MADWOMAN

MADWOMAN

The madwoman sits in her spinning room,

playing eerie melodies through the night. 

 She strokes her ancient harp, weaving a spell of insanity. 

 And the neighbors, 

 hearing the strange vibrations, 

 Gather in the streets to gossip and gape. 

 The supersonic music plants demons in newborns 

 sleeping in their cribs

 and lures the neighborhood men far from the arms of their wives. 

 Into the lair of the madwoman and her black circular bed with the spider web design. 

 Intoxicating the scent, irresistible the sounds, 

They so long to sample 

 Her poisonous wine. 

 Meanwhile ever more sinister sounds 

 Emanate from the spinning room. 

 The madwoman laughs at her talent 

And plays 'til the dying of the moon. 

 -Bruce Potts 

 Copyright 2020 

 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

One of my character study poems from my archives

STARK RAVING MAD

STARK RAVING MAD

One of these very days,
In the not too distant future,
My mind a bit left hanging,
By some nasty stubborn suture,
That some hapless doctor left behind,
So tragically and sad.
It is on such a very day,
I shall go stark raving mad.

You will know this when you see it,
All my cunning to employ,
I will take on the persona
Of a gloating, grinning cowboy.
With no compunction or irony,
I will become quite rowdy,
Loose with my lasso I shall be,
From my lips a chorus of howdy
Shall issue forth quite loudly,
And I shall bare my nasty teeth
That I have long kept hidden,
And they shall form a sight to see,
An obscene gap toothed grin.

It is not that I disdain the cowboy,           
They are some of my best friends.
I'm practically on a first name basis
With three or four of them.
But in my past life I could not pull off,
The smiling and how do's,
Riding the range seemed all too strange,
And its charms I did refuse.

But once you see the teeth you'll know,
And my garish cowboy hat,
The slides down to obscure the features.
Of the homeliest of God's creatures,
You shall know it straight, right off the bat.
Much worse I'll wear my hat indoors,
My cowboy boots to bed,
You'll really start to gather
That I'm a bit touched in the head.

But I'll really be quite harmless,
Kind of a buffoon,
Although I may just condescend,
To shoot up a pretend saloon.
Do not be disheartened though,
Or dare to cowardly weep.
For the only violence I will entertain,
Will be in my disordered sleep.
I'll be harmless in my turning and tossing,
In my sleep may even take up flossing,
But not too much so as not to destroy
The horror to bequeath,
To the crowds that fall victim to my wiles,
And the stupid smiles from my insipid teeth.

Cowboy boots, check,
Demented toothy grin,
The unrestrained howdies
Will issue forth quite loudly,
My buddy and my friend.
it is then you'll know with certainty,
That my fortune has overturned,
It is then you'll know of my stubborn suture,
And how cautery can burn.
It is then you'll know the end is near and you can be quite glad,
That I have unreservedly gone stark raving mad.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED