HATS OFF (FOR KYLE)

HATS OFF (FOR  KYLE)

Hats off to you, my darling man,

You see me in a way that no one else can.

I've loved you since I laid eyes on you,

Am thrilled to call you mine,

I'm 64 and you're now 59.

So let us slice the cheesecake,

Enjoy the sweetness of the wine,

Cuddle and commiserate

On the swift passage of time.

How quickly it has flown,

For those confined to flesh and bone.

Hats off to you, dear man,

My beginning and my end,

How the road can buckle, 

How the road can bend,

And oh my but you're aging well,

Scarcely a wrinkle on that face so handsome,

It would surely command a hefty ransom.

By thieves who crave your beauty tips

That tantalizing touch, those luminous lips,

That sweet scent of Spice Bomb when I lean in for a kiss.

So hats off to you, have a happy birthday,

Make each day a blissful mirth day.

Let's raise a glass and toss some balloons,

Whistle me one of your sweet Blondie tunes,

Open your gifts, slice the cheesecake.

We'll see how much merry two men can make.

We can cuddle and commiserate with song and with wine,

And mock with our vigor the passage of time.

Celebrate the days gone by and greet those still to be,

We'll face them all together, forever you and me.

-Bruce Potts

Copyright 2026

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

CLOCKS ARE TICKING

CLOCKS ARE TICKING

Clocks are ticking, there will be no reprieve,
Nowhere to hide from the colors that bleed.
Into the fabric of this sad society,
No way of escaping for you or for me.

Clocks are counting down the seconds,
The minutes fleeting 'til the day that reckons,
Nestling helplessly on the precipice of doom,
Clocks are counting the swollen moments,
'Til death comes pouring from the womb.
The arbiter of our own destruction,
The architect of our tomb.

Clocks are sliding over the waterfall,
The painful avalanche of the rushing years,
Humbling and teaching, crazily beseeching,
A lesson in rhyme and a new paradigm,
A new way to grapple with the lies of demise.
Clocks are winding down and we see with brand new eyes.

Clocks are slipping and careening,
Like a B movie screening,
A back stage pass to an off Broadway play,
A sword fight, a bloody denouement, a strange and sad melee.
Clocks are rebelling, they are angry and yelling,
Sick to death of wastrels and their careless use of hours.
Clocks are plucking lifetimes like petals from a flower.

Clocks are ticking, 'til their hands crack and bleed,
Glued to the balustrade, they blister and feed,
Feed on the frenzy of the days as they pass,
Innocent and trusting, like Alice through the glass.
Not knowing the day or the time for the passing,
An innocent accident, a mass gruesome gassing.

Clocks can tick for good or ill,
Foretelling death and its final chill.
Clocks can beguile and clocks can betray,
Clocks are ticking in their fickle childish way.
Even as we watch in grief from the sidelines,
Clocks our best plans they mock and malign.

Clocks can be evil, clocks can be cruel.
Clocks they are ticking, grinding us up in their gruel.
Until at long last, the clocks they are still,
Mankind is free of their crazed crooked will,
The useless parade, the endless charade,
The glee of relentless tyranny.
Their brutish boorish spree of crimes against humanity.
When at last they fold their arms, and dim their angry chimes,
We will lose the mood of servitude, at last live out of time.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013
ALL  RIGHTS RESERVED