Writing

Town

“Town” is a brief collection of poems and short stories. It’s available to download on Amazon. You can also get a printed edition here.

“Somber Slumbers”

I had convinced myself that life has no meaning; nothing more than borrowed time. Minutes, hours, and days sewn together by somber slumbers and waking dreams. At the time, there wasn’t anything that could persuade me otherwise. My thoughts were stone-straight — without indecision.

I was walking along the waterline, searching. My mind’s eye was fixed on the task at hand. I had heard a voice in the distance, “Hey!” I shifted my attention from one search to another; who’s calling for me? There, I saw a man walking towards me from out of the wooded area away from the river’s edge. As he came closer, I could see his face clearly. He was older.

“Hey, are you okay?” the man asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, I’ve been watching you.”
“I thought that I was alone here.”
“You’re not. I’ve been watching you, what are you looking for?”
“My wife, she’s gone missing.”

We were driving through a town away from the main streets and throughways — something about it seemed familiar to me. “Where are we?” I asked.

“You’re kidding, right? You really don’t remember?” she answered.
“No.”
“It’s where we first met.”
“Yeah, I thought that it seemed familiar. I must really be losing it, I keep forgetting things.”

She continued to talk about each and every detail and memories that we shared together; my mind began to wander. I’m still a young man. Maybe I should speak with a doctor. Maybe I need to see a therapist. “Are you listening to me? Ugh, it’s like I’m talking to a brick wall.” I turned my attention to the present. “Yes,” I told her as I watched the front doors of the houses pass by through the window counting each color that I saw.

After much searching, he found a nice place near the river. It was a small house with just a few rooms, a kitchen, and a bathroom. It was just what he had been looking for. At his age he desperately needed quiet — rest. It took a few weeks to settle in and arrange his things — furniture, clothing, and other assorted sundry items that he had collected over the years. He wasn’t a pack-rat — he was sentimental. He kept every scrap of paper, photograph, and birthday card. He kept anything that would bring a memory to his eye and take him to a different time and place — he was sentimental. In the mornings he’d take his time waking up, he’d drink coffee on the porch and watch the water moving slowly through the river. At night, he’d watch television until he was tired. Although, most of his time was spent thinking. He’d lost his wife years ago. Where is she now? Is she watching me? He knew that to be married was a struggle, and when thought back on it, he would smile. He missed his wife — he was sentimental.

-A.Potter

“Orion”

Orion is a small port town, located at the southernmost point of the sound – a safe harbor. Over a hundred years ago, it was ideal. But for the last ninety years, ships had improved to the extent that Orion was no longer a port, but a run-down town, that still had seagulls that ran the rooftops and flew picturesquely on sunny days. But mostly created piles of broken clamshells in the parking lots, which crunched under-foot and invited crows to town, who felt entitled to crap on any parked car, main street or alleyway – it didn’t matter.

For the most part, the town belonged to the birds because after all, they were now the only thing that connected Orion to its past. Except the tide — which retreated with regularity, with the phases of the moon on a grandfather’s clock. And when the tide retreated, it brought a foul stank and laid out the vast carpet of mud which still was the port of Orion, and of course with it the clams and the oyster beds, which fed the seagulls and so the crows bringing a long ago port to life each day.

If you weren’t a seagull, you missed this part of Orion all together; and noticed it mostly when you filled your gas tank. You remove the window washer from its water pail, and scrubbed away at what was the birds, had left, as a reminder of the morning tide. For the seafood they found didn’t stay with them very long. Some came up for their young, and the rest they let go flying high above Orion, while looking for the next tide to retreat.

-A. Potter

“Lazy”

I’ve always felt like an outsider looking in
I wasn’t cool then and I’m not cool now
I don’t think I’ll ever be
What difference would it make – at least that’s what I tell myself
I don’t care


I don’t feel like talking to anyone today, I don’t want to talk on telephone


I’ve always wanted money – but never had it

Does that make me lazy? Is there something wrong with me?

I lay awake at night staring at the ceiling in the dark
Does that make me lazy? Is there something wrong with me?

-A. Potter (Feb. 2016)

“Daybreak”

It was cold and it was dark – suspended in those moments just before dawn when the town and everyone in it were most still. I stepped out onto the landing and then to the sidewalk of the street. I stood watching as the quiet night sky waxed giving way to glow of the sun rising from the horizon just past the river. The light softly touched the rooftops, the side streets and alleyways, and eventually found its way to me. It was daybreak, alone there on the sidewalk of the street.

It had rained the night before, the air felt sweet and new. I could smell the leaves of the trees and the green bushes that grew up in rows along the houses. I didn’t live far from the church. Its bells rang every hour – six o’ clock. I didn’t hear them, just the sounds of geese overhead. It seemed strange, either way it didn’t matter.

I reached for a cigarette from my pocket as I walked a few blocks to my car. I could feel the warmth of the sun on my face, the chill of the morning was beginning to fade. The quiet night sky and my footsteps were now just a memory, something to remember or forget – words written down on a piece of paper.

-A. Potter (Feb. 2016)