Fatal Secrets (Revised Version).

Consigned to anonymity -
The skeleton of King Richard the Third -
A wrecked oak lying in the undergrowth
The top hacked through by a crude axe
Branches snagged
Caught in the fetid marsh
The last leaf fallen

Even now
The final question has not been ventured -
The most important information
Lodged in the morticians pending tray
His little black box -
We need to know what happened in the Tower
That sultry summer evening
But so far no one has blabbed

Leaning forward to stare into the vortex
The heroic patience of the archaeologists
Certainly impresses
Keeps us on our toes -
But the harsh light of forensic technology
Has yet to guide us closer to the truth
Or laser open an unexpected clue

Crouched down low beside a tangled hedgerow
I watch a single Kestrel swoop and glide
High above the edge of Bosworth Field -
No other signs of life disrupt the landscape -
Irk the mist drenched morning -
Except perhaps a fitful summer breeze
Smudged by hints of woodsmoke
Nudging some nearby thorns


Trevor John Karsavin Potter
August 12th. - 13th. 2013.
March 22nd. - April 22nd. 2015.

May 1945 - March 2015.

That morning I asked my mother,
"Why have the big bangs stopped?"
I was barely two years old
And accustomed to the noise of war,
North London`s V2 Alley
Just a mile or two away.

She did not answer;
She was busy assessing the qualities
of the sudden, new found quietness,
The soft mellow buzz of the summer.
She was listening out intently
For the terror that never came.

She had once before known peace,
But all my life I had listened to gunfire,
The staccato crack of aircraft engines,
The abruptness of rockets exploding.
This quietness was strange in my young world,
New and very frightening.

I have grown accustomed to quietness now,
And can sleep at ease in my garden;
But every night I consult the headlines
And read of children in Gaza and Syria
Besieged in war torn cities,
And I know exactly what they are feeling.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
March 18th. 2015.

For all those people who understand what it feels like to be born and nurtured in wartime..

Loss in November, Missing You.

          White sunlight slanting
       Through cracks in the door

            Late roses in bloom
           Dry leaves piled high

                A shadow of ash
            Smeared on a window

                A touch of lipstick
                Traced on a glass

The photographs      I took last summer
       Lean against      an empty vase

       Already the colours are fading



Trevor John Karsavin Potter
November 7th. - 16th. 2012. - 
March 1st. - 14th. - 16th. 2015.

Brother Rumi. ( New Version).

A dry twig splintering,
Too weak to carry the weight
Of birdsong.

The woodlands of my youth
Have all decayed and perished,
Buried under stone and tarmac.

I sit by the open window
Observing the first light of morning
Revealing the garden.

The prospect gives me solace,
But my neighbour would pave it over.-
I reverently open my book of Sufi verse.

Rumi
I want to heal this old hurt world,
Bind up her wounds with love,
Reveal her power, her sanctity.
But folk seem blind to natural beauty,
They seem to crave concrete and glass,
Not a dazzle of flowers in a meadow.

I sit by the open window
Observing my tidy garden
And I wonder if I should leave it to grow wild;
Let moss spread over the pathways,
The trees blot out the sky.

Whatever turns out to be best
My neighbour is sure to grumble
And yet
All things in time shall be well,
All manner of things shall be well,
But the rose that I picked this morning
Has now turned brown and brittle,

Perhaps I should not have picked it,
Just simply let it be.

And so I ask once more
This imperfectly worded question,

Brother Rumi
Is it possible to heal this world with love,
Replace the artificial with Dame Nature`s vibrant beauty ?

"Try it" the old sage whispered.
"Try it and see".


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
March 4th. - 5th. - 6th.- 7th. - 8th. - 10th. 2015. - July 24th. 2015.

This visionary poem was created using the free association of ideas and images.

Mosul. (Revised Version).

So you want to break up statues,
Burn old books?
Cut off a journalists head?
Easy Brother. - Easy.

I suppose that compassion is too hard a gift to give?

Destruction is a simpler option
When you want to get ideas over
To those who do`nt want to know.

We tried this ourselves once Brother,
It was called the Reformation;
We have not stopped counting the cost,
Stopped mourning a broken culture.

Yes we know that God is Great,
The Conscience of the Universe,
The Instigator of all that lives,
But do you know how big the Universe is?

Just open your eyes and be astounded,
Look up at the stars at night,
Be amazed and full of love.
Receive this free gift of compassion,
     
      Let it dazzle your eyes.

Now measure your deeds and be wise.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
February 27th. - March 5th. 2015.

We must love and forgive our enemies, but they must repair all the damage that they have done.

December Parting.

   Mist on eyelashes
   Fine frost of tears
    When we kissed

 You whisper goodbye

  Black hair disordered
    Eyes deep in shade

   You tug at my sleeve
       For a moment



Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 4th. 2014. - February 25th. 2015

Originally two separate short poems. 

(1) Chanson de Nuit. (2) A Love Revealed.(Revised).

           1.

Chanson de Nuit.


Tres bien, my love, tres bien,
 I wish you were in my arms, my love,
In summer heat, or rain;
But we shall only meet this once,
As we ride the midnight train
Towards our distant homes, my love,
Far from the misty Seine.
Tres bien, my love, tres bien.          


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 10th. 1984.- February 23rd. 2015.
--------------------------------------------------

            2

A Love Revealed


Unruffled
The water
Quiet the tall reeds

A scent of May blossom

We dare not touch hands
Acceptance
Eludes us

Les Iles de l`Elyséé
Remain beyond reach


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
February 22nd. - 23rd. - 26th.2015.