WAGE PEACE FIERCELY

 WAGE PEACE FIERCELY

The consciousness of peace floats, almost unnoticed,

Over greed and industry, and their vain splashy showing

The consciousness of peace                

Concerned only with strong, silent knowing.

Not worried about displays of might,

Extolling quietly the good and the right

Peaceful resistance not bombs, to fill the skies at night

The consciousness of war is proud and boastful.

Grandiose showa of dazzling strength and power,

The torture and the war crimes, the trampling of the flowers,

The consciousness of war is enamored of its might,

Parading on display on the streets of D.C., of North Korea, of the U.S.S.R.

The consciousness of war shoots missiles under cover of night.

Destroying hospitals and schools, the bastions of the innocent, 

Women, children and the elderly, are felled by its armaments.

Blood soaked streets that reek with carnage and the stale odor of smoke,

Noxious fumes that strangle and choke.

War prisoners tortured within inches of their lives

Making widows and widowers of husbands and wives.

The consciousness of war sometimes is necessary,

To defend against Fascism and all in its path

After much consideration and doing the math,

After much deliberation in situation rooms and Parliaments,

Not undertaken lightly by ambitious greedy malcontents,

Clamoring for newfound status and acquisition of land,

The consciousness of war haunts gentle forests and desert sands.

Consciousness of war too easily gains the upper hand.

Meanwhile the consciousness of peace longs for its day,

Circling quietly above the noise and the fray.

A viable choice is that of nonviolence,

Peace eschews the torrid twins of revenge and recompense.

What say you, discouraged earth, recipients of the scourge of battle,

As cannons fire, missiles fall and dreaded sabers rattle?

The blood of the wounded, maimed and dead echo in chorus, 

Imploring you consider, heed us absolutely.

And wage peace fiercely, calmly, resolutely.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2025

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

IN THE GLIMMER OF MIDNIGHT

IN THE GLIMMER OF MIDNIGHT

In the glimmer of midnight, near the stroke of twelve,
I shall breathe my last, like some sneaky elf,
I will lie so quiet and so frail,
In the sheen of the witching hour,
I will wilt away like a jilted flower,
Letting out my final exhale.

In the glimmer of midnight, I will slip away,
Not waiting for the light of another day.
I will breathe my name to the eternal flame
That burns forever bright,
And then I shall trip stealthily,
Into the arms of the sacred night.

I will not stand on ceremony,
I may not even wake my lover,
Who sleeps unaware beside me,
Tucked beneath the covers.
When it's time to go, no flashing lights,
No sirens and no magistrate,
Most of all no weeping fools,
Begging to resuscitate.

When I go, it will be quietly,
Because I lived a quiet man,
And let it just be said of me,
I lived this life as best one can.
One foot in the terrestrial,
One wing in the celestial.
Time to set the second wing free,
And mount the chariot to the skies,
That now has come for me.

Into the glimmer of midnight quick my soul,
Before I change my mind,
And burn with the jagged memory,
Of those I leave behind.
Into the magic, God's hedge of protection,
Surround me as I quickly go.
But those that now I leave behind,
Never doubt how I loved you so.

Do not try to bring me back,
Don't hold my nose and breathe me air,
Or pound my chest with paddles.
Just let me dance through the window,
Into the brilliant starlight fair.
With all the sprites and all the angels,
Alas I shall move free,
No more the fate of uneven gait,
No more falls for me.

In the glimmer of midnight, let me slip away while sleeping,
While entertaining the glean of a quieting dream,
To drown out any sound of weeping.
Then lift me without hesitating,
Most blessed God of levitating,
Into your loving arms,
Lift my body tired and frail,
Blaze across the skies a trail.
Receive my praise, accept my alms,
And catch my final exhale.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

CATAPULT ME INTO THE UNIVERSE

CATAPULT ME INTO THE UNIVERSE

Mount my coffin high on the horses.

Send away the procession and the stone coal black hearse.

Lay down the violin with its golden strings.

I'm ready to fly and spreading my wings,

Fire off the cannons, catapult me into the universe.

Years ago when I walked the earth,

Tasted its nectar and felt its deep worth.

I breathed in all the flowers,

Spent many sweet hours,

Rolling in the grasses,

Drinking red wine from rose colored glasses.

Traversing the sands of many fine lands,

Had me a companion and a house in the sticks,

Had a guitar, played mediocre licks,

Had an old black dog who bathed my face each day,

The joy with which he greeted me infectious in its way.

But now that I'm gone, to that land beyond the dawn,

I hope to make my presence felt beyond the veil of tears.

I'm ancient as the sea and as a poignant as the atmosphere.

Now are days where I scale the clouds,

Counsel troubled spirits, teach their hearts to sing,

Now are quiet hours with a peace that passes understanding.

Now the sweet taste of nectar and ambrosia is my feast,

No more the sailor on the sea of salty brine, no more tango with the beast.

Now are precious moments of bloodless forms, vague outlines.

Now are times when I recognize God's higher purpose and design.

My doubting days are over, like Thomas I have felt the wounds,

The bloody holes in hands and feet.

Nothing there to deny or impugn,

The glory of redemption sweet.

Send me away in the firelight, into the caverns of the spirit's night.
Send away the mourners with their blazing torches.
Liberate me from the body and its chill that sweats and scorches.
Liberate me from disease that leaves me pleading on my knees.
Recite a few comforting rhymes, to lift me slowly out of time. 
Say one long lasting fond farewell, toast me with your holy wine
Then fire the cannons as rehearsed, catapult me into the universe.

Mount my coffin high on the horses,

Send away the mourners, ripping garments at the seams.

I will mount the white stallion,

Ride the fiery chariot to the realm of heaven's dream.

Wait 'til the tears subside, until the last church bell has sounded.

Spread the word until all have heard,

Death is only a brittle word,

A word twisting ghoulishly in the land of the grounded.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2013

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED