ONE-SIDED LOVE
Only one person cares to trill a love song
Of one-sided tenderness.
The Cedars of Lebanon quake from the mountainside.
Beside a crystal lake, its silver waters flowing,
In a lonely wisp of flame, of orange sunsets glowing.
In the lonesome meadow where a lonesome moon hangs sleeping,
I lie a broken spirit, subdued and softly weeping.
For a one-sided love took a one-sided plunge,
Into the lake of a new love’s fire.
Born of a strange and a new desire,
The tightrope dancer on the wire, walks the shadowy mile.
A catalog of stories in a sweet refrain,
Echoes through the valley, shouting out his name.
A handful of dandelions he gathered from the field,
Scatter thus like the ash and dust that forced my heart to yield.
In keeping with the desert balls of fire,
Scorching suns dry up the winsome afternoons.
Alleys of the night, cedar trees on display,
His hands they groped me in the dark,
His lips showed me the way.
The sands are stirred, the wind it whips,
He and his magic fingertips,
Between the satin sheets, seduced by ravenous lips.
Sad, secret tales of a one-sided love,
Creep like the memory of melodies dead and dying,
Out of the frying pan into the fire, illusion free and flying,
Safe from the crypt of you and your tired iron will,
The ashes fall like timber from these vagabond hills.
I wake from a nightmare, sweating in my underclothes.
The ghost of a one-sided fantasy in the home of the deposed,
An old man with his rambling recollections
Shrieks his dead regrets to a weary, withered twilight.
I never got close enough, to fling my arms around you tight.
The cedar trees, robed in kingly majesty,
The giant of your love’s sweet ecstasy,
Are too tall taunts of my diminutive size.
Unknowingly you mock me with your reckless eyes.
I walk with a vision, burning at my fingertips,
The taste of your mouth wreaking havoc on my lips.
Night erupts from gentle day, the Cedars of Lebanon come out to play,
Their branches whipping as they heave and bend,
Your name is lost upon the fickle wind.
The evening wails, its sad and secret tales.
Loneliness tears at the only one who cares,
To sing his lonely song, fist in velvet glove.
The melancholy melody of a one-sided love.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
AUTHOR'S NOTE: A new poem about life BK (Before Kyle).
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Saturday, June 4, 2011
SINBAD
SINBAD
My soul, it is not clean for you, my heart is quite contrary,
I sail this desolate ocean like an asphalt, wind-swept prairie.
I come to you with flailing stony arms,
An embrace of flaming crusty steel.
But winds in the desert blow fiercely northward,
Winds that bring the reins of change, winds that turn the wheel,
As if afraid to fall in love, as if afraid to feel.
Romance flees from the sultry reverie of a pirate on the seas,
In the stone cold ache of winter, you cannot hear my pleas.
Love lies ripping at its lonesome seams,
In the humid stillness of the night, I toss and turn in fitful dreams.
I still live a silhouette, in love with my reflection yet,
And you prefer to not acknowledge me,
Although I call your name in vain.
I see mirrors of the past, when our tarnished love was true,
When you and I we swam in sync, reflecting pools of crystal blue.
In evening’s grand and gallant shade, or in the fountain of a maddening mermaid,
I can see inside, despite this patch, the portals of your peril-
Speechless spies can see inside your mind.
Let the curtain fall and come to me,
Let the fever rest relentlessly.
I will taunt you ‘til a million milestones
Lie murdered by your lonesome throne.
Machinations dire and weighty
Haunt my dreams and those of my mateys.
Pervasions of evil cover the eyelids of Sinbad,
Slashing his sword as your mind he comes reading,
Hiding his black heart, into the ocean bleeding.
Frozen in time, you lie in wait for your departed spring,
The albatross around your neck, a bird that won’t take wing.
My soul, it is not clean for you, I sail my desolate sea so wary,
And your spirit haunts my moonlit dreams,
Like an asphalt, wind-swept prairie.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
My soul, it is not clean for you, my heart is quite contrary,
I sail this desolate ocean like an asphalt, wind-swept prairie.
