1.
Wild Ponies. (Revised Version).
Riding unbridled ponies across cold fields,
The wind scything through our loose hair,
We outsmart our fears laughing.
And afterwards, you on the damp grass,
Dress hitched high up over your shoulders
Exposing slim thighs, belly, breasts, all
White as the winter snowdrifts,
Boots kicked deep into the undergrowth
As though they were of no importance,
Although, when you snatched them off the
shelf last week
They were your absolute pride and joy,
Your leap into sophistication,
Your commitment to a grander market;
But now, all caution shoved into the wind
like scraps of lies,
We vandalize the rough insanities of love
With Shakespearean audacity,
The beast with two backs tupping in the grass;
Mud larking miscreants roughing up propriety. -
"And O My God How I Love the shear abundance
of You!
Your hot salt flesh fierce against my mouth,
Feet kicking against my legs,
Young breasts already sour with drops of milk."
Flat on our backs we stare out at the stars
Shimmering in the frost haze, almost beyond sight,
Far above the filigree mask of trees.-
Snuggled up naked, warm in this wintry night,
Our shared thoughts soaring way beyond ourselves
Like apprentice astronauts, angels honed to flight,
Arcing across our universe in sheaves of fire
To force the heavens open with brand new light,
The force field of redemption.-
"Angels are jet propelled", you once proclaimed
Staring me straight in the eye, "Like Christ in the firmament".
We make our peace with the world, and also with
each other,-
"Those two are wild as the ponies that they ride",
Our next door neighbours whisper."But fiercer than the ponies".
"They will both come to a bad end, you mark my words".
"Just like his Dad?" "Just like her bitch of a mother."
The night is as thin as rice paper, we can hear every sound, every word
Murmured near or far. Two miscreants curled together, squeezed in a pod,
Dreaming of those delicate ponies dancing through uncut grass.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
March 21st. -22nd. - 27th. - September 2nd. - 3rd. 2013.
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2.
Tomorrow Could be Different.
You sit on the edge of the bed
Like a street kid hogging the pavement
Legs wide apart.
Meantime, I carry on with my daily chores,
Typing poems, cooking dinner, washing floors,
Confronting the newspaper.
Some mornings I make attempts at prayer,
But when I knock and look in on the mirror
I wonder what on earth I see in there.
Perhaps our world is full of heavenly angels,
But it seems my Hen, you are not one of them,
And I am merely something the cat dragged in.
But then at least we do have one another,
So when you finally decide to come downstairs,
We might as well lie low and have a cuddle.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
11th. - 12th. March 2013.
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