A Non Creative Walk About. (New Ending)

I took a poem for a walk
Around the houses,
Looking for a place to settle,
To store our goods,
Our clothes and chattels,
To safely call our own.

I took a poem for a walk
Among the tall apartment blocks,
But all I found was sky high gates
Bristling with lights and cameras.

I took a poem for a walk
searching for a maisonette,
Spick and span, cool and comfy,
Safe from louse, from cat and mouse,
From the spy with plasma eyes.
A haven where my verse could grow
Safe and secret, hid from sight
Like an undercover lover;
Spring blossom snug beneath the snow.

I took a poem for a walk, but
There was no place where the poem
Could root and settle,
Branch and bloom.
No lean to filled with constant heat,
No oil lamp burning day and night,
No quiet suburban garden.
And so the poem lifted sticks,
Floated ghostlike on the thermals
High into transparent air,
Waving sadly as it went.

So now there is no poem I can walk.
My notebook, crumpled up but empty,
Sits inside my jacket pocket,
The left hand pocket stuffed with pencils.

So now there is no poem I can walk,
And I am lost, bereft and lonely,
Wandering through an empty land,
A place where verse cannot be spoken.

I took a poem for a walk
Looking for a place to settle,
A place to store our goods and chattels,
To love and call our own.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
January 30th. - July 8th. 2017.
March 23rd. - 26th. 2018.

Whit Sunday Morning. (New Longer Version).

I left the door open by mistake.
No thieves came,
No trespasser entered,
But the whole house was filled
With an unexpected light,
And birdsong thrilled the air.

I was waiting for the telephone to ring.
Good news spoken down the line
Could not out shine this singular moment,
Could not have similar power.

Words introduce complexities,
Replace a hug with too much banter.
The sunlight dancing down my hall
Out dazzles the tenderest kiss.

But I must think of you, my love,
Unconscious in the hospital.
The oxygen mask clamped over your face.
The sun locked out of sight.

If I could hide ten Nightingales in my coat
I would smuggle them into your curtained ward
Then let them loose to fly above your bed,
Cascading music deep into your night.

If such intensity cannot waken you
I will invite the thieves to wreck our house,
Steal all the silver, burn our precious books,
Bury your letters deeper than plummet sounded.

It seems the dawn, so vibrant this spring morning,
Was banished from your ward by doctors orders,
But then my love, our dreams, so often shared,
Have housed both Ariel and Caliban.

But rest assured, the front door remains open,
Sunlight, the Paraclete made manifest,
Breaks through all locks, fills our house with brightness,
To bid you welcome.

I will drop this poem down upon your pillow.
Perhaps my words will filter through your darkness.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
May 22nd. - July 3rd. 2017.

This is the completed version of the poem first blogged on May 22nd. this year. I was too upset then to fully complete the poem because of Ivy being in a coma. She still floats in and out of consciousness, but is slowly improving.

I Don`t Want. (A Fun Poem).

I don`t want a television.
I don`t want a mobile phone.
I only want a friend to sit with
So that I am not alone.

My cat was very nice to me.
My cat was very fat.
But now my cat has gone away
Leaving a vacant mat.

I don`t want a radio.
I don`t want a DVD.
I only want a black eyed lass
To snuggle up to me.

Meantime I sit here all alone
Staring at the floor,
Too out of sorts to read a book,
Or step outside the door.

My dog was very nice to me.
My dog chewed up the post.
But now my dog has gone away
Leaving me to learn the worst.

I don`t want a television.
I don`t want a mobile phone.
I only want a live in friend
Whom I could call my own.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
July 2nd. - 23rd. 2017.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Tussy. (Revised).

Trevor J Potter's Art: Tussy. (Revised).: Tussy was not buried, Not swaddled by black earth Evolving into hillocks and                         dark hollows Gradually, season by ...

The Grave of Anne Bronte.

They have given Anne a new memorial.
The epitaph I could read when a child
Is now crumbling back to sand,
Just like the nearby castle
And the very cliff it rests its weight upon.
The lead words chipped and broken,
Pulled away by the wind and rain
That slants across the steep brow of this hill
Like a cold veil between now and the eternal,
Between today and yesterday,
And the ghostly shadow that we name "Tomorrow".

The new memorial is a plain and simple stone
Set in concrete atop the little mound
That hides mortality from the always grieving,
From the eyes of pilgrims seeking solace,
From the boot prints of the casual tourists.
Rubbed out by the weather, the new words will also
                                                                      vanish,
Though probably not as quickly as the original.
Words cut into stone rarely last as long
As printers ink impressed upon cheap paper.

Anne was the Bronte we often underrate,
Although she was the fiercest of the clan,
Speaking truth with words that really hurt
Folk who hate it when the truth is spoken.
Her honesty has brought me to this grave yard
To sit and mourn her youth, but also to imagine
That I can be as honest as she was,
And not to hold my tongue when times get tough.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 26th. -28th. 2017.
Scarborough. 

Grenfell Tower.

The taste of smoke in the wind

Burnt plastic
Burnt wood
Burnt people

The taste of ashes deep in the mouth

The embers of terror
Of total annihilation

The blackened tower above the rooftops

A scorched carcase
The bones of perdition



Heralded by sirens
By ten thousand alarm bells

Police cars
Fire engines
Wheels screeching on tarmac

By helicopter blades

By distraught mothers shouting down cellphones
HELP
HELP
HELP
HELP

Their children pushed through wrenched out windows
From burning ledges
The molten rooftop
Into the outstretched arms of strangers

Heralded by sirens
By speeding ambulances
By flashing lights
By falling debris
The midsummer sun cuts through the smoke haze

With the implacable indifference of nature


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
June 20th. - 21st. 2017.

Once or twice I visited a beautiful Sufi woman who lived on the 17th. floor.
This was twenty or more years ago. She was a close friend and Sufi guide to
a friend of mine. I have had no news. I do hope she is safe.

Trevor J Potter's Art: The Sterile Area. (New Long Version).

Trevor J Potter's Art: The Sterile Area. (New Long Version).: Between truth and lies, Fantasy and Reality, The Sterile Area X Rays all things With the white light Of the void. Here I spend my tim...