THE LONGEST SHORT MONTH
Freezing fickle February, most uncouth and contrary,
How I hate thee let me count the ways,
You keep me cooped in like a hen in a pen,
Croaking and choking and moaning and groaning,
In boredom passing the dreary day.
Freezing fickle February, chilling with your stupid wind,
And your bitter icy arctic cold that blankets like a smothering friend.
Who leeches off the human spirit, you unappealing parasite.
Like some friggin’ Doublemint Twin whose teeth are far too white.
Your snow falls on the helpless fawn and endangers creatures on my lawn.
I say this not to spite you, it’s just that I don’t like you.
Your viciousness is so far flung I bet that you would eat your young.
And that is not the only thing, for other curses I shall sing.
I proclaim you now the victor, the unfiltered nasty king,
The longest short month on the calendar that I have ever seen.
Were it not for lovers frolicking you’d be no fun at all.
A greedy football player who will not pass the ball.
Though March is on the football field, going for an inside pass,
You refuse to hand it off to her, you’re such a pompous ass.
Your only saving grace henceforth
Is my boyfriend was born on your twenty-fourth,
But I will not let you use this excuse for your behavior most uncouth.
Foul, flamboyant February, I hate you, that’s the truth.
Freezing fickle February, we’d best just call a truce.
You are no match for the likes of me, for I am mighty Bruce.
And I shall smite you with my cane and shun you with my walking stick,
I have a date with April, we shall trip the light fantastic.
For you’re the longest short month ever, you suck just like a cheap mint,
And I long to wake up March the 1st and find you gone and went.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Saturday, February 5, 2011
LAY YOUR HEAD BESIDE ME
LAY YOUR HEAD BESIDE ME
Lay your head beside me on the pillow in the night
And stay here ‘til the hand of dawn unveils the morning light.
It is in these moments quiet and still that I feel your love take hold,
When the mystic sounds of the hoot owl echo through the cold.
I have loved you long and deep,
Through the centuries, lost in sleep,
As seconds drone and minutes creep,
Love’s the promise that we keep.
Lay your hands upon me, like the healer you’ve become,
And stay here ‘til the sunrise beats its solemn drum.
It is in these moments so serene when the moon in brilliance shines,
That I love to stroke your tender flesh and drink your love like wine.
For I have felt you drawing near, ever present, always here.
As sweet peace echoes through the years.
Love’s the prize we hold so dear.
Lay your head beside me on this pillow in the night
And stay here ‘til a new day finds us, burning ever bright.
It is in these moments precious that evaporate like sand,
You peer into the depths of me and show me who I am.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Lay your head beside me on the pillow in the night
And stay here ‘til the hand of dawn unveils the morning light.
It is in these moments quiet and still that I feel your love take hold,
When the mystic sounds of the hoot owl echo through the cold.
I have loved you long and deep,
Through the centuries, lost in sleep,
As seconds drone and minutes creep,
Love’s the promise that we keep.
Lay your hands upon me, like the healer you’ve become,
And stay here ‘til the sunrise beats its solemn drum.
It is in these moments so serene when the moon in brilliance shines,
That I love to stroke your tender flesh and drink your love like wine.
For I have felt you drawing near, ever present, always here.
As sweet peace echoes through the years.
Love’s the prize we hold so dear.
Lay your head beside me on this pillow in the night
And stay here ‘til a new day finds us, burning ever bright.
It is in these moments precious that evaporate like sand,
You peer into the depths of me and show me who I am.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Monday, January 24, 2011
DREAM THE NIGHT AWAY
DREAM THE NIGHT AWAY
Floating on a cloud of sleep in twilight’s sweet repose,
Wrapped around your body warm, the softness of your underclothes.
The scent of you that beckons me to drop the troubles of the day,
The cow goes leaping o’er the moon, I dream the night away.
Dream, dream, dream the spirits, bending softly, bending near,
Stooping to my bedside holy, whispering their message dear.
Dream, dream, dream the music, reverberating in my ear,
The melodies that trip fantastic, sweetening the atmosphere.
The train of glory rides the track, clouds of treasure in its wake.
Like a maze it takes me back through dreams unique as snow flakes.
To days of childhood’s innocence, a past where time moved slowly.
When flowers bloomed on every hill, waving in their glory.
To flaming adolescent dreams that gripped me in their vice.
The dreams of love I dared not speak, the kisses sacrificed.
The years I lost to turning on a mattress unforgiving.
Out of touch with joy’s refrain, the scrumptiousness of living.
Floating on a cloud of sleep, in twilight’s sweet repose.
I lie beside you skin to skin, we shed the underclothes.
The scent of you it beckons me, to drop the troubles of the day,
And wrapped up in your naked flesh, I dream the night away.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Floating on a cloud of sleep in twilight’s sweet repose,
Wrapped around your body warm, the softness of your underclothes.
The scent of you that beckons me to drop the troubles of the day,
The cow goes leaping o’er the moon, I dream the night away.
Dream, dream, dream the spirits, bending softly, bending near,
Stooping to my bedside holy, whispering their message dear.
Dream, dream, dream the music, reverberating in my ear,
The melodies that trip fantastic, sweetening the atmosphere.
The train of glory rides the track, clouds of treasure in its wake.
Like a maze it takes me back through dreams unique as snow flakes.
To days of childhood’s innocence, a past where time moved slowly.
When flowers bloomed on every hill, waving in their glory.
To flaming adolescent dreams that gripped me in their vice.
The dreams of love I dared not speak, the kisses sacrificed.
The years I lost to turning on a mattress unforgiving.
Out of touch with joy’s refrain, the scrumptiousness of living.
Floating on a cloud of sleep, in twilight’s sweet repose.
I lie beside you skin to skin, we shed the underclothes.
The scent of you it beckons me, to drop the troubles of the day,
And wrapped up in your naked flesh, I dream the night away.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Saturday, January 22, 2011
SERIOUS ABSURDITIES
SERIOUS ABSURDITIES
Come, my lovely flower,
Let us tiptoe through the tulips
And sip our mint juleps.
I know you’re feeling kind of creepy,
Tearful and a little weepy.
But don’t dismiss me in your haste,
For that would be a sinful waste.
And though you’re feeling bluesy,
Down and out and a little woozy,
Hold on to your inch of rope,
For I am here to help you cope.
Dance out on a piece of sky,
Forget about the how and why.
We are creatures born to die,
Yet we are eagles set to fly.
Dance with me along a silly skyline,
To make things just a bit more fine.
Put your forefinger around my pinky,
And we’ll do something kind of kinky.
We shall dance a sacred circle,
Throw our hat in the nonsense ring.
Our lives in all their weirdities are serious absurdities
That do not mean a thing.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Come, my lovely flower,
Let us tiptoe through the tulips
And sip our mint juleps.
I know you’re feeling kind of creepy,
Tearful and a little weepy.
But don’t dismiss me in your haste,
For that would be a sinful waste.
And though you’re feeling bluesy,
Down and out and a little woozy,
Hold on to your inch of rope,
For I am here to help you cope.
Dance out on a piece of sky,
Forget about the how and why.
We are creatures born to die,
Yet we are eagles set to fly.
Dance with me along a silly skyline,
To make things just a bit more fine.
Put your forefinger around my pinky,
And we’ll do something kind of kinky.
We shall dance a sacred circle,
Throw our hat in the nonsense ring.
Our lives in all their weirdities are serious absurdities
That do not mean a thing.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Saturday, January 8, 2011
COME DOWN FROM THE TIGHTROPE
COME DOWN FROM THE TIGHTROPE
Come down from the tightrope, you’ve been perched up there too long.
A lover laid by his charade, a merman seduced by his siren song.
I guess that I could hate you were you really worth my breath,
I guess that I could fall from dizzy heights unto my death.
But I choose life and I choose love, I crave the lamb and the lonesome dove.
To come down from the tightrope, my fist in the velvet glove.
Come down from your masquerade, a dancer in your bitter ball.
Hide downstairs behind closed doors where the world can’t see you fall.
Avert your eyes from my piercing gaze and the gaze of the other demons you slew.
Come off your high and mighty perch, ‘til your dreams turn black and blue.
Come down to your day of reckoning, there’s nothing left to do.
But bite the bullet and close it down, your once bustling little town.
Come down from the tightrope where you choke and where you drown.
There still may be some mercy left if only you act fast.
There may still be some time left to change the die that’s cast.
But the guillotine is waiting and the bucket it is calling,
You are drunk on power and prestige, down their stairs you’re falling.
Come down from the tightrope, dangerous water you are treading.
Onto the battlefield armed for the fight, the scene of your own beheading.
Come down from the tightrope, my wicked little queen.
I know you cannot be as devious as you seem.
A lover laid by his charade, a frat boy’s first big wet dream.
Choose to live and choose to love, the tender lamb and the lonesome dove,
And come down from the tightrope, fist in the velvet glove.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Come down from the tightrope, you’ve been perched up there too long.
A lover laid by his charade, a merman seduced by his siren song.
I guess that I could hate you were you really worth my breath,
I guess that I could fall from dizzy heights unto my death.
But I choose life and I choose love, I crave the lamb and the lonesome dove.
To come down from the tightrope, my fist in the velvet glove.
Come down from your masquerade, a dancer in your bitter ball.
Hide downstairs behind closed doors where the world can’t see you fall.
Avert your eyes from my piercing gaze and the gaze of the other demons you slew.
Come off your high and mighty perch, ‘til your dreams turn black and blue.
Come down to your day of reckoning, there’s nothing left to do.
But bite the bullet and close it down, your once bustling little town.
Come down from the tightrope where you choke and where you drown.
There still may be some mercy left if only you act fast.
There may still be some time left to change the die that’s cast.
But the guillotine is waiting and the bucket it is calling,
You are drunk on power and prestige, down their stairs you’re falling.
Come down from the tightrope, dangerous water you are treading.
Onto the battlefield armed for the fight, the scene of your own beheading.
Come down from the tightrope, my wicked little queen.
I know you cannot be as devious as you seem.
A lover laid by his charade, a frat boy’s first big wet dream.
Choose to live and choose to love, the tender lamb and the lonesome dove,
And come down from the tightrope, fist in the velvet glove.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Friday, December 31, 2010
WILL THERE REALLY BE A NEW YEAR
WILL THERE REALLY BE A NEW YEAR
Here in late December, I can scarce remember,
What a new year looks like, how it even feels.
An artificial mark on the calendar, scarcely even real.
An apple or a postage stamp falling from the sky,
A smattering of confetti, the strains of auld lang syne.
Unlike Christmas with its pomp and glory,
Thanksgiving with its grateful story.
The New Year is a holiday in search of some good press,
Nothing but a slapdash, grand hilarious mess.
And if I’ve offended some New Year’s revelers,
That was surely not my intent,
But perhaps even they in their strange hats and noisemakers,
Know what I really meant.
Will it really be 2011 or just more of the same?
A depressing, thankless twenty-ten by just another name.
You really have to wonder where we go from here,
After a month of merriment to distract us from our fears.
Will there really be a fresh new start, will there really be a new year?
Or will we be sinking deeper in the quagmire of recession,
The stock market a broke, hilarious joke teetering toward the Great Depression.
Perhaps I’m not the best to say, my 2010 has been a mess,
Illness brings its challenges and its fair share of stress.
But I’m one of the lucky ones, I have my lover and my home
And a few close friends to comfort me when I’m feeling most alone.
My thoughts are with the homeless ones, the truly down and out.
Those I meet who are on the street, alone without a doubt.
Will there really be a new year to ease their endless drought?
Here in late December, I can scarce remember,
What a new year feels like or how it even looks.
2010 has done me in, a New Year for the record books.
Suffice to say I won’t be going out to shake my ass and celebrate
And with any luck I’ll be in bed and fast asleep by eight.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Here in late December, I can scarce remember,
What a new year looks like, how it even feels.
An artificial mark on the calendar, scarcely even real.
An apple or a postage stamp falling from the sky,
A smattering of confetti, the strains of auld lang syne.
Unlike Christmas with its pomp and glory,
Thanksgiving with its grateful story.
The New Year is a holiday in search of some good press,
Nothing but a slapdash, grand hilarious mess.
And if I’ve offended some New Year’s revelers,
That was surely not my intent,
But perhaps even they in their strange hats and noisemakers,
Know what I really meant.
Will it really be 2011 or just more of the same?
A depressing, thankless twenty-ten by just another name.
You really have to wonder where we go from here,
After a month of merriment to distract us from our fears.
Will there really be a fresh new start, will there really be a new year?
Or will we be sinking deeper in the quagmire of recession,
The stock market a broke, hilarious joke teetering toward the Great Depression.
Perhaps I’m not the best to say, my 2010 has been a mess,
Illness brings its challenges and its fair share of stress.
But I’m one of the lucky ones, I have my lover and my home
And a few close friends to comfort me when I’m feeling most alone.
My thoughts are with the homeless ones, the truly down and out.
Those I meet who are on the street, alone without a doubt.
Will there really be a new year to ease their endless drought?
Here in late December, I can scarce remember,
What a new year feels like or how it even looks.
2010 has done me in, a New Year for the record books.
Suffice to say I won’t be going out to shake my ass and celebrate
And with any luck I’ll be in bed and fast asleep by eight.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
MAN IS AN ISLAND
MAN IS AN ISLAND
No man is an island, or so a famous poet claimed.
John Donne be damned, I think he’s wrong,
An island is my middle name.
It’s out of sight and out of mind for all my so-called friends.
Beyond the walls of our shared work life,
Their friendship it does not extend.
I cannot say I blame them, I could predict it plain as day.
All the vows to keep in touch that have been sent my way.
Could wallpaper my room with the scent of foul perfume
Man is an island, an instrument untuned.
Where are all the well wishers, where are all the cronies?
Some of them are parents, some are just plain phonies.
Some have obligations that I can only surmise,
It’s hard to uncover all the wherefores and the whys.
And I alas am just as bad, I am not above reproach.
I always am afraid to call, for fear of being a bother,
Afraid to hear I can’t talk now, why don’t you try back later?
In short I lack the confidence I ever touched their lives at all,
And so I wait, procrastinate, and watch the paint peel off the wall.
On the precipice with my memories, poised to take a fall.
Retirement can be a prison, if you let it be,
And I will not keep my life under lock and key.
I will find new friends, reclaim the old,
Extend my hand, be kind and bold.
And try my best to brave the cold.
No man is an island, John Donne is such a crock.
It’s Paul Simon for my money and his song I Am A Rock.
Life is brief and people fade,
We meet so solemn at their grave.
Fools who stand on shifting sands,
We are rocks and we are islands.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No man is an island, or so a famous poet claimed.
John Donne be damned, I think he’s wrong,
An island is my middle name.
It’s out of sight and out of mind for all my so-called friends.
Beyond the walls of our shared work life,
Their friendship it does not extend.
I cannot say I blame them, I could predict it plain as day.
All the vows to keep in touch that have been sent my way.
Could wallpaper my room with the scent of foul perfume
Man is an island, an instrument untuned.
Where are all the well wishers, where are all the cronies?
Some of them are parents, some are just plain phonies.
Some have obligations that I can only surmise,
It’s hard to uncover all the wherefores and the whys.
And I alas am just as bad, I am not above reproach.
I always am afraid to call, for fear of being a bother,
Afraid to hear I can’t talk now, why don’t you try back later?
In short I lack the confidence I ever touched their lives at all,
And so I wait, procrastinate, and watch the paint peel off the wall.
On the precipice with my memories, poised to take a fall.
Retirement can be a prison, if you let it be,
And I will not keep my life under lock and key.
I will find new friends, reclaim the old,
Extend my hand, be kind and bold.
And try my best to brave the cold.
No man is an island, John Donne is such a crock.
It’s Paul Simon for my money and his song I Am A Rock.
Life is brief and people fade,
We meet so solemn at their grave.
Fools who stand on shifting sands,
We are rocks and we are islands.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2010
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
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