OLD MAN ON THE CORNER

OLD MAN ON THE CORNER 

Old man on the corner,

Cup in one hand, Bible in the other.

He says he's a Jesus man

And asks you through cracked, crooked teeth

If you are one, too.

And if you are he sells you a pencil

And if you aren't he sells you a Bible

Or a pamphlet that tells you

You are going to hell next Tuesday.

In his coat he's got a hundred precious goodies-

Watches, necklaces, gold and emerald rings

In his socks he's got stashed away

Your choice of cigars and cigarettes.

If you're a man he'll tell you how smart and shrewd you look

And if you're a woman,

He will shamelessly flirt

And inconspicuously try to look up your skirt,

While trying to sell you smelling salts or the secret to happiness.

Old man on the corner

Cup in one hand, Bible in the other.

He works the streets like a pro

And at the end of each day

Wanders beneath the last neon sign

And in a weary baritone sings the pigeons to sleep.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2024

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

JANUARY MORNING

 JANUARY MORNING

The calm between storms on a January morning,

And you have the nerve to ask how I can be so sad

To be so snowbound and lost in winter's solemn grip.

After a week of January splitting snow from bitter lips,

Making my immobility somehow worse

My wounded leg all the more sore,

 My doctor's appointments cancelled, and a future left unsure,

What can I say of the brutish child named January,

Swollen dick belching up six inches of white stuff

Soon to turn mawkish shades of black and gray,

A stern middle finger to anyone who dares to linger in its way.

Clearing a pernicious path for febrile festinating February,

Its snarky snarling twisted twin who floods the creeks and estuaries,

Stealing in stealth across these swollen winter sands,

Over the rivers and valleys and the vaunted hinterlands

Wreaking holy havoc on the highways and the hapless sliding cars.

Blocking out a clear night sky, obliterating stars.

Still you have the nerve to ask me, why I cringe at the mention of cold.

Why I snag myself in tarnished dreams asleep in winter's fold.

The calm between storms on a January morning,

And still you have the nerve to ask me how I can be so sad,

To be so snowbound and so utterly adrift

After a week of January spitting snow from icy lips.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2024

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

MIST

MIST

Thieves
Muggers
Chariots

Dreams
Witches
Fairies

All these and more
Swirl in the street fog tonight 

Liars
Schemers
Fiends

Lovers
Fighters
Sorrows

All these and then some
Rise and destroy tomorrows

All these and then some
Slink through congested alleys.

All these and more 
Chalk up losses and keep tallies.

All these and more permeate life,
Clustering with clenched fist.

All these and more rise and fall
In clouds of the lurking mist.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2020
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

CHRISTMAS VOICES

CHRISTMAS VOICES

The church mouse and the cherub both light my memory,
And Christmas voices of the past, they echo through the trees.
The Christmas pageants of my youth, the caroling at nursing homes,
The reward of cookies and hot chocolate to warm the frigid bones.

My Grandmother Steed and her punch of lime sherbet and ginger ale,
She opened one gift on Christmas Eve, always without fail.
And my Grandma Potts who opened all her gifts with scissors,
So as not to tear the pretty paper.
Never one to hurry the moment,
Making it quite a whole night caper.
With Miss Myrene her next door neighbor
Chiming in occasionally, then dozing on the davenport,
Making all our Christmas Eves quite the Olympic sport.
And Grandma Potts's silver tree, with the rotating color wheel,
And my Uncle Lee, he used to sing, as the Christmas bells would peal.

The candlelight communion service, the Christmas story told,
Intertwined with Santa Claus who braved the winter cold,
Heading down our chimney with record albums and shiny bikes,
And candy canes left on our stockings, which I must admit I never liked.
My brother trying to force me to open a present,
On the night before the big day.
Some years it worked and others not,
But he often was cunning and got his way.

My mother and my father who made the holiday sublime,
In the throes of childhood how slowly passed the time.
And how my Uncle Johnny and Aunt Gloria
Would always come to see,
What glorious gifts that Santa had left beneath the tree.

And how my Uncle Johnny had those Russell Stover chocolate Santas
That would melt in your mouth as sweet as cream,
He'd sneak them into our stockings, it seemed just like a dream.
My mother and her Christmas casserole for breakfast Christmas Day,
Filled with scrambled eggs and cheese and sausage that came from Safeway.

And then driving around all over town, looking at the light displays,
The neighbors' ingenuity that took our breath away,
And my mom and I in later years, blasting Judy Collins from the car,
Looking for the luminaria and remembering the Christmas star.
My brother's savory Christmas Eve dinners and Mr. Agner's wit,
Every delicious morsel that melted so tastily on the tongue.
We all seemed so immortal then and oh, so very young.

Now an old fashioned Charles Town Christmas, with my brother and his Richard,
Old timey decorations and a plethora of trees,
Sparkling apple cider and a choice of prime hot teas
Dinner fit to serve a king plus all the treats that you can eat.
Smokey my brother's wily cat stealing ribbons at your feet.
And every year the grand tradition of Christmas in Mayberry,
Andy and Barney and Scrooge the sad and scary.
Then it's out into the cold with hearts that have been warmed,
By the comfort of close family and the shelter from life's storms.

And now my partner and I and our new traditions,
With my second parents Ernest and Ann.
Ann's cooking delights with each decadent bite.
The Christmas Eve I will never forget,
When Kyle and I exchanged our rings,
The proud and mighty culmination
Of every Christmas dream.

My grandmothers are both gone now,
My father died in '83.
My precious mother gone now too,
Leaving just my brother and me.

And my Uncle Johnny in a wheelchair,
Felled by some neurological disease,
My brother and I go see him there,
In a home for long term care.
And he still shares chocolate that others have brought
With my brother and me.
Still as sprightly a Christmas elf,

As you'd ever want to see.
My Aunt Gloria and her husband Ray,
We try to call on this special day.
In this the coldest month of the year,
We all can manage some Christmas cheer.

And sometimes still on Christmas Eve,
i dream of long ago,
When we were all together and the season was so sweet,
All the people in my life that made the day complete.
The church mouse and the baby Christ,
Tiptoe in to speak to me,
And Christmas voices from the past,
Echo through eternity.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2014
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

SUN SETS OVER THE FERRIS WHEEL

SUN SETS OVER THE FERRIS WHEEL

It's been a sweet amusement,
But I really must be going now.

The clowns are exiting stage left.
The kiddie cars have run off track,
Crashed in a junk heap of midway straw.

I've won the stuffed panda,
Popped all the balloons,
Crammed my belly with the sweet, fatty food.

It's been a sweet amusement,
But I really must be moving on.

The painted horses bob and weave
In grand circular motion.

The Tilt-a-Whirl has sent my tummy
Tunneling in reckless fashion.

Something wells up in my eye,
And all I want to do is cry.

There's something sad about a fair,
Melancholy hovers in the festive air.

As though they doth protest too much.
These grand splashes of happiness,
This counterfeit joy,
When the man sees through the glass clear at last
And has outdistanced the gleeful boy.

We fly so hard to crash back down.
Tomorrow it's another town,
And the carnies pocket the day's receipts,
And sweat away the August heat.

There's a sadness to this life,
That's hard to rise and overcome.
It's been a thrill ride and a half,
But now I hear that distant drum.

And surely you know how I feel,
My fellow travelers of clay,
The sun sets over the ferris wheel,
And it beckons me away.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2014
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

THE PASSING

THE PASSING

The passing of the old year,
The dawning of the new,
Always leaves me melancholy,
Always leaves me blue.

Secure within its artifice,
New Year's like a fog it creeps,
Rains confetti and advice,
While the hapless drunkard sleeps.

As I reflect alone upon the dying and the dead,
Yesterday's schemes toss around in my head.
While Times Square and its happy throngs,
Sing their hopeless drinking songs.
Welcoming with cheap champagne,
A new year and its tired refrain.

I've never loved this holiday,
When Santa hits the credit card
With his forceful one, two punch,
Then heads back to the cold North Pole,
And its bitter lonesome crunch.

Leaving us to kill off Christmas,
To trudge alone through January's snows.
A harbinger of what's yet to come,
February and its solemn drum,
The wreckage of its ice floes.
And no more comfort left to give,
To those of us still doomed to live.

The passing of the old year,
Leaves me pining for my yesterdays,
The movement sweet of graceful feet,
That held me in their gentle sway.
The garlands of the Christmas tree,
The heralding the virgin birth,
When threats and epithets laid low,
And peace it soaked the thirsty earth.

The passing of the old year,
Reminds me of the passing time,
I wonder where it all has gone,
The utter mess I've made of mine.
The world it shall live on without me,
Stolid as some sacred stone.
Glad and brave, it shall guard my grave,
When I have made my last trip home.

The passing of the old year,
The dawning of the new,
Always leaves me melancholy,
Always leaves me blue.
So let me weave my own cocoon,
With the rising of the new year's moon.

Anoint my head with cheap champagne,
Let stupor fill my doubtful brain,
Let me glide through winter drugged and numb,
Resist the new year's fife and drums,
Like a flower beneath the earth, soak up winter's crumbs,
And close my eyes, lay down to dream,
And fall asleep 'til springtime comes.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED