PURPLE WITH PASSION

PURPLE WITH PASSION

Back then I spoke my peace, in sure and measured tones,
Today I speak it haltingly, waving my rainbow flag alone.
Wondering where the party is, those who share my views,
Purple, alas, with passion, those lovely lavender hues.

The church of Christ has all gone home to bake their apple pies,
Afraid of those they do not know, whose views they do despise.
Those awful homosexuals, those devils in disguise.
A nation of haters, toting high their Christian banners.
Forgetting fast the Golden Rule, not to mention manners.

Eating filet of chick with pride, disdain upon his sleeves,
Heaven help the Christian and the victory he achieves.
All at the expense of his nemesis, the dreadful ten percent,
The gay, the lesbian, the differently inclined,
That cannot pierce the barrier of his closed mind,
Basted in hate, perverted and bent,
So sure he’s on the side of Christ,
And what the Savior really meant.
The poor misguided Christian church, drowning in its own malaise,
Is that righteousness upon your sleeve, or a careless dab of mayonnaise?

Back then, I spoke more clearly, but can you hear me now?
My voice needs amplification to carry across the miles.
The miles I still must travel before the blessed sleep,
Across the tired and tough terrain, all up hill and steep.
I could hold my breath just like a child, ‘til I turn black and blue.
And there’d be one less homo in the world.
And that would please the likes of you.

I’ve always loved the sunsets, and I’m heading straight into my own,
Leaving behind a hateful world and the crowd left gathering stones.
And just like Shirley Jackson’s lottery,
I see my neighbor through jaundiced eyes,
His twisted love I do not need, nor his hateful prize.
Love is somehow out of fashion, a child of untenable views,
Black as death is the forlorn future, covered in its Sunday blues.

Still the sunset knows no hate, and the love of God no ending,
And to a heaven welcoming, I modestly kneel bending,
Like the sun fades in the western sky,
My last breath spent in asking why,
Why such fear and judgment,
Before we pierce the firmament?

And if there’s any justice to this life at all.
My spirit it will rise again, once more from the pall.
And I will cross the mighty bar, graceful as a shooting star.
Flaming like a meteor sunset, its colors to imbue,
Purple, alas, with passion, those lovely lavender hues.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

FLOATING ABOVE GROUND

FLOATING ABOVE GROUND

Ever the stickler for the smallest detail,
I listen to the warning sounds,
Like a boat lets out its billowing sail,
Floating like air above the ground.

I am not in heaven nor in hell,
But between the two, caught in the crossfire,
Of my angels and demons that wish me well.
That leave me to traverse this high wire.

I traverse it at my leisure, lost among the ashes,
Of the cities that once gave me pleasure,
The memories that live as brilliant flashes.
They burn and then the flame it ebbs,
Not knowing the road, its curves and its bends.
Like the intricacies of a spider web,
The Teflon hold of my foes and my friends,
Burning the candle at both ends.

I flew too high and peaked too soon,
My soul it plummets from the height of the moon,
And lands somewhere in foreign soil,
Engulfed in a merciless trap
My only pay for all my toil is falling off the map.

Where no one calls and no one comforts,
They dare not to inquire,
Whether my travels have yielded heavenly bliss
Or the torment and terror of hellfire.

Never the gambling man, ever the miser,
Always the foolish and never the wiser,
I wait in my torrential bucket of rain,
My hot coal crazy of emasculating pain,
Crying out for just the cusp of an answer,
The worm in my brain, the cogwheel, the cancer.

I hover so quietly you can barely hear,
My eyes well too quietly to release a tear,
But I am crying on my knees,
Weeping for the man I used to be
Before the devastation blunt and brittle,
That wounds complete my selfish pride
And all my dreams belittles.

I hovered so quietly, you scarce could hear me disappear,
Into the firelight of a lost horizon, into the tortured hemisphere.
I disappeared without a trace, without a wayward sound,
Lost in space between heaven and earth,
Floating above ground.

-Bruce Potts
Coopyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

BRAIN GESTAPO MOUNTING STAIRS

BRAIN GESTAPO MOUNTING STAIRS

The cells are dying left and right,
Even as I sit to type, they vanish in thin air.
Never to return to me,
The brain Gestapo mounting stairs.

The secondary symptoms,
Pain that shoots up and down the back,
The dyskinesias from the meds,
They throw the DBS off track.

This disease evil as Hitler,
How fitting that it struck him down,
In the prime of his misspent life,
With his mistress Eva Braun.

The cells are dying in my brain,
A tortured unrelenting rain,
A private concentration camp,
Where movement slows and muscles cramp.

And each day drawing closer, like a river to the sea,
Each day heralds helplessness and immobility.
And when I smile it’s behind a mask that few can even see,
I am not a navel gazer or a sucker for self pity.

But I live with a monster invading my body,
Washing up like a tsunami on my brain’s helpless shore.
Nothing to do but pop the pills like candy,
And writhe like Chubby Checker, a strange version of the twist,
The doctors tell me less is more, and I struggle to make sense of this.

I am, alas, a lucky man, my wits still with me twelve years in,
And there are folks far worse than me who have stood where I now stand,
This barren space, this desolate place, these grains of shifting sand.
This disease is like some society lady, noisily putting on airs,
Back to the days of the thought police, the brain Gestapo mounting stairs.

A mother ship with no place to land, but someplace hard when I fall.
Less and less a presence in the affairs of my world.
My universe the size of these ceilings and walls
Meanwhile my right side is stymied and paralyzed,
My left it is not far behind,
I’d like to rent a space machine,
And mosey back in time.

Back when I moved more freely and knew what I know now,
The movement I once took for granted could rise again and bow.
But all I can do is wait by the gate for the rest of the brain to disintegrate,
And cherish the good days as they sneak up unawares,
Like the evil Hitler in his prime,
His brain Gestapo mounting stairs.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

HOLD ON TIGHT FOR ONE MORE DAY

HOLD ON TIGHT FOR ONE MORE DAY

I am not a stupid man, I see the writing on the wall,
Mankind has glimpsed mortality since the Garden and the Fall.
Since Eve took a bite of the apple, and Adam joined her in her folly,
And the serpent crawled on his belly and hissed,
We have lived with this knowledge and this strange melancholy.

Each day it is harder to talk and to type, to walk and to carry it on,
I am grateful to come to the end of the cycle when all of my troubles are gone.
And I still feel surprise when I wake to a sunrise and find myself still here.
As the dark of night passes into morning sweet and dear.
With another new dawn with the dew on the lawn, another twenty-four,
To hold my lover, to breathe, to talk, to walk my dyskinetic walk,
To feel fresh air upon my face and to taste the ocean spray.
To drain the dwindling coffers of what this life may offer,
To hold on tight for one more day.

I am not a cockeyed optimist, racing for a midnight cure,
I take it one day at a time, progressively unsure,
How long I can suffer the slings and arrows,
How long I can join in the frenetic dance,
My forehead is lined with creases and furrows,
My life is a game of random chance.

I harbor no grandiose scheme or dreams, for I gave them up for Lent.
My spirit sings for simpler things, my energies are spent.
Sometimes it is quite enough to while away an hour,
Stiff as a statue in some picturesque park,
In sweet communion with the flowers.
To breathe in the fragrance, the tendrils and the tree bark,
To feel the sunshine descend on my face like a prayer,
Not craving more than just to be there,
Still a part of the struggle, still with a horse in this fight,
A bloody boxer just not ready for the fading of the light.

I am grateful for life, for hope, and for friends,
For the little small blessings on which this life depends.
I am thankful for daydreams, for hope and for grace,
For each special soul, for each sacred place.
I am at the railway station, luggage in my hand,
Nothing in my pockets but a hobo’s grain of sand.
My heart is wide open, bursting at the seams,
My mind is racing wildly, blithely chasing daydreams.

I know not my departure time, I’m not sure I care to know,
Just for today my ticket is punched, and the earth it revels in its show.
I am always more holy than just flesh and bone,
I shall mix, alas, with the sand and the foam.
Away my spirit will gallantly fly, with the galaxies will play.
I close my eyes meanwhile and smile and hold on tight for one more day.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

JUBILATION JADED

JUBILATION JADED

Amidst these rumblings of a cure,
This crumbling of the research dollar,
The stiffness it is choking and sure,
Gripping my neck like a dog collar.

Forgive me if I sorely lack,
The energy for a victory dance,
The pain shoots like devils through my back,
Their pitchforks at the ready, I scarcely have a chance.
It’s treacherous waters into which I have waded,
My hope has dissolved, my jubilation jaded.

Amidst this dance of dreams and hope,
I struggle in my way to cope,
At times I struggle through undaunted.
At times this body’s a house that’s haunted,
The grisly bears encircle it,
Like Pooh bear circles the jar of honey,
I play the sacrificial game,
I pretend the weather’s sunny,
While the telethons and the walkathons
Compete for my dwindling money.

I believe in progress and for a long time thought the best,
Put aside my reservations, locked them away in my hope chest.
I’ve lost my faith in doctors who stand around and hem and haw,
I dedicate my brain to science when the undertaker calls.

Forget the victory parade,
Complete with fife and drum,
I’m not sure I will be here to watch it when it comes.
An inefficient spectator of life in all its glory,
I was 38 when diagnosed,
Have heard the cure in ten years story.
And now I’m fifty years of age
And have turned the half a century page.
Hope has receded, like my hairline it’s faded,
Joy is hard to come by and jubilation’s jaded.
Not ready to rocket ship into my grave,
Not ready to be helped to my wheelchair,
But I’m not a fool or a courtly knave,
Unschooled and unaware.

Amidst these rumblings of a cure,
The scientific logic sound,
The motivation good and pure.
I admit I’ve come a bit unwound.

I must admit I’m a bit bemused,
Much more than just a little confused.
The brain is not an easy thing, to isolate and analyze,
Stem cells, they may be the answer,
To clear these murky skies.