I come to you with flailing stony arms,
An embrace of flaming crusty steel.
But winds in the desert blow fiercely northward,
Winds that bring the reins of change, winds that turn the wheel,
As if afraid to fall in love, as if afraid to feel.
Romance flees from the sultry reverie of a pirate on the seas,
In the stone cold ache of winter, you cannot hear my pleas.
Love lies ripping at its lonesome seams,
In the humid stillness of the night, I toss and turn in fitful dreams.
I still live a silhouette, in love with my reflection yet,
And you prefer to not acknowledge me,
Although I call your name in vain.
I see mirrors of the past, when our tarnished love was true,
When you and I we swam in sync, reflecting pools of crystal blue.
In evening’s grand and gallant shade, or in the fountain of a maddening mermaid,
I can see inside, despite this patch, the portals of your peril-
Speechless spies can see inside your mind.
Let the curtain fall and come to me,
Let the fever rest relentlessly.
I will taunt you ‘til a million milestones
Lie murdered by your lonesome throne.
Machinations dire and weighty
Haunt my dreams and those of my mateys.
Pervasions of evil cover the eyelids of Sinbad,
Slashing his sword as your mind he comes reading,
Hiding his black heart, into the ocean bleeding.
Frozen in time, you lie in wait for your departed spring,
The albatross around your neck, a bird that won’t take wing.
My soul, it is not clean for you, I sail my desolate sea so wary,
And your spirit haunts my moonlit dreams,
Like an asphalt, wind-swept prairie.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
DEATH TRAP
DEATH TRAP
I had nothing to do
But spit marbles
At the heads of park pigeons.
So I asked her over to kill some time.
She asked me
To come play hide and seek with her.
We waltzed like demons on her fire escape
And because we were both feeling
Ragged out and empty,
We decided to make a crank call
To the Suicide Prevention Center.
And we used some note pads she had stolen
From the Sheraton
To write piles of imaginative suicide notes
Which we then mailed
To all our imaginary friends.
Then
We escaped to an imaginary island together
And the rest is history.
-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Here's another one to add to the over 365 poems on this blog that no one ever reads. From my college days. I was a bit gloomy then too!
I had nothing to do
But spit marbles
At the heads of park pigeons.
So I asked her over to kill some time.
She asked me
To come play hide and seek with her.
We waltzed like demons on her fire escape
And because we were both feeling
Ragged out and empty,
We decided to make a crank call
To the Suicide Prevention Center.
And we used some note pads she had stolen
From the Sheraton
To write piles of imaginative suicide notes
Which we then mailed
To all our imaginary friends.
Then
We escaped to an imaginary island together
And the rest is history.
-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Here's another one to add to the over 365 poems on this blog that no one ever reads. From my college days. I was a bit gloomy then too!
Friday, May 27, 2011
THE GIRL NEXT DOOR
THE GIRL NEXT DOOR
The girl next door
Stores her marijuana cigarettes
In her guitar case.
And she dresses liberally
Like a rejuvenated flower child.
She wears psychedelic pants
And she plays funky music
Through stereo speakers
At her weekend barbecues
She has a lot of strange friends
Who wear bandanas
And “Power to the People” tattoos.
And I swear that
The girl next door
Wants to seduce me with her
Revolutionary body
I wait behind
My conservative picket fence
For her strange friends to leave
And I wait for the girl next door
To throw me a peace sign
And to signal me into her mystical world
With a Beatles tune on her six-string
-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
AUTHOR'S nOTE: Just like "The Poetic One", this poem was written around 1982. If it sounds at all familiar to you and you went to JMU during the years 1980 to 1984 you may have read it in the 1982 edition of the JMU literary magazine Chrysalis. Obviously my writing style was quite different then. More free verse, less rhyme, etc. But I still love throwing in some moldy oldies from time to time.
The girl next door
Stores her marijuana cigarettes
In her guitar case.
And she dresses liberally
Like a rejuvenated flower child.
