Midwinter Loneliness.

Ice on my footpath
A mirror to be melted
So that you can return

At night I recall
You snuggled beside me
Warmer than firelight

Your smile when you touched me
Cracked open the dark

I think this crushed snow
Is simply a metaphore
Reflecting our sorrow

I must now spread hot ash
Over the ice
To make the path safe


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 12th. 2017.

Wonderland Love Song.

I am your Cheshire Cat.

You can scroll down quickly
So that I disappear
Right off your screen
If you like,
But my image will remain
Locked in your mind,
Afloat in inner space
Just like the face
Of the magical feline of Wonderland.

I am not a virtual inhabitant
Of your hand held plastic world
So small it can fit
Tight in the pocket watch
Of a frantic off white rabbit.
My claws are real,
Larger than average claws,
And can draw red blood
From the falsest of false hearts.

I am invisible, zapped out
By you,
But just for one moment.
Whichever path you may take,
Left or right or wherever,
You shall find me waiting,
Curled up on the warm hearth
Of any strange house you may enter,
Perfectly at home as always.

So turn off your fake small world,
Unplug your permanent headphones,
Hear my real words
Whispering out of the darkness,
Straight off the yellowing pages
Of the paperback book you once loved.
I am the smile that cannot be faded,
Your first kiss under starlight
When the whole universe seemed to swirl you

In a dance above the clouds.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 8th. - 9th. 2017.

(1) Love Talk? (2) Weeks After the Party. (3) End House.

                   1.

          Love Talk?


Holding hands across the table,
Talk of coats, hats, and shopping.
Eye contact direct, but dazzling.
Just cannot say "I love you".


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 4th. 2017.

                  2.

  Weeks After the Party.


I am still picking remnants of last summer
From off the front room carpet;
Flecks of golden foil
Dropped by laughing children,
All their toys broken.

Meanwhile outside in my urban garden
Tiny dark green shoots
Disturb December leaf mould
Weeks before the solstice:
Easter tidings etched on Advent sorrow.

I drop the flecks of foil into the waste bin
Then stare out of the window.
The fading past and doubtful future seem
Just one quick glance apart.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 4th. 2017.
             
               
                  3.

         End House.


The old lady`s end of terrace
Has been converted into flats.
Gone the chats across the fence.
Gone the Winter Jasmine.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 4th. 2017.

(1) Not Quite a Ghost. (2) Sunday Morning.

                    1.

        Not Quite a Ghost.


And as you walked away from me
I remembered the child that you once were

Four hours gone
Your expensive scent remains
In the textures of the back room
Transforming every fabric
Into a Succubus of memory

Even the indoor rose bush
Has flowered out of season
Adding a delicate tenderness
A pure ethereal beauty
To the heady mixture

Outside in the rain
The dead leaves on the garden path
Spiked into broken threads
By your high heals turning
As you turned to wave goodbye

A child waving from a distance
No adult could encounter
Your blue eyes wet with sobbing
Your white umbrella knocked and turned about
By a gust of wind


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
November 28th. - 29th. 2017.

                    2.

       Sunday Morning.


Alert and assured
I walk downstairs
To greet the sun

This is my happiest hour of the day
Before car doors bang
And the telephone rings

Now 1`m at ease with the whole wide world
Pouring the coffee
Counting the roses
Honey melting on my tongue -
You asleep in our darkened bedroom
Curled in your basketwork of dreams

But the moment your hand rests on my shoulder
I cease to be who I think I am


Trevor John Karsavin Potter
November 4th. - December 1st. 2017.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Three Poems. (1) Bad Music. (2) Bond Street. (3) P...

Trevor J Potter's Art: Three Poems. (1) Bad Music. (2) Bond Street. (3) P...:                     1.            Bad Music. For you, I am bad music. I am the song you don`t want to sing Any more. I am the love l...

Three Poems. (1) Bad Music. (2) Bond Street. (3) Pygmalion.

                    1.

           Bad Music.


For you, I am bad music.
I am the song you don`t want to sing
Any more.
I am the love lyric you need to forget,
Throw over,
Turn off at the socket;
The ear worm that drives you crazy,
Echoing through you,
Jamming all systems.
I am the repeat switch on your old player,
The switch you can never reset.

I am the number crossed out in your phone book;
The recorded message lamely unanswered;
The secret whisper into your pillow
As the nights draw in
And you bury your head deep in the blanket.
I am the cold wind shaking your window
As you set the alarm and put out the light.

I am your memory of that moment last summer
When a stranger smiled, and you smiled back.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
November 26th. - 27th. 2017.

                    2.

           Bond Street.


This little book of poems?
Great art in my pocket,
Rembrandt compressed into words.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
November 17th. 2017.

                    3.

           Pygmalion.


I live alone
With my dream of you

A pale figurine
I dare not touch

In case I lose my grip
Then stumble

Cutting my fingers
On the scattered shards

I live alone
With my dream of you

Afraid to face the consequences
Of seeing what I dare not see

Of knowing what I dare not know


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
November 27th. 2017.

Brexit Babylon.

The sacred icons of the Tory Party
Lie broken in the inner sanctuary
Of the British psyche,
And no one cares to mend them.

Their burnished frames and gilded haloes
Blackened by the stench of cities
Sinking under the hollow god
Of sanctimonious piracy.

Young people with a social conscience
Despise the sacrificial altars
To capitalist supremacy,

They have ceased to crave the morning sun,
They seek the lights of democracy,
Of Human Rights, of absolute equality.

They dream a world with no hard borders,
No phoney saints in Tory colours
Scrawling lies on Campaign Buses,
No oligarchs, no poverty.

The sacred icons of the Tory Party
Lie broken in the inner sanctuary
Of the British psyche,
The votive candles burning low.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
November 24th. 2017.