Amidst these rumblings of a cure,
I put my faith in whatever comes,
I’m a poet and not a scientist,
When all is said and done.
So I’ll open up my wallet
And throw down my last few dollars,
While disease, it seizes my throat like a vise,
Gripping my neck like a dog collar.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

CHASM

CHASM

There’s a deep hollow chasm between our lives,
Reminiscent of stillborn friendship ties,
The scent of deception, the hint of your lies.

A gaping wound that will never mend,
A person on whom I once could depend,
Let me introduce the elephant in the room.
Her name’s Anita Bryant and she’s risen from the tomb.

You can say what you will, write what you want,
Do as you damn well please.
You can hide behind your scriptures
Your foot in the mouth disease.

You can hide out in your comfy home,
Pretend you are mystified by this poem.
But distance lingers,
Like grains of sand slipping through fingers,
A promise ring slipping down the drain,
And my tears are misting with the rain.

I used to think your friendship mattered,
But to the ground it has splintered and splattered.
Hypocrisy blows like a twister,
Your mock concern is bittersweet,
For I can only hear your words that blister,
Your turning and your fleeing feet.

I know not even where you are,
I don’t know if I care a smidge.
You’re lost in the hills of self-righteousness,
Like a troll in hiding under the bridge.
It will not be me to make the call,
Your absence matters not at all.
I balance vicariously on the railings.
You may as well go finger point,
Elucidate my human failings.

This train is running on labored breaths,
Panting through the mountain pass,
Friendship hideous and hoarse,
Dying its lost and little deaths,
Trampled like an overgrown golf course.
I’m way off par and I miss the tee,
So much for our felicity.

There’s a twinge that’s left of our former glory.
It echoes in my dreams.
It haunts my broken sleep at night.
And it rips at lonesome seams.
But that, alas, is all it is, a quiver and a twinge,
I long to feel Vesuvius, but I lie awake and cringe.

Cringe for the past and its gallant stories,
Weep for the loss of our former glories.
Tear out what’s left of my thinning hair,
While you and your memory vanish into air.

There’s a deep hollow chasm in our lives,
The stench of stillborn friendship ties,
The shallow grave of your deception and lies.
Gone are the hopes, the faith and the trust,
We are watercolors swirling in the deep August dust.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

SALT OVER SHOULDER

SALT OVER SHOULDER

Many a year, alas and alack,
I avoided stepping on sidewalk cracks
Lest I’d trip and go on the attack,
Recklessly breaking my mother’s back.

Only once I tripped and failed,
Landed in the belly of Jonas’s whale,
And now I have this strange psychosis,
That I caused Mom’s osteoporosis.

If I were smart I’d cradle a frog in my arms,
They say that frogs cure a myriad of harms.
Perhaps though gay, I’ll go straight on the seas,
For they say naked ladies the storms do appease.

And I never sweep my doorway with a broom after dark,
This is tempting fate at best,
For witches use brooms to travel at night,
And sweeping past midnight brings unwelcome guests.

I save my fingernails in an airtight jar
After I clip and prune,
Witches use fingernails in their nasty brew,
Mixed in the light of the moon.

I salute and flatter Mr. Magpie,
Complimenting him on his lovely wife.
If he knew he was still single,
He’d be miserable for life.
And so I do a public service
And tell an eentsy-teentsy lie,
For magpies they are thieving birds,
Not to be trusted alone in the sky.

I’ve never lit three cigarettes with a single match,
I don’t want my third friend cruelly dispatched,
A soldier felled by the hand of fate,
Old wives’ tales hold a lot of weight.

And I always say bless you when someone sneezes,
I don’t want their spirit slipping away,
Felled by a head cold of sniffles and wheezes,
I want my friends safe for another day.

I take pains never to walk under a ladder
Afraid of some dreadfully serious matter,
Like a nasty bout with the demon gout
Or a strange disorder of the bladder.

And yet I am struck with a strange disease,
I tremble, I shuffle, and I freeze.
And sure as I know my middle name,
I swear that Judas I’s to blame.
The reason for my stiff and useless limbs,
Can ultimately be blamed on him.

It is said that Judas spilt salt at the famed last meal,
A Last Supper shared with Jesus
As the Easter bells did peal.
And that one should always throw salt over shoulder,
I’ve ignored this adage alas and alack
From birth until much older.

I know it sounds preposterous,
Even a bit medieval,
But the salt was meant to appease the devil,
And to somehow ward off evil.

Somehow I’d forgotten that wise little pearl.
And how it has wreaked havoc in my sad little world
Somehow I’ve forgotten that plain and simple truth,
And I’ve been struck down like an old man
In the flower of my youth.

Now I guess it serves me right,
All I can say is alas and alack,
The devil’s Mr. Parkinson,
And he’s always on my back.

And so my disease is a mess of my making,
My misery my own damn fault,
A useless remnant of my former self,
Like the wife of Lot, a pillar of salt.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED