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Sean Paul Potterson
Leaving
In a crystal palace
or through the cutting wind
that bleeds my lips
I drop a tear.
Everywhere
I’m lonely,
for you are far,
so very cold,
and in the dark.
I miss you,
your warm hands,
and sweet smile,
the silly games
just running around.
Why did you leave?
I see now,
you are underground
but I’m in the dark.
On the Island of the Gods
I. The Arrival
Cursed waves against the rotten wood
relentlessly refused to let my ship be
and drifted my direction to the unknown
through a rare sea before unwitnessed by me.
My soaked clothing weighed me down
but I refused to stop my fight,
to a safe land I would arrive
even if my life was led to an infinite night.
But in an instant darkness came
and my unconscious body floated away
barely surviving the will of the tides,
in a rocky shore I opened my eyes.
Highland cries
A ray of light breached the clouds
and blinded my sore eyes
an on turning I saw the tall
valiant figure of a Highland man.
Not perceived by his sight
and sneaking through gentle grass
I silently followed this fierce lad
and saw there was nothing he could lack.
The long red squared kilt was crossed
by a leather coated maze and spear
and drops of blood of unlucky redcoats
dripped through savagely wounded legs.
And the clouds dispersed and I saw;
behind the hill, a vast army of clans
had gathered in this year of Our Lord
seventeen hundred and forty five.
Highland warriors held their stand
urged by the call of Stuart’s House
to claim their rightful throne, once
bitterly torned clans joined in arms.
The Cadence to Arms, the final Albion
shout and the valiant first strike.
Rivers of redcoat blood now drown
the injured and deceased alike.
But Bonnie Prince Charles wished more
and seeked only his Kingdom come.
And spirits and ideals lefts aside
the Stuart House shows Scotland his back.
Alone, unprotected forsaken and betrayed
hundred of Highland warriors offer their lives
bleeding and hurting, crying for a cause,
an idea that, for a few, could be left to die.
(This was the first poem I ever wrote. Be merciful 
. Sorry to the Scots for any historical inaccuracy.)
Glory of the night
Dodging nothing through empty halls
my feet led my numb body where my
slow brain cried. Just a little more harm
done, small price for the manic laughs;
enough same days and I’ll need
a brand new head.
Couldn’t sleep that night:
liquor-flamed lights kept appearing
thinly through the slits of my window shades;
across my pitch dark room they raced
swishing and hitting, crying out loud:
‘return now to the glorious night’.
Faces in the Sand – Culmination
III.
From what I before thought was
a gentle coat of beautiful sand,
an endless army of cursed faces emerged
devouring my every step into the Palace of Death.
These figures rhythmically danced, changed
and in their stillness, shared their place,
generously trading an eyeball, a mouth
and voice, in despair to form a face.
Shrieks. Bellows. Laughter caused by sorrow.
Screams and sighs of agony. Misery.
A whole world of torments had found its owners,
which, crumbled, desperately clanged to the sand.
And with every step,
a new mercy cry seemed to take shape
trading its rueful sound of pain
for a voice claiming its wishes in vain.
Heard I did, as one cursed soul,
merely the remnant of a lover’s memory
swore and spat its foul damnations and hopes
proving his life had truly been low.
IV. (A lover’s tale)
“Loved I did, and love was all I knew,
for years and years, my mind drifted aloof
as moon after moon, night after night,
only her voice could bring me back to the light.
Well, she truly was mine, merely for a kiss,
and instantaneous eternity of heavenly bliss,
in which our lips met, and darkness came
for the light we caused, dimmed Heaven’s flame.
Yet, Darkness forgot that single day,
to blind Tragedy’s vengeful eyes,
claimed my love’s shining future
and pushed my heart into everlasting torture”.
(Happy 20th Birthday to me! Thanks to all Blackprint Poetry readers!)
Faces in the Sand
I.
Whether it had been
the shining round Moon,
the eye of light in the starless night
or rather the freezing touch
of the golden gentle sand,
I could not realize
which had found me
softly dragging my feet
in that majestically desert beach.
Desert! Oh Lord, how I wish
the place had truly been so.
For anywhere I looked
there was no one to be seen
neither gently lit by the cold white light
nor casted from the shadows of the darkened sea.
II.
Yet, my mind, my soul and ears
crumbled into agony upon the sound
of voices of despair, crime and lust,
as whips punished with threshing hand.
Cries, oh terrible cries!
but still no dying one – not around.
No one but me and my soul which,
stabbed, bled for these terrible howls.
And the misery finally won,
and I crumbled: my knees,
on fire, yet numb, I couldn’t hold straight
and I collapsed, never finding defeat so bright.
Relief cooled my body with an intense wave,
as ice – which never lacks its thaw.
For I saw, but couldn’t describe
what laid before my unbelieving eyes.
(To be continued…)
The Ritual over the Hill
Up on the heavens of the fire-lit hill
the tribe dances the night into life
and through smoke and pulsing heat
hopes to awaken the God that dwells so high.
With each step, His eyes tremble.
His body shakes at every move.
Thus turning and fading in
the tribemen cry into the skies
and silently follow the lead
as the masked face raises his eyes.
His eyes are open. Forever
now shall He live above them.
Unexpected destiny, thunder
and lighting fill the glorious night.
The rain falls with mischievous laughter
and the mountain is drenched without a fight.
Back into the eternal sleep, only
after a thousand years shall He return.
Of love and self-harm
Read my thoughts
and speak my words,
charm my mind
and stroke my heart.
Make me cry
and collect my tears,
touch my soul
and whip me with a cold stir.
Endow me with your eyes
and warm me in a cold winter night,
surround me with your threshing arms
of fiery warm and welcomed love.
And now pull
and draw my heart out
ashame me with my thoughts
and tell me your love of drunken hopes.
Laugh at what you see
two sore pearls, which
merely follow your
freshly wounded flirts.
Rip my soul into tears
and let my gently frozen being
to live and sweetly die
under your cold everlasting memory
To the land down south
Through endless fields of heavenly green
a land of infinite riches stretches its limbs
and its fills its every freeman’s heart
with glorious unrelenting pride.
From north to south, word to silence,
the green and gold and white and blue
paint its glorious skins, its gentle eyes
committing itself to the dwellers on its back.
Alas, such a lush and celestial realm
drops a tear for every time,
that the heathen and the wicked
unfairly play on his brothers of the south.
And thus, she cries and cries, hoping,
wishing, for a savior of patriotic mind.
Sean Paul Potterson
