(1) St. Patrick`s Day Blues.(Revised) (2).The Lost Poems. (3) Young Christine.(No.2)

                   1

St. Patrick`s Day Blues.                
                 

Saint Paddies Day,
A gun held to the Winter`s forehead
By a green fist.

The birds woke early for the dawn chorus,
Coughing out sublime chirrups
In the cold damp air,
Their fags left smouldering in the all night cafes
While their nests fomented with deserted chicks.
I turn over once more in my snug old bed
And recall the horror of Catholic incense.

It was the longed for day of the first communion,
A hundred children queued up for the Bishop`s thumb
In a church filled to the rafters with scented smoke
Very much like a curing factory.
I ran without stopping to the Holy Well
To wash my face and suck fresh air.

It took me two days to recover from the effects of the smoke,
I lay in bed choking,
Eyes blood red,
Tongue as thick as a wad of leather,
Bruised ears throbbing with a thousand heartbeats.
That was not a blessing, that was Dante`s fire,
I thought as I stared at the bathroom mirror.

And now back in London I watch the clock
Ticking mournfully on my bedroom bookcase
Like a stern Headmaster counting out doom
Over the hands of demented students.
Saint Paddies Day is my First Day of Spring,
I should be out counting hidden crocuses,
Sprinting up hill,
Laughing at the sun.
But this world I live in is purely mechanical,
Everything run to a man made calendar
Not flexed with the seasons
Nor the heart`s desire.
Thou shalt work in a factory till thou art eighty,
Thou shalt do without thinking what billionaires tell thee.
I turn over once more in my worn out bed
Having thrown the clock straight out of the window.

St. Patrick`s Day blues, St. Patrick`s Day blues,
I will sit all alone in my sunless garden
And strain my ears for the hum of the bees,
Much softer sounding than a Thompson`s Gun.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter,
March 17th. 2016. - May 9th 2016.
Note:
There were more than one Saint Patrick in the proverbial Dark Ages, but there is only one St. Patrick`s Day, so I am assuming the Feast Day is for ALL the saints of that name.

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                   2.

       The Lost Poems.


The moment that I`m buried
                        My poems will be orphaned,
Cut off from their Parish,
Abandoned children camped out on the street
Between flat cardboard end - boards
Beneath a pile of garbage,
A plastic cup extended to the strangers
                                    That hurry quickly by
Hands slapped down into pockets,
Heads turned awry to look at oddball things,
Too easily understood: -
A dog prancing on three spindly legs,
A fat girl swaying crazily on stilts,
A Copper dancing with the Lollipop Lass
Upon the Zebra Crossing,
                          A cow snagged on the moon.
Such entertainment always beats plain books,
Or meanly attired poets,
                                        For instant accolades
And snapshots flashed around the world to friends,
Meanwhile, my poems, having lost their father,
Will glance wanly up at heartless folk
Scurrying blindly home to packaged suppers
Or snooker on the Box,
And pray that some kind hearted thoughtful scholar
Might scoop them up, and hug them in his arms
In one almighty Love Fest
                                        Like an adoptive daddy,
As if he really cared about their prospects
And thought of them as though they were his own.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
March 16th. 2016. 

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                     3.

   Young Christine.(No.2)


Pink snow of April blossom;
Your smile glimpsed through my window.
Memories are such fragile strangers.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
March 7th. - 10th. 2016.