Toy Box.

Writing my poems is like opening up a toy box,
A magical toy box packed with wayward puppets
That never obey the fingers that tug the strings,
Or lie stone still when packed away to slumber.
The Moor, the Ballerina, and china faced Petrouchka
Are placid little dolls compared to these
Creatures of mayhem and unreasonable frivolity
That try to take control of my comfy little world.

I dip into the toy box every now and then
Trusting luck, not judgement, as I seek for new ideas
Down in the secret depths of the old container.
Out pop a dazzle of colours, a free for all of images
Vying for attention, offering phoney love
As I try to formulate order out of chaos, find a meaning
Where a meaning never was. Eventually circles are squared,
Orderly lines are drawn, puppets put in their places
And taught to dance to the beat of the wizard`s wand.

All this seems to happen without help or hindrance,
Unplanned, unscheduled, no choreography assembled.
A meticulous brand new poem, all prim and proper,
Shapes itself onto the page, pirouettes out of the toy box
Without a "by your leave", or a nod of "thanks" to the author.
Okay. So that`s one more scrap of verse to slot into the folder
But how I came to write it, I really cannot say.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 14th. 2018.