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

DAYS I QUITE ENJOY

DAYS I QUITE ENJOY

There are days I quite enjoy,

Being quite the naughty boy.

On  a wintry day when there's snow and ice

When the sun is out and the mood is nice.

And the streets have been plowed within an inch of their lives,

By trucks with plows as sharp as knives.

When fortune makes my heart to bleed

For a respite from the winter ennui.

To venture out from my garage

In my vintage Toyota car

Into the day's supreme mirage,

Some vittles from the store to buy,

Paid for in cash 

Things for a blithesome birthday bash.

Or some other solemn reason,

To mark a  lonesome season.

There are days I quire enjoy

Being quite the naughty boy.

Leaving the house quite on the sly,

Beats staying at home or waiting to die,

Until I come back home,

Accomplished and alone.

Get stuck turning into the drive,

On a mound of ice and snow besides.

Then I'm in a mighty pickle,

Left without a plow or sickle.

With only a plastic shovel,

A desire to creep inside my hovel,

Hide myself away in shame,

No one but myself to  blame.

An aborted day of fun,

Under the winter sun.

The only thing I enjoy,

About being a naughty boy,

Is the rush of being such,

That only lasts a little while,

'Til shoveling and motor gunning,

 Ceases soon to entertain,

A silly man with half a brain.

Perhaps I do enjoy too, the final respite from my labors,

The help received from thoughtful neighbors,

That put my car back in its place,

And a grateful smile upon this face. 

There are days I quite enjoy,

Being quite the humble boy,

Never again to gamble on dangers,

But thankful alas for the goodness of strangers,

Who pulled me through in the nick of time,

Who inspired this most auspicious rhyme,

And who left this Parkinsonian in quite the writing mood,

To express his heartfelt gratitude.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2021

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED