Emma and Wayne  

Posted by Olsen Potter in

There exists, in my mind, a couple. They fascinate me more than the books I read. And every once in while I write a poem about them. Life would be richer perhaps if I wrote their story in novel form, and who knows, maybe one day I will, but for right now I write their story in poetry. I post their story so far for you to read and enjoy.


Emma was standing outside
Barnes and Nobles
Holding a basket of books.

Wayne winked.
She smiled.

They’ve been
Reading each other ever since.

Wedding Night

In black and red passion
They strip each other
Of their innocence.
Like two ancient gods hammering out
The last of their thunder before
Reason and Logic overpower them.

Wayne lies in the double bed,
Naked, spent, imperfect, the power
of Gods flowing through him,
as he watches Emma,
Dark haired Emma,
wash the make-up from her face.

The water is stained the color of regret.

Lua de Mel

It was a 9 hour drive,
Made longer by Wayne’s reading of
Tartuffe for his English degree.
The only honey Emma found on the trip
Was the moment, in a Barnes and Noble
(they were browsing the relationship section
For a book on Oral sex), when Wayne,
Looking at an illustrated Karma Sutra,
Shut up about books,
Looked Emma in the eye,
And said, “hum.”

She loves it when he’s speechless.


Emma’s mind, like the faint light
Floating in on Wayne’s pillow,
Hovers, then retreats
To life before marriage.

He kicks in his sleep.

Last night, she told him
he doesn’t share everything
with her.

The music of their marriage
Is made from bubbling cheese
And noisy kisses;

Not from lights that turn red for a moment
or Emma’s embraces.

She takes Wayne with her everywhere,
Sharing with him her fears,
her dreams,
The stress of her every day.

He couldn’t understand that
When she left.

The First Year

Emma went back,
of course.
Her mother told her,
"You picked him",
made her feel guilty,
made her feel unloved.

Wayne had done the dishes.

She found him sitting
in her chair,
next to the bookcase,
reading King Lear
with the cliffs notes.

She laughed and said,
"let me explain".

And she did.

Reaction to buying a 4 dollar knock-off for a prescription pain-killer  

Posted by Olsen Potter in

We only have one store in town,
the big bad wolf come to destroy everything we hold dear,
or at least drive all other businesses from the bank of our river.

So when my wife asked for some prescription pain-killer
(and also some latex-free "friends")
I forced to face the fiend.

They were painting the L
when I walked into the gaping maw
they call a sliding door entrance.

A friendly old person, brain-washed
to say only 'Hello, would you like a cart?'
asked me if I would like a cart.

I told her no, thank you,
turned, ran out the door,
and slipped on a puddle of freshly spilled white paint.

The Manager of the monster
brought me a 4 dollar knock-off for the pain,
which I took it home to my wife and said, "Sweetie, next time aspirin and latex will have to do".

Ode to the Miller  

Posted by Olsen Potter in

I've been told I look like the Miller,
short, round, somewhat balding.
I take it as a compliment, because I
am, short round, somewhat balding.

So I read his tale. Seemed simple enough.
A girl, a guy, the girl's old husband,
the priest down the lane that likes to kiss
peoples "ers".

I like it enough to read it to my wife,
who, like every other time I read something to her,
gave a whimper. No laughter, no smile.
A whimper of disgust? A whimper that really said,
'Honey, I love you but stop reading to me'?

or was it a whimper of pain?

If only life were as simple as
the Miller's tale.

Dancing the Samba with a Brazilian during Carnival  

Posted by Olsen Potter in

Her costume caught my eye
as it swayed with the beat,

Her feet flowed with the song
like hair in the wind;
her black hair that smelled of mangoes;
the wind that smelled of rice.

Her name was Sandrinha,
little Sandra,
smiling Sandra.

Her reaction to my watching
was a slip of the foot,
causing the team to miss a beat
and lose.

Her only regret after 3 years of love,
crazy-passionate-exotic-Brazilian Love,
was that her Samba team had lost.

Twelve Dozen Roses  

Posted by Olsen Potter in

I'm an unpublished poet,
still in school.
I teach computers at
the community college.

I managed to pay
for twelve dozen red roses.

The color of her blood-clot.

I choked on those petals
when the clot broke free.