Details |
Brian J Potter Poem
When I arrived I brought with me
an orange in my pocket
it warmed me nearly, as my girl
her picture in my locket
providing me security
like Linus and his blanket
it cleansed me of my awkwardness
its scent wafted about
helping me to feel at peace
once I took it out
its orange glow provided strength
in a chilly world
just like the warmth I felt
back home with my girl
it transformed my imagining
dead trees came to life
the fruit it bared
that I held dear
I gave it to my wife
a chance to strive
our drama free from strife
red is fine, yellow too
it's better when they meet
blending in a fruitful whirl
my girl is orange sweet
Copyright © Brian J Potter | Year Posted 2016
|
Details |
Brian J Potter Poem
I once sported a manly beard,
a beastly beard had I.
But then on the farm, at the crack of dawn,
while my lady cheered,
she chopped it off, and while the cows mockingly mooed,
I quietly cried.
And with that, a little something inside of me died.
I would venture to guess it was my manly pride.
She brushed and whispered into my tickled ear
"Brian, how I pined for your lovely face,
and your youthful countenance.
You don't need a mane to rival a lion in ferocity
-you're sensitive and wise,
I can see it in your eyes,
and your words they always seem to make sense."
Who was I to debate with her?
Her words would lose weight
if I failed to concur.
Copyright © Brian J Potter | Year Posted 2023
|
Details |
Brian J Potter Poem
Mu uncle Franklin
was a pro wrestler.
He lit up a room
like Nikola Tesla.
My aunt Judy
was a cake maker.
Her cakes were tall
like an LA Laker.
My brother Steve
played video games
-until my mom Kate
called him names.
Kate, to her credit
was a fine, fine artist.
But with brains, forget it.
I am the smartest.
Copyright © Brian J Potter | Year Posted 2023
|
Details |
Brian J Potter Poem
I’m a brick and oh so lonely,
sitting here a hundred years.
Dry as dirt…oh if only
I could shed a single tear.
Here’s my story, forty stories,
up way high above the ground.
To the left and to the right,
looking up or looking down,
all the bricks are just like me,
an ocean of monotony.
Yes, we share, but we don’t talk
about the life here on our block.
Two years past, I fell from this wall,
and preyed someone would miss me.
But whether below,
or returned- way up here,
I knew no one would kiss me.
Birds above are everywhere,
people below hold hands and walk.
My life though,
all take for granted, sitting here
day after day.
If my life was more enchanted,
I’d gladly be a brick who’d say:
“I’m a brick, a happy brick,
happy to be where I stay.”
Copyright © Brian J Potter | Year Posted 2024
|
Details |
Brian J Potter Poem
I'm a brick and oh so lonely,
sitting here a hundred years.
Dry as dirt...oh if only
I could shed a single tear.
Here's my story, forty stories,
up way high above the ground.
To the left and to the right,
looking up and looking down,
all the bricks are just like me,
an ocean of monotony.
Yes, we share, but we don't talk
about the life here on our block.
Two years past, I fell from this wall,
and preyed someone would miss me.
But whether below,
or returned- way up here,
I knew no one would kiss me.
Birds above are everywhere,
people below hold hands and walk.
My life though,
all take for granted, sitting here
day after day.
If my life was more enchanted,
I’d gladly be a brick who’d say:
“I’m a brick, a happy brick,
happy to be where I stay.”
Copyright © Brian J Potter | Year Posted 2023
|
Details |
Brian J Potter Poem
Riddles
Riddle me this Batman:
what is the middle of a fat man?
Is there anything clean
about a garbage can?
If two can dance
can Toucan Sam?
Is beige the same as ecru or tan?
Why
-does it come between ex and zee?
Is the alphabet
a good bet,
or is beta better?
Are you meant to sweat
when you wear a sweater?
Or for that matter
pant in pants?
Or ambulate in
an ambulance?
Copyright © Brian J Potter | Year Posted 2024
|
Details |
Brian J Potter Poem
Sticky Glue Stick
An SLR camera shutter clicks
shut, sticks then opens: at a
designated shutter speed.
The subject is caught and the
camera’s quick: like a frog
unfurling its tongue to snag
a wary fly, with its sticky tongue.
The subject is not:
sensational or outrageous
-not sticky eye candy,
not the addictive modern fare,
not titillating,
not irresistible.
Tight knit.
A “modern family” unit sits
close, huddled in transparent
body lingo-
revealing hints, though open to translation.
Wait longer than usual to process,
then
stick pics with glue sticks
to photo album pages.
Arrange them across and
down like inked in crossword
puzzle solutions
-diptychs, triptychs, family trips etc.
chronologies mark lifespan
arcs.
Baby pics, the grandparents,
the unsuspecting…
Fill to the end.
Close the album.
Shut. Then revisit,
with more pics,
and stick them inside.
Copyright © Brian J Potter | Year Posted 2024
|
Details |
Brian J Potter Poem
The city above us reaches higher and higher
tipped at the top in all its glory with
iconic, prickly, spires,
as long as air rights permit it.
Build, tear down, rebuild, as the wheels below spin round
in sync with the people who dream,
and the unbridled greed.
Sidewalks, though, remain the same,
i.e., concrete
-people come here to compete,
and they prefer the ground
static, unforgiving and mundane
-the cracks house stunted plants,
squat down low, you might see
ants- too.
People are ants when you are on the 100th floor,
and disappear if you go high enough, or if you forget them.
Back on the ground you
might notice concrete, light grey,
doesn’t hide dirt well, but people barely care
-would you continually step
on a light-colored shirt?
and furthermore, is a visual foil to a
galaxy of flattened gum wads,
jet black- gum wads that remind me of opaque black holes
up above the sky.
There are innumerable pebbles too,
studding the walkways largely unaccounted for
by the naked eye. We grid our concrete like
we grid the city -the geometric dividing lines
are narrow spaces like mini streets
-if we are Godzillas, then OCD Godzillas
avoid these streets, but if trying to catch
a bus, that all goes out the window.
Concrete’s biggest foe may be jackhammers
-shuddering in their presence, succumbing
to brute, deafening force -a staccato berating
beat, like an amplified version of the concrete
pounding of feet, of people and pets,
or an even more amplified version of the
gentle tapping of grounded pigeons.
Copyright © Brian J Potter | Year Posted 2023
|
Details |
Brian J Potter Poem
A pretty flower solitary in an abandoned field of endless weeds
-unpicked by a weed lover, who is unfaithful.
A long zigzagging crack on a ruined wall
containing pockets of moss green moss,
glistening, and glossy
-harboring a colorblind emerald green lizard
unseen by the uninquisitive.
A nest way, way up high- consisting of tangled twigs picked from the dirt
-touching the sky
-empty and forgotten and yet revisited.
An unwitting cow covered by an enormous brown spot
that wraps around it with edges that barely touch on the other side.
A two headed snake that pops up on the internet, hissing.
A tiny hard to define bug upon your monitor screen
-just out of reach, that might in fact be an eye floater, which bugs you.
A cat and dog ying yanging purrfectly, forming an absolutely perfect sphere, that rolls.
An inside out fish tank with…yes you trapped in the center,
with a limited supply of oxygen.
A dead tree bough on a thriving tree.
A thriving tree planted in dead soil.
Dead soil on a thriving planet.
A wind that blows back against a breeze- and a breeze that blows back in turn,
and then out of turn.
Leaves bearing the brunt of the confusion.
Anomalies each… I have seen.
Copyright © Brian J Potter | Year Posted 2023
|
Details |
Brian J Potter Poem
Pith is pithier than pithy
-it’s not a question of if.
You know atoms are tiny
when you get at ‘em.
Sometimes they’re the point.
Meanings have layers
like lasagna.
Two or three should suffice.
Any more is a little less nice.
Less is more is the better
advice.
But I sense I said that twice.
Lasagna and spaghetti
go to together like a Yeti
and Big Foot.
So maybe skip the spaghetti.
Are you aiming to have a carb overload?
You better avoid that road.
I like little feet as opposed to a big foot
-they’re tinier.
More minor.
Less dimensional.
They can be on point
-and that’s plane to see.
I could say more but I don’t see
the point,
in that case.
Copyright © Brian J Potter | Year Posted 2023
|