2014
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

STRANGE SAD REAL ESTATE

STRANGE SAD REAL ESTATE
              (FOR KYLE)

You set up housekeeping,
Here in my abandoned soul,

Cleared the spider webs away
With your lantern fueled by coal.

Emptied the attic, uncovered my treasures
Of fine silk and of baby's breath,

Breathed new life into the rafters,
Cleared away the stench of death.

You made my bed anew with roses,
Vacuumed up the prickly thorns,

Strewed the petals sweet before me,
Like a lord unto the manor born.

You dusted every bedside table,
Plugged up every leak,
Polished the faucets 'til they gleamed,
And charmed my heart with your mystique.

Cleaned the carpets clogged with fear,
The kitchen of its clutter,

Took the bars from off the windows,
Removed the locks from off the shutters.

You set up housekeeping in my soul,
With designs so delicate and smart,

And overwhelmed with love divine,
The strange, sad real estate of my heart.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2014
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

THE RESERVOIR IS DEEP

THE RESERVOIR IS DEEP

The road is long and dusty,
Our throats are cracked and dry,
But the passion that I feel for you,
Is etched upon the sky.

In bright cascading colors,
It burns eternally.
Combustion that ignites the spark
In lasting chemistry.

Our love will age with a lasting grace
In sweet familiarity,
We will look back on our foibles
With amusement and hilarity.

And we will have the wherewithal
To gather up our forces,
When the waves crash hard against our vessel,
Strong will be our fortress.

I have no fear of losing you,
To the siren song of other men,
Whose voices join to drown out mine
With a high and mighty din.

My tongue will not fall silent,
I will tell the world with pride,
The thrill that races through me,
When we're walking side by side.

I will rise and shower you,
With words and deeds so tender,
And lay my head upon your chest,
And sleep in calm surrender.

For the road is crazed and serpentine,
The hills are harsh and steep.
But passion rushes in these veins,
And the reservoir is deep.

So never doubt as years fly by,
As swift as waterfalls,
My heart will always bend to you,
And heed your beck and call.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2014
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

TORCH FOR CHRISTMAS

TORCH FOR CHRISTMAS

I carry a torch for Christmas,
The splendor of the Christ child,
The wisemen and the shepherds,
Joseph and the virgin mild.

I carry a torch for Christmas,
For what the day conveys,
A holy day of mystery,
More than ancient history,
The joy that comes unfiltered
In the hymns the organ plays,
A warmth and light that brightens the darkest winter days. 
The sweet sound that resounds in the carols children sing,
I carry a torch for Christmas,
Its angels on the wing.

I carry a torch for Christmas,
The lighted houses on display,
The bustling streets, the rushing feet,
Of shoppers on their way,
The reindeer on the rooftops,
The sacred and profane.
I carry a torch for Christmas,
That my heart cannot contain.
The joy it rushes brimming forth
The antidote to pain,
I carry a torch for Christmas and its light fills every street
And fills the care worn visages of the strangers that I meet.

The parties and the antics,
The friendships and the gifts.
Traditions passed and then renewed,
As the sands of life they slide and shift,
Through each precious passing year.
The cookies and the Christmas feast,
The inner calm and cheer.

I carry a torch for mindfulness of all that God has given.
The mansion he has built for us, the splendor of his heaven.
I carry alone my Christmas torch and sometimes I feel small,
Surrounded by the glorious wonder of it all.
Until the Christmas bells they ring, all over the land,
Through the cities and the countries,
Through the snow and desert sand.
And I say a prayer for soldiers and those too sick to celebrate,
I say a prayer for the dying, for whom Christmas comes too late.

I carry a torch for Christmas, a love for this festive season,
My love it goes not unrequited, my love it has its reasons.
To be alive a miracle, and joy from near to far.
I carry a torch for Christmas, the legend of the star.
The wisemen and the shepherds who followed its deep shine,
To where there lay an infant, so tiny and so fine,
A child who'd calm the raging seas, turn water into wine.

I carry a torch for Christmas and all of humankind,
That just one day we'll all join hands and all be of one mind.
I carry a torch for Christmas, that man may feel his worth,
And know the thrill that courses
Through a day of peace on earth.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

NOT TO BE FORGOTTEN

NOT TO BE FORGOTTEN

I tried to be a hero, but got strangled by the cape,
Tried to be a writer, to whip those words in shape.
I tried to be a good man, but my image was besotted,
Tried to be a gardener but my fruits and veggies rotted.

I tried to be a light in darkness, but my flame blew out and died,
Tried to always tell the truth, they never caught me in a lie,
For four long years I labored, churning out the verse,
And I never missed a single week, for better or for worse.
I tilled my Facebook page with passion,
Filled with the beauty of pictures and fashion.
Tried never to let the fruit of my labor become disgraced or rotten,
It was the lengths I went to not to be forgotten.

I found out it was all for naught, this fierce and tender battle I fought,
I was not the man I thought I was, my reputation sold and bought,
Now I sit all forlorn, solemnly pondering mortality,
And I want to ask this wretched world just what the hell was wrong with me.

I tried to be a teacher once, the students did not learn,
I tried to be permissive, the next time I tried stern,
Neither made my pupils like me or mind me in the least.
I was at best a joke to them, my class a raucous beast,
A wild and woolly mammoth that alas I could not tame,
If they still remember me, I'm sure it's with disdain.

I tried my hand at radio, did what I thought was a decent show,
Let a big city programmer break my spirit and drive me from the overnights,
Let him fill me with self-doubt, with his pointed critiques and his slights.
I got a job proofreading transcripts, did radio on the weekends,
Said goodbye to the extravaganza and all of my midnight friends.
But no one really missed me on the radio, at the end of the day I was again alone,
Thirty-eight with the world as a weight that sank me like a stone.
An overachiever in high school and college, had never held hands or been kissed,
Until I found my man and settled down, did I finally get my wish.
The same year that i found my love, I also found disease,
One long in the making, brain cells dying over time,
Perhaps Fate had it in for me, I could feel the bells in the distance chime.
Somehow though I kept my nose to the grindstone and plowed on through the storm,
My only real success in life was the love that kept me warm.

I tried to be a lover and I think I found my calling,
After years of dragging this carcass around,
After the false starts and the stalling.
Still I want to change the world, to keep myself from falling.
To rise again with pen in hand and trusty keyboard lying in wait,
I want to be more than flesh and blood that will soon fade and dissipate.
I want to be a hero, but I will never soar with this flapping cape,
I want to be a poet, but will never whip these words in shape;
So let the fruits of my love for you live in your heart forever,
My poems will wither away and die, my repartee not clever.
Let me take refuge in your arms and in your heart once I am gone;
Let my name be on your lips with the coming of the final dawn.
Try never to let the fruits of our love be tarnished or grow rotten,
It's the new lengths I will go to not to be forgotten.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Note: My autobiography, condensed and set to rhyme!  This poem may seem a downer, but actually all the false starts and what I thought at the time were disappointments led me to the life I lead today. My old radio friends and mentors Debra Leigh and Sue Herlihy-Dischel are still a presence in my life. So are my two cherished friends Suzanne Lee and Jeni Williams from my proofreading days, who I have celebrated in verse on this blog. Life is as good as it can be with Parkinson's disease. And of course, I have my partner Kyle, who I dedicate this poem to. The glass is definitely more than half full.