She wears psychedelic pants
And she plays funky music
Through stereo speakers
At her weekend barbecues
She has a lot of strange friends
Who wear bandanas
And “Power to the People” tattoos.
And I swear that
The girl next door
Wants to seduce me with her
Revolutionary body
I wait behind
My conservative picket fence
For her strange friends to leave
And I wait for the girl next door
To throw me a peace sign
And to signal me into her mystical world
With a Beatles tune on her six-string
-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
AUTHOR'S nOTE: Just like "The Poetic One", this poem was written around 1982. If it sounds at all familiar to you and you went to JMU during the years 1980 to 1984 you may have read it in the 1982 edition of the JMU literary magazine Chrysalis. Obviously my writing style was quite different then. More free verse, less rhyme, etc. But I still love throwing in some moldy oldies from time to time.
Monday, May 23, 2011
STEM THE RAGING TIDE
STEM THE RAGING TIDE
Storms kick up, like a fetus in the belly.
Sapping what’s left of my phantom strength,
Turning my legs to jelly.
Without your kisses sacred sweet,
The water fills my paper boat
And Fate soon bares its jagged teeth
And grabs me by the throat.
And only you can bring the calm,
And only you can tame the sea,
And turn the skies to crystal clear,
To set the captive free.
Lightning cracks its glittering whip,
A sadomasochistic trip
That leaves its welts and bruises tattooed upon my back,
A strange, grotesque reminder that my life has gone off track.
A train wreck set to happen, a jockey on an errant horse,
A rollercoaster run amok, a missile fired off course.
Only you can take and mold
This helpless and misshapen clay
Into a man of towering strength
And catapult him through the day.
Storms kick up, like a fetus in my belly,
Sapping what’s left of my fractured strength
Turning my limbs to jelly.
The lightning cracks, the thunder roars
And Death waits just outside my door.
But you are there just like before,
Standing steadfast by my side,
To stem the raging tide.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Storms kick up, like a fetus in the belly.
Sapping what’s left of my phantom strength,
Turning my legs to jelly.
Without your kisses sacred sweet,
The water fills my paper boat
And Fate soon bares its jagged teeth
And grabs me by the throat.
And only you can bring the calm,
And only you can tame the sea,
And turn the skies to crystal clear,
To set the captive free.
Lightning cracks its glittering whip,
A sadomasochistic trip
That leaves its welts and bruises tattooed upon my back,
A strange, grotesque reminder that my life has gone off track.
A train wreck set to happen, a jockey on an errant horse,
A rollercoaster run amok, a missile fired off course.
Only you can take and mold
This helpless and misshapen clay
Into a man of towering strength
And catapult him through the day.
Storms kick up, like a fetus in my belly,
Sapping what’s left of my fractured strength
Turning my limbs to jelly.
The lightning cracks, the thunder roars
And Death waits just outside my door.
But you are there just like before,
Standing steadfast by my side,
To stem the raging tide.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Saturday, May 21, 2011
SWIFTLY FALLS THE NIGHT
SWIFTLY FALLS THE NIGHT
Swiftly falls the night,
It burns like a firefly or a street lantern,
Searing my soul with its desolate veil,
Filling my dark heart with its billowing sail.
Swiftly falls the night, and I am lost without you,
Though the moon shines through, awesome and bright.
I skate upon the Milky Way, my life in tattered disarray,
And all my fears come trembling, like streams from a fountainhead.
Numbness fills me head to toe, my senses have gone dead.
Like nails upon a chalkboard, a streak of sudden dread,
And I am helpless, hopeless, doomed,
Trapped inside this lonesome room.
I dream I am estranged from you, the tears they turn to waterfalls,
Cascading down my craggy face, like insects how they crawl.
How they sketch their tale of woe, the wrinkles and the worry lines.
The stars fall naked on my pillow, their luster gone that once did shine.
And somewhere beneath the firmament, amidst this gloom of fallen gold,
You sleep in peace with some new love who has you in his hold.
