IN THE PARK WITH NORMA

 IN THE PARK WITH NORMA

(IN MEMORY OF NORMA GRINER)

I only knew her for a short while,

But how it would make me smile,

To go virtually out my door,

To Roland Park in Baltimore,

A mood lifter was a cinch,

When Norma was on her park bench.

Or perhaps at a picnic table,

A living legend and fable.

Conducting Handel's Messiah with a breathtaking flair,

Her arms swinging in midair.

Or singing Over The Rainbow in her sweet alto voice.

Or singing the praises of chocolate, ho ho ho.

Dementia had darkened her door,

But Miss Norma she was so much more.

So much more than her disease,

And music made her feel at ease.

Her son Larry would sing along,

His phone providing the daily song,

Miss Norma's eyebrows would dance up and down,

Digging the beat and rejoicing in the sound.

24 years with the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra Chorus,

She was no stranger to the lure of a song,

Singing from the stage with her alto strong.

A lover of classical music, Bach, Mozart, Chopin,

No amateur or neophyte, no flash in the pan,

She arranged her life around choir practices and recitals,

While passing her musical knowledge on to her progeny,

A marvel and a wonder, her kind spirit touched me.

Making me want to sing with joy and abandon,

To embrace the little things, like chocolate and flirting,

For it doesn't hurt to flirt she would say, in her offhand kind of way,

A 91 year old sprite. who brought magic to my day.

Now she is singing in the skies, the veil has lifted,

For Norma the magical, Norma the gifted.

I will have to be content with Larry's rich archives,

To keep the legend of Norma alive.

But her memory will echo throughout Roland Park,

From sunrise to sunset, from daylight 'til dark.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2022

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

YOUR MUSIC BLOWS ITS GENTLE WINDS

YOUR MUSIC BLOWS ITS GENTLE WINDS
(FOR GRACE GRIFFITH)

When life is like a desert, and I have lost my way,
Your music blows its gentle winds across my barren plain.
Bound by the beauty of your lovely siren songs,
You're a kind friend and companion to buttress me along.

Under the cover of your Brigid's Shield,
I take my holy refuge,
Deep within my darkest night,
When fears and doubts loom huge.
i remind myself if you can do it, I can do it too.

I am sailing, I am sailing on your magic wings of sound,
I fly upon ethereal tunes, high above the common ground,
I wonder where the lions are, they no longer come around.
I often question why they're gone and soon I realize,
Your songs have laid them down to sleep,
Like magic lullabies.

Here in my water, fire and smoke,
Surrounded by autumn leaves,
This Parkinson's a house guest
That brings me to my knees,
My favorite Parkinsonian, you bravely soldier on,
May morning it awaits us,
Somewhere a shining dawn.

Somewhere there is a sally garden,
Where you bid the flowers grow,
You make the wood thrush sing again,
You melt the ice like candle glow.
You open up your mouth to sing
And clear the stormy weather,
The clarion call of your voice it rings,
Turns this moment to forever.

Singing minstrel songs to me,
The Norwich bells they ring,
The nature boy he comes to me,
A tune of yours is what he brings.
A song to sweep me up,
To help my ship come in,
When I'm far from any harbor,
When my mettle has worn thin.

When life is arid and oh so dry.
When all I want to do is cry,
Your music blows its gentle winds,
Across my lost and desolate sky.
It's then I adjust my attitude,
Close my eyes and think of you.
Wish you well and softly pray,
All good blessings sent your way.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Note: Grace Griffith is a Washington, D.C. based singer who has one of the most angelic voices in contemporary folk music. Her singing voice has been compared to Judy Collins and early Joan Baez, and she was the late Eva Cassidy's champion, instrumental in drawing the attention of her record company Blix Street  Records  to Eva's music and securing her a record deal. I first wrote this poem for her back about six years ago when I first discovered her music. She, like me, suffers from Parkinson's disease. Her likely last CD "Passing Through" was recorded after her Parkinson's had progressed significantly, but you'd never know it. It would be well worth your time and money to explore Grace's wonderful music! I've managed to weave a few of her song titles into this poem.

TRACKING THE GROOVES

TRACKING THE GROOVES

Tracking the grooves on an old 45,

Or an old 33 and a third,

Tracking the grooves on a cool stack of vinyl,

The pops and hiss I once heard.

Tracking the grooves, am I showing my age?

It's back to the days of romance,

Record players and gramophones,

And ill fated attempts to slow dance.

I love my digital library and i love my compact discs,

In love with the ease of the click of a mouse,

Makes me feel like a Power Ranger,

Loading three CDs at once

On my illustrious CD changer.

Yet I'm tracking the grooves of my brain's gray matter,

As the substantial nigra sheds its casing,

No more need to dissemble or flatter,

Or to the past go chasing.

The days are gone or never were,

When I could bust a move.

I've nothing left to show you

And little left to prove.

Still I'm tracking the grooves

Of the Solid Gold dancers

And their nostalgic interpretive skills.

The vocal prowess of Dionne Warwick,

Which delighted me and thrilled.

Just climb aboard the Midnight Special,
Everyone's invited there,
Let your hair down for a song,
Assuage away your cares.
If you're really up for a late night berth,
Come join Kirshner's rock concert.
Music played and the genres blurred,
And you could understand the words.

Tracking the grooves to Dick Clark's bandstand.
And Don Cornelius' Soul Train,
That spread their gospel of musical love,
Lifting the heart out of pain.

Tracking my memories, looking backward,

Although it's a bit of a blur,

I'd rather spend days not as they are,

But the way that I wish they still were.

Tracking the grooves to Casey Kasem,

And his legendary counting,

With a hiss and a pop, it was straight to the top,

The pomp and excitement mounting.

Until we reached the number one song

Compelled to tap or sing along.

Alas my days of singing are through

Casey's days of counting are done,

But I still have such sweet memories,

Reliving them such fun.

Tracking the grooves on an old 45,

My parents' Elvis records a cool 78,

Swinging hips on the Sullivan show,

It all just proves i was born too late.

Let's spend some time together,

God forbid we spend the night.

Tracking the grooves of a lover's flesh,

Until the stroke of midnight.

-Bruce Potts

 Copyright 2015

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED