GLORIA BY THE MOUNTAINSIDE
(FOR MY AUNT GLORIA)
I’ve loved her since I was a child, when my thoughts ran deep and wild,
And in those years her spirit ran free,
My first memory of her was a young woman
With a convertible Ford Galaxie.
Baby blue it was if my memory serves,
As filtered through this web of words.
Gloria of the small town, but destined for bigger things,
A dental assistant in a local office until she found her wings.
Her first ticket out was my Uncle Tim.
How could she help herself falling for him?
She met him in the dental biz, they married and began a life,
She tried so hard to make it work, her new role as a wife.
And for awhile her years were golden, it was Gloria by the Lake,
A red Jaguar convertible, the Chris Craft and the Gloria-T,
My cousins Timmy and Annette would play with my brother and me.
Our cousins by marriage, Uncle Tim’s own.
Yet she treated them the same as me and my brother,
A cool ass aunt and a surrogate mother,
And Gloria by the lakeside seemed to last forever,
But really it was just a hiccup in time,
Burnished in memory, those summers sublime.
In the great leap of time it was only a minute,
Uncle Tim cheated and the two of them split,
And then it was Uncle Ronnie for just a while
Another brief marriage and a time of travail,
The city and apartment managing whispered in her ear,
And off she then went on her fortune kissed trail,
Herndon, Stuart Woods, and then Annandale.
It was then that true love came her way,
In the dashing form of my Uncle Ray,
And a love that would last forever just fell into her arms,
The curse at last broken, the third time the charm.
She and Ray lived a life of adventure, saw London, Paris, Rome,
And for a span of several years they called Jamaica home.
They even lived in Florida and braved a hurricane.
But they were lost and lonely there and found the land too flat,
And found they missed the mountains and the country and all that.
So to Stanley it was in the Blue Ridge, high off Skyline Drive.
And there they built their house of dreams, in 2004 or 5.
She lost an older brother and her sister, my mother,
And Cherry, her cherished best friend, passed away as well,
And she cared for my Uncle Johnny with the help of some good friends,
And broke her own hip, when she herself fell,
In a strange and sad chain of events.
But still she survives, and greets the new day.
Gloria by the mountainside with her knight in armor Ray.
And the time has flown since those days of old, yet still her spirit runs free,
Since the days I rode with her, in that convertible Ford Galaxie.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Saturday, January 21, 2012
CLOWNING AROUND
CLOWNING AROUND
Sometimes I guess I must admit, I miss my old frivolity,
The days I passed so merrily, full of piss and jollity.
I miss my greasepaint, lipstick and of course my bulbous nose,
Red as a ripe apple, floppy shoes and festive clothes.
So summon to my bedside the likes of Stephen Sondheim,
Or even better Judy Collins, and let us pass the time,
I miss my days of clowning around, the pastiche and the last laugh,
The harmless days, the stoic ways, the straddling of the rugged past.
For the clowning beats the frowning, by more than just a little,
But all that I can do these days is to aim for just the middle,
The space between the light and dark,
The flesh and bone, the ashes,
The daylight bright and the moonlight stark,
The random brilliant flashes.
So open up the window, to let my spirit fly,
I hear it is a custom in some foreign lands.
When one is done and poised to die.
I’m tiring of this two step, this waltz, this solemn dance.
Where life is lived with gravity, and there is no second chance.
No second chance of freedom, no minuet of movement sweet,
No relief from the pangs of grief, from the loss of dancing feet.
My daily walks are getting slower, almost to a crawl,
Neighborhood eyes upon me, curious as to why I fall.
Why balance has eluded me, like a tightrope dancer on the wire,
Like some forlorn, frenzied forest, engulfed in deadly fire.
Sometimes I guess I must admit, I miss my happier rhymes,
Instead of this whistling in the dark in these uncertain times.
And yet though I love happiness, there’s a beauty to my sorrow,
I chase the blues away with rhyme and pray for a bright tomorrow.
So send in Stephen, but most of all Judy, and send in my body of old,
And let me have a day of movement before my corpse turns cold.
A miracle of sorts from my Creator, the man in the healer’s clothes,
I miss my greasepaint, lipstick, and of course my bulbous nose,
I’m tired of being a mean old man who’s in this fight alone.
So do me quite the favor, get wardrobe on the phone.
And let me have just one more day of that whoopee cushion sound,
A bloke with his blues and floppy shoes, one last day of clowning around.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Sometimes I guess I must admit, I miss my old frivolity,
The days I passed so merrily, full of piss and jollity.
I miss my greasepaint, lipstick and of course my bulbous nose,
Red as a ripe apple, floppy shoes and festive clothes.
So summon to my bedside the likes of Stephen Sondheim,
Or even better Judy Collins, and let us pass the time,
I miss my days of clowning around, the pastiche and the last laugh,
The harmless days, the stoic ways, the straddling of the rugged past.
For the clowning beats the frowning, by more than just a little,
But all that I can do these days is to aim for just the middle,
The space between the light and dark,
The flesh and bone, the ashes,
The daylight bright and the moonlight stark,
The random brilliant flashes.
So open up the window, to let my spirit fly,
I hear it is a custom in some foreign lands.
When one is done and poised to die.
I’m tiring of this two step, this waltz, this solemn dance.
Where life is lived with gravity, and there is no second chance.
No second chance of freedom, no minuet of movement sweet,
No relief from the pangs of grief, from the loss of dancing feet.
My daily walks are getting slower, almost to a crawl,
Neighborhood eyes upon me, curious as to why I fall.
Why balance has eluded me, like a tightrope dancer on the wire,
Like some forlorn, frenzied forest, engulfed in deadly fire.
Sometimes I guess I must admit, I miss my happier rhymes,
Instead of this whistling in the dark in these uncertain times.
And yet though I love happiness, there’s a beauty to my sorrow,
I chase the blues away with rhyme and pray for a bright tomorrow.
So send in Stephen, but most of all Judy, and send in my body of old,
And let me have a day of movement before my corpse turns cold.
A miracle of sorts from my Creator, the man in the healer’s clothes,
I miss my greasepaint, lipstick, and of course my bulbous nose,
I’m tired of being a mean old man who’s in this fight alone.
So do me quite the favor, get wardrobe on the phone.
And let me have just one more day of that whoopee cushion sound,
A bloke with his blues and floppy shoes, one last day of clowning around.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Saturday, January 14, 2012
DEAD SEA SCROLL
DEAD SEA SCROLL
My body, it lies in the open field,
Stripped down and broken away.
And all of my suffering is swallowed,
By the vultures and creatures of prey.
I have lived long enough to remember,
There are things one should never forget,
And my heart it is swallowed,
Until it hangs hollow,
Alone in the land of regret.
My feelings lie buried in silver linings,
That never quite came to pass,
All of my worries came down like a flurry,
Like a snowstorm in a dreadful hurry,
Feeling no pain and packing a punch,
Like a Santa Claus caught in a holiday crunch,
My feelings lie buried, all hurried and harried,
Like a Type A slaving, a mess at his desk,
Burning the oil past midnight, wasting his final breaths.
My love it died so quietly I scarce could hear it fall,
Like some renegade painting that fell from the wall,
Into the abyss and once more into the fray,
My love it came so silently, then faded straight away.
My love, it lies in the burial tomb,
In my father’s house of many rooms,
Where the cobwebs hang so dark and low,
I fear for the loss of my very soul.
A fine vintage wine that washed ashore,
Lost to me forevermore,
An old religiosity, a quiet curiosity,
A hollowed out mansion with gutted floors.
My life it died in the painful past,
Like a dead sea scroll kept under glass,
Fragile, lonely, a crumpled leaf on the wind,
A relic and a holdout,
From the land of let’s pretend.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
My body, it lies in the open field,
Stripped down and broken away.
And all of my suffering is swallowed,
By the vultures and creatures of prey.
I have lived long enough to remember,
There are things one should never forget,
And my heart it is swallowed,
Until it hangs hollow,
Alone in the land of regret.
My feelings lie buried in silver linings,
That never quite came to pass,
All of my worries came down like a flurry,
Like a snowstorm in a dreadful hurry,
Feeling no pain and packing a punch,
Like a Santa Claus caught in a holiday crunch,
My feelings lie buried, all hurried and harried,
Like a Type A slaving, a mess at his desk,
Burning the oil past midnight, wasting his final breaths.
My love it died so quietly I scarce could hear it fall,
Like some renegade painting that fell from the wall,
Into the abyss and once more into the fray,
My love it came so silently, then faded straight away.
My love, it lies in the burial tomb,
In my father’s house of many rooms,
Where the cobwebs hang so dark and low,
I fear for the loss of my very soul.
A fine vintage wine that washed ashore,
Lost to me forevermore,
An old religiosity, a quiet curiosity,
A hollowed out mansion with gutted floors.
My life it died in the painful past,
Like a dead sea scroll kept under glass,
Fragile, lonely, a crumpled leaf on the wind,
A relic and a holdout,
From the land of let’s pretend.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2012
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Saturday, January 7, 2012
UPON THE HILLSIDE
UPON THE HILLSIDE
Upon the hillside where our love began,
The rainbow danced and its colors ran,
In watercolor wonder of gumdrops and spice.
Looking back through wiser eyes, all too late I realize,
Strange that I could fool you once
but could never fool you twice.
My world it ends in a careless fire.
Your touch as cold as the winter ice.
At the exact space and time as prophesied,
Our love in all of its splendor died,
And the gypsy laughed by the side of the road,
Shrugging off his heavy load,
Pondering the softness of the snow white dove,
And the awful fickleness of love.
We tumbled to the shaken ground,
With hardly a sacrificial sound.
It was a wild and a wanton willful ride,
Tossed and torn on the raging tide.
But my heart it yearned for something new,
And from your side for a moment flew.
My betrayal it exploded, like a land mine in my face
And our love affair imploded, leaving not a trace.
Crashing deep into the ocean, turning ever blue,
The legend once so beautiful, the tragic tale of me and you.
It was upon this hillside where the children played,
In the township where the villagers prayed,
Where the rabbits romped and the squirrels
Hid three squares a day in their cheeks for the winter.
That our love tore apart and quickly splintered.
Like some overwhelmed kite in the fierce winter breeze.
As frost engulfed the hill and caused the lake to freeze.
And the burn of the beard on your handsome face
Nearly broke my heart completely,
As you turned your gaze away from me,
Leaving me shattered, broken open,
Across the deep and great divide,
You left me standing where our love began,
In tears upon the hillside.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Note: Not a poem about my relationship, but a break-up poem that I thought turned out quite lovely. Hope you will like it!
Upon the hillside where our love began,
The rainbow danced and its colors ran,
In watercolor wonder of gumdrops and spice.
Looking back through wiser eyes, all too late I realize,
Strange that I could fool you once
but could never fool you twice.
My world it ends in a careless fire.
Your touch as cold as the winter ice.
At the exact space and time as prophesied,
Our love in all of its splendor died,
And the gypsy laughed by the side of the road,
Shrugging off his heavy load,
Pondering the softness of the snow white dove,
And the awful fickleness of love.
We tumbled to the shaken ground,
With hardly a sacrificial sound.
It was a wild and a wanton willful ride,
Tossed and torn on the raging tide.
But my heart it yearned for something new,
And from your side for a moment flew.
My betrayal it exploded, like a land mine in my face
And our love affair imploded, leaving not a trace.
Crashing deep into the ocean, turning ever blue,
The legend once so beautiful, the tragic tale of me and you.
It was upon this hillside where the children played,
In the township where the villagers prayed,
Where the rabbits romped and the squirrels
Hid three squares a day in their cheeks for the winter.
That our love tore apart and quickly splintered.
Like some overwhelmed kite in the fierce winter breeze.
As frost engulfed the hill and caused the lake to freeze.
And the burn of the beard on your handsome face
Nearly broke my heart completely,
As you turned your gaze away from me,
Leaving me shattered, broken open,
Across the deep and great divide,
You left me standing where our love began,
In tears upon the hillside.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Note: Not a poem about my relationship, but a break-up poem that I thought turned out quite lovely. Hope you will like it!
Saturday, December 31, 2011
HELLO, BABY NEW YEAR
HELLO, BABY NEW YEAR
Hello, baby new year, you’ve arrived so sneaky fast,
And truth be told, you are looking suspiciously like the last.
I need a brand new symphony to chase my blues away,
And not the same tired orchestra and the same old notes you play.
Hello, baby new year, let us smack you on your fresh behind,
And give you room to breathe in this specious peace of mind.
If the world is sinking perilously, there is little you can do,
Despite all the legions and minions depending on you.
We have come to the fold, to the bend in the road,
Where solutions are not easy and sometimes cruel,
Not enough food, not enough love, and precious little fuel.
So spin in your dust and cry if you must,
Then cut the cord, it’s earth bound or bust.
Will you grow up to have a job in this spurious economy?
Will you curse being born in the land of the free?
Hello, baby new year, used to the luxury and designer label,
Living way beyond your means, with no food on the table.
But at least you’ll have your cell phone and your Game Boy
And your Play Station, to set your spirit soaring.
And with the Kardashians and the Jersey Housewives,
Your life will not be boring.
Yet I wonder what we’re teaching you, and if it all makes any sense,
With so few people in the world of integrity and conscience.
When Paris Hilton matters more than starvation in the streets,
When the homeless matter less than what goes on between the sheets.
When gays are free to marry, but not their own sex,
While we lap up all the details of Britney and her ex.
Hello, baby new year, it’s a strange and wild predicament,
That into this world at this time you’ve been sent.
When the confetti has been thrown and we’re left to fend alone.
It’s no wonder we end up so broken and bent.
So pardon me my bitterness, when you’re grown you’ll understand,
How such cynical times breed such a cynical man.
Hello, baby new year, sorry for the world we’ve left you,
But it’s your turn now to shake this up, you freakin’ little buttercup,
So please grow up and make us proud, but could you cry a bit less loud.
For I drank too much to celebrate and must sleep off this nasty headache.
Goodbye, baby new year, a fond farewell to you,
And please don’t bother daddy until New Year’s Day is through.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Hello, baby new year, you’ve arrived so sneaky fast,
And truth be told, you are looking suspiciously like the last.
I need a brand new symphony to chase my blues away,
And not the same tired orchestra and the same old notes you play.
Hello, baby new year, let us smack you on your fresh behind,
And give you room to breathe in this specious peace of mind.
If the world is sinking perilously, there is little you can do,
Despite all the legions and minions depending on you.
We have come to the fold, to the bend in the road,
Where solutions are not easy and sometimes cruel,
Not enough food, not enough love, and precious little fuel.
So spin in your dust and cry if you must,
Then cut the cord, it’s earth bound or bust.
Will you grow up to have a job in this spurious economy?
Will you curse being born in the land of the free?
Hello, baby new year, used to the luxury and designer label,
Living way beyond your means, with no food on the table.
But at least you’ll have your cell phone and your Game Boy
And your Play Station, to set your spirit soaring.
And with the Kardashians and the Jersey Housewives,
Your life will not be boring.
Yet I wonder what we’re teaching you, and if it all makes any sense,
With so few people in the world of integrity and conscience.
When Paris Hilton matters more than starvation in the streets,
When the homeless matter less than what goes on between the sheets.
When gays are free to marry, but not their own sex,
While we lap up all the details of Britney and her ex.
Hello, baby new year, it’s a strange and wild predicament,
That into this world at this time you’ve been sent.
When the confetti has been thrown and we’re left to fend alone.
It’s no wonder we end up so broken and bent.
So pardon me my bitterness, when you’re grown you’ll understand,
How such cynical times breed such a cynical man.
Hello, baby new year, sorry for the world we’ve left you,
But it’s your turn now to shake this up, you freakin’ little buttercup,
So please grow up and make us proud, but could you cry a bit less loud.
For I drank too much to celebrate and must sleep off this nasty headache.
Goodbye, baby new year, a fond farewell to you,
And please don’t bother daddy until New Year’s Day is through.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Saturday, December 17, 2011
TRIPPING ON JOY
TRIPPING ON JOY
Funny thing happened the other day,
As I was going my merry way,
A good friend of mine, a delightful old bat,
Stubbed her old toe on a kitchen floor mat.
It was a Christmas floor mat in front of a sink.
And the old bat, alas, had had too much to drink,
And like a child by herself all absorbed in her toy,
The old bat went merrily tripping on joy.
The floor mat was engraved with that very word,
As innocuous a word as has ever been heard.
It’s lots of times, not just Christmas day.
We seem to get mired in our own rigid way.
And are blind to the blessings that fall in our lap,
The warmth of good friends and a good stocking cap.
Let us try to remember and never forget,
The friendship of others, the kisses so wet,
That rain down upon us like snowflakes from the sky,
With each breath we take, we soar and we fly,
The dog’s sacred bark, the newborn’s first cry.
And it is all such a wonder, a sight to behold,
In the barren dead of winter, in the bitter cold.
We must always remember, it is always our choice,
To wallow in misery or to up and rejoice.
To reach for the heavens or to plumb the ocean floor,
To curse the darkness and cry evermore,
Or to light a candle in the night, and row our boat to shore.
Funny thing happened the other day,
As I was minding my own what was,
A good friend of mine who was slightly buzzed,
A wild old woman, a wily sort,
Stubbed her toe with a salty retort.
But like any good girl or any good boy.
She picked herself up and got on with her day.
Tipping the universe, tripping on joy,
Stumbling along on her drunken way.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Note: A big thanks to Christie, Chad, Jeni, Linda, John, Julie, and Wilson for an incredible Saturday afternoon that helped inspire this piece, which is a bit of truth and a bit of nonsense. The "old bat" was not drunk, nor did she curse. She barely even tripped. But she did trip slightly and the floor mat WAS a beautiful floor mat with JOY emblazoned on it. I just couldn't help myself.
Funny thing happened the other day,
As I was going my merry way,
A good friend of mine, a delightful old bat,
Stubbed her old toe on a kitchen floor mat.
It was a Christmas floor mat in front of a sink.
And the old bat, alas, had had too much to drink,
And like a child by herself all absorbed in her toy,
The old bat went merrily tripping on joy.
The floor mat was engraved with that very word,
As innocuous a word as has ever been heard.
It’s lots of times, not just Christmas day.
We seem to get mired in our own rigid way.
And are blind to the blessings that fall in our lap,
The warmth of good friends and a good stocking cap.
Let us try to remember and never forget,
The friendship of others, the kisses so wet,
That rain down upon us like snowflakes from the sky,
With each breath we take, we soar and we fly,
The dog’s sacred bark, the newborn’s first cry.
And it is all such a wonder, a sight to behold,
In the barren dead of winter, in the bitter cold.
We must always remember, it is always our choice,
To wallow in misery or to up and rejoice.
To reach for the heavens or to plumb the ocean floor,
To curse the darkness and cry evermore,
Or to light a candle in the night, and row our boat to shore.
Funny thing happened the other day,
As I was minding my own what was,
A good friend of mine who was slightly buzzed,
A wild old woman, a wily sort,
Stubbed her toe with a salty retort.
But like any good girl or any good boy.
She picked herself up and got on with her day.
Tipping the universe, tripping on joy,
Stumbling along on her drunken way.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Note: A big thanks to Christie, Chad, Jeni, Linda, John, Julie, and Wilson for an incredible Saturday afternoon that helped inspire this piece, which is a bit of truth and a bit of nonsense. The "old bat" was not drunk, nor did she curse. She barely even tripped. But she did trip slightly and the floor mat WAS a beautiful floor mat with JOY emblazoned on it. I just couldn't help myself.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
ROBBING PETER
ROBBING PETER
As I heave and sigh, closer to the final inning,
No longer sure of borrowed time, nor sure of new beginnings,
May I just say now that I’m sick of it all,
Sick of robbing Peter just to pay Paul.
Tired of killing Father Time
And stalking Mr. Death.
Tired of promises that do not rhyme,
That leave me lost, bereft of breath.
Tired of books that help me cope
With this dashing designer disease.
Tired of bromides and false hope,
This mountain won’t be climbed with ease.
Tired of pep talks from Michael J. Fox,
Tired of dreaming of a cure,
I want to mount my soapbox now,
To slaughter every sacred cow.
To set the record straight and pure.
I want to give birth to a litter of the bitters.
To shake my fist at progress,
To rant and rave at DBS.
Sick to death of being patient.
And though it isn’t anyone’s fault,
I am sick to death of impotence
And sick to death of Zoloft.
Sick of the pain and destruction.
Left by Mr. Parkinson.
Ready to give up hope-ah,
To throw away my levodopa.
And let us not forget, its kissing cousin Sinemet.
And tear out the freakin’ battery in my chest,
Damn the electrodes, full steam ahead,
Show me to my dainty sick bed.
Bring me lots of chocolate, it’s the only solution.
Kill me some lamb and bring me some mutton,
I will eat and drink and die a merry glutton.
As I gasp and breathe my last,
There’s one thing you should know,
These were just some random ramblings
From my one man Parkinsonian show.
A bored bombastic body and a withered tired old soul.
And did I happen to mention that I’m tired of it all,
Sick of Robbing Peter just to pay Paul?
Sick to death of losing balance,
Sick of the inevitable fall.
And now that I have had my say, I shall mosey on my merry way,
Shuffling like an idiot who’s stubborn as an ox,
With all due apologies to Michael J. Fox.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Note: I meant this poem to be taken seriously, but also a bit tongue in cheek. I hope I don't have to explain the debt of gratitude we all owe the wonderful Michael J. Fox. He is most definitely a hero of mine, and I do not at all intend my mention of him in this piece to be in the least bit disparaging or disrespectful.
As I heave and sigh, closer to the final inning,
No longer sure of borrowed time, nor sure of new beginnings,
May I just say now that I’m sick of it all,
Sick of robbing Peter just to pay Paul.
Tired of killing Father Time
And stalking Mr. Death.
Tired of promises that do not rhyme,
That leave me lost, bereft of breath.
Tired of books that help me cope
With this dashing designer disease.
Tired of bromides and false hope,
This mountain won’t be climbed with ease.
Tired of pep talks from Michael J. Fox,
Tired of dreaming of a cure,
I want to mount my soapbox now,
To slaughter every sacred cow.
To set the record straight and pure.
I want to give birth to a litter of the bitters.
To shake my fist at progress,
To rant and rave at DBS.
Sick to death of being patient.
And though it isn’t anyone’s fault,
I am sick to death of impotence
And sick to death of Zoloft.
Sick of the pain and destruction.
Left by Mr. Parkinson.
Ready to give up hope-ah,
To throw away my levodopa.
And let us not forget, its kissing cousin Sinemet.
And tear out the freakin’ battery in my chest,
Damn the electrodes, full steam ahead,
Show me to my dainty sick bed.
Bring me lots of chocolate, it’s the only solution.
Kill me some lamb and bring me some mutton,
I will eat and drink and die a merry glutton.
As I gasp and breathe my last,
There’s one thing you should know,
These were just some random ramblings
From my one man Parkinsonian show.
A bored bombastic body and a withered tired old soul.
And did I happen to mention that I’m tired of it all,
Sick of Robbing Peter just to pay Paul?
Sick to death of losing balance,
Sick of the inevitable fall.
And now that I have had my say, I shall mosey on my merry way,
Shuffling like an idiot who’s stubborn as an ox,
With all due apologies to Michael J. Fox.
-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Note: I meant this poem to be taken seriously, but also a bit tongue in cheek. I hope I don't have to explain the debt of gratitude we all owe the wonderful Michael J. Fox. He is most definitely a hero of mine, and I do not at all intend my mention of him in this piece to be in the least bit disparaging or disrespectful.
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