Captive Tree.(Newley Completed Poem). Poem with Picture.

Captive tree

With outstretched branches

Desperately Pleading

                              Pleading

Pleading 

To be set free from the manicured park

Back into wild 

                         wild

                                  woods

Far from the curfew gates

And the rows of tidy houses.

But passers by don`t see her gestures

Nor heed the calls of her still quiet voice

Uplifted on the wind.

Her stillness means she is just a thing,

An object to be climbed, 

An ornament to be looked at,

Or chisel an obscenity into.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.  

28th. February - 2nd. March 2023.

 

Trevor J Potter's Art: Rapunzel Reads the I Ching. (Revised with new Endi...

Trevor J Potter's Art: Rapunzel Reads the I Ching. (Revised with new Endi...: Rather like a child sitting on the river bank Watching the ripples form, That girl who threw a fistful of square white stones Every morning ...

Bad Bee,(Revised).

Bad Bee, Grumbly Bee,

Trashing the homely hive,

Oh, go back to making pots of honey

Or just Buzz Off and skive.

Bad Bee, Grumbly Bee,

Its the honey that makes the hive,

So just stay cool, be nice to flowers,

And then perhaps you`ll thrive.

Bad Bee, Grumbly Bee,

Be sweet and stay alive.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

February 25th. 2023.

Moonrise at the End of Winter.(Revised).

The moon,

A broken saucer

Falling through space

Or

A silver scimitar resting on its blade

If you wish to say so,

Yes,

If you so wish,

Because how you see the view

Is how you see the view,

And anything I say will not alter your perceptions.

We are all prisoners of what our eyes and ears report,

Plus the limitations of our native languages,

Sound bites we automatically use for thought.

Meantime I note that Jupiter and Venus look like dirty snowballs

Deep in the glistening cold late winter darkness

Of a cloudless February sky.

"Know you are made of dust and to dust you will return",

Yes, star dust in fact, yet we rarely make time to believe this.

I put down my wartime binoculars

Fascinated by the taut notes of a harp

Stinging through the deep unnerving darkness

With an unexpected rapidity, that too soon degrades the sound.

Old icicles melting so fast

That the sounds of the harp strings flatten

Into a dull music I have rapidly ceased to hear.

Spring is now just a heartbeat away,

Yet the beauty of the moon and planets this evening

Nearly stopped my heart as I stared in awe struck wonder

Into a dazzling infinity that is also an abyss.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter,

February 24th. - 25th. 2023.

This, in a way, is an Ash Wednesday poem.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Slava Ukraini. (Completed Poem).

Trevor J Potter's Art: Slava Ukraini. (Completed Poem).: Memories of rural days In Soviet Ukraine Keep bubbling to the surface Of deep dark waters, The lake of slow forgetting. My sister and I labo...

Early Spring Ukraine.

 

Spring Fire. (Additional Pictures).

 

Trevor J Potter's Art: Twelfth Night 2023. (Revised and Completed).

Trevor J Potter's Art: Twelfth Night 2023. (Revised and Completed).: No chance of a party I chuck paint at the board With a chaotic precision So like throwing streamers high in the air Over the heads of dancer...

Winter Fever Poem - Ceaseless Dreams and Nightmares.(Revised).

Living in a stained glass house,

All the windows smokey

With litter of cobwebs,

The shadows of people walking

Outside in drear February light,

Their minds eyes locked on unique dream worlds,

Strange personalized realities.

Built of painted glass,

No bricks - no steel - no concrete cladding,

My private dream is this weird brittle house,

My coop on hens legs - my star burst chapel -

My hermitage - my happy space - my winter sanctuary -

My Amiens Cathedral in perfect miniature,

My mendicants cave.

This is my fear free zone - my Tent of Dreaming, 

My sphere of hope - of care - of loving,

Where tax demands are burnt and shredded,

Where Rent Collectors, who are really spies,

Their interest rates as tall as steeples,

Are left to soak in the rain outside,

Outside on that offshore Isle of spectres

Once known as holy Albion,

I do not live there anymore;

I have not moved house but have bolted the door.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

February 6th.- 7th. - 8th. 2023.   

 During the passed week I have been suffering from a bout of influenza. The fever wonderfully ratchets up my insecurities.