Swiftly falls the evening, it burns like a comet careening into dust,
And I dream that you are lost to me, our love fades melting into rust.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Swiftly falls the night,
It burns like a firefly or a street lantern,
Searing my soul with its desolate veil,
Filling my dark heart with its billowing sail.
Swiftly falls the night, and I am lost without you,
Though the moon shines through, awesome and bright.
I skate upon the Milky Way, my life in tattered disarray,
And all my fears come trembling, like streams from a fountainhead.
Numbness fills me head to toe, my senses have gone dead.
Like nails upon a chalkboard, a streak of sudden dread,
And I am helpless, hopeless, doomed,
Trapped inside this lonesome room.
I dream I am estranged from you, the tears they turn to waterfalls,
Cascading down my craggy face, like insects how they crawl.
How they sketch their tale of woe, the wrinkles and the worry lines.
The stars fall naked on my pillow, their luster gone that once did shine.
And somewhere beneath the firmament, amidst this gloom of fallen gold,
You sleep in peace with some new love who has you in his hold.
Swiftly falls the evening, it burns like a comet careening into dust,
And I dream that you are lost to me, our love fades melting into rust.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
THE POETIC ONE
THE POETIC ONE
Friend, there was silver in the sculpture of your face,
And there was marble where you sat upon your throne.
You sat and scanned the daily news, the mall crowds
And the lemmings.
And friend, there was mystery in the fade of your jeans,
The way you held yourself and your silent walk,
The way you scowled when I asked what’s up,
Or made a bad pun, in desperate attempts at poesy.
I thought I knew you oh so very well.
I thought I felt your hand in mine
And that you knew a secret
I thought I’d kept so cunningly.
A secret that was lost on you, so deep and cavernous
From the first time that I saw you, I thought you the poetic one
And searched my mind to find the words to weave a web around us.
And soon I found our ideal ones with sculpted face
and silver thrones,
Can terrify and drive away and make us hold our hasty tongues.
And oh my sweet Thoreau, I could have shown you a way
Unknown to USA Today,
And whispered a whole teeming host
Of feelings that were lost on the Washington Post.
I could have told you strange news,
That would have knocked you off your jogging shoes
And immobilized your sweats.
News that would have pained and panicked you
That would have shattered dreams,
News that would have ransomed trust.
From the first time that I saw you, I thought you the poetic one
And searched my mind to try to find the words to weave a web around us.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I wrote this poem for a guy I knew back in college. He was a very "artsy" English major sort, but he seemed almost sexless in a way, sort of an "untouchable". I've changed a line or two in it and made some revisions, but basically it's just one of those pining after someone you can't have type of poems.
Friend, there was silver in the sculpture of your face,
And there was marble where you sat upon your throne.
You sat and scanned the daily news, the mall crowds
And the lemmings.
And friend, there was mystery in the fade of your jeans,
The way you held yourself and your silent walk,
The way you scowled when I asked what’s up,
Or made a bad pun, in desperate attempts at poesy.
I thought I knew you oh so very well.
I thought I felt your hand in mine
And that you knew a secret
I thought I’d kept so cunningly.
A secret that was lost on you, so deep and cavernous
From the first time that I saw you, I thought you the poetic one
And searched my mind to find the words to weave a web around us.
And soon I found our ideal ones with sculpted face
and silver thrones,
Can terrify and drive away and make us hold our hasty tongues.
And oh my sweet Thoreau, I could have shown you a way
Unknown to USA Today,
And whispered a whole teeming host
Of feelings that were lost on the Washington Post.
I could have told you strange news,
That would have knocked you off your jogging shoes
And immobilized your sweats.
News that would have pained and panicked you
That would have shattered dreams,
News that would have ransomed trust.
From the first time that I saw you, I thought you the poetic one
And searched my mind to try to find the words to weave a web around us.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I wrote this poem for a guy I knew back in college. He was a very "artsy" English major sort, but he seemed almost sexless in a way, sort of an "untouchable". I've changed a line or two in it and made some revisions, but basically it's just one of those pining after someone you can't have type of poems.
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