My Home Is Europe. (ReWritten Poem)

Once upon a time I had a dream. 

I dreamed Europe was a single country, 

No borders to cross, 

No passports needed, 

Every European an equal citizen,

Whatever their ethnicity or religion.

Now my little England has smashed this dream,

Broken it to bits as if it had no worth,

Trashed family ties, embraced exceptionalism,

The vain belief that this small island nation 

Is extra smart and can out class the rest.

A racist scam that rips my guts with shame. 

Last night I chucked my Passport in the bin 

Because I felt just like a stateless child,

A refugee washed up on Dover Beach 

Confronted by a mob of hostile faces,

A barbed wire fence,

Huge guard dogs straining at their leashes.

Their handlers screamed out incoherent orders,

Torches flashing; handcuffs clipped to belts.

In spite of this I have not ditched my dream.

I must be patient, yet ready to speak true.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 

December 30th. 2020. - January 1st. 2021

This complete Re-Write, October 6th. - 7th. 2021.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Impressions on a Winters Night.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Impressions on a Winters Night.: Sat and watched The Silence As though it were truly silent; Not a word heard, Lips moving on a ventriloquist`s face, Masks etched deep...

Sleeping Beauty in Barnet. - A Story for Twelfth Night. (Newly Completed, Twelfth Night 2022.).

The Edwardian villa across from my semi

Slowly decays behind a hedge of thorns.

Perhaps a sad princess has pricked her finger

And awaits Prince Mojo  - armed with a 

                                                  rock star kiss -

To wake her from long years of solitude.

Or perhaps the house high hedge is make-believe,

A taffeta curtain - a trick of the evening light,

Protecting secret rooms from prying eyes,

From infection and the local thought police.

A smashed computer, a toilet, a broken spindle

Lie on the pavement outside the silent house.

When a light is on in a room assumed to be empty

An intricate web of folk tales wakes up phones

Vibrating on armchairs - in bags - in jacket pockets -

On the tumbled sheets of many a post party bed.

When the light goes out the web shivers and snaps,

Littering gossip columns with spectral spiders.

"These are weird times", my neighbour wryly remarks,

Her old face wizened behind a surgical mask.

Muttering words deep into her fur trimmed sleeve

Cinders in blue jeans pushing an empty pram

Occasionally enters the house behind the hedge,

Locking the door behind her with a slam.

Perhaps she serves the sleeping Princess Aurora.

She also awaits Prince Mojo - his rock star kiss -

His six foot broad sword - his electricians manual -

His tracts on plumbing - woodwork - natal care -

Prized gifts to turn on every light in the house -

          to sweep the dust out of the nursery window. -

Like Snow White at the wishing well, Cinders believes in 

                                                                 handsome heroes,

Prince Mojo  - on his Yamaha - changing thorns to flowers.

When he comes the hedge will shrink down to his height,

And a midwife will lodge for years upon the sofa. -

No more impounded by cops - sawn up and burned -

Spinning Wheels will recommence spinning, just by 

                                                                    themselves.

Dogs will cease their barking at priests and postmen.

Cats will stare yearning into the face of the moon.

Then I may sleep soundly, calm and snug in my bed,

That Edwardian villa no longer spooking my dreams.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

December 26th. - 27th. - 28th. 2020. - January 1st. - July 8th. 2021.

Completed January 5th. 2022, Twelfth Night.

In one version of Sleeping Beauty the Princess Aurora has several babies.

Two Poems. (1) Light and Shadow. (2) The Gift.

A vision of chiaroscuro

The lilt of your voice down the telephone

Describing a June sunrise

I listen to your words and imagine

Spring sunlight filtered by new leaves

Flickering through your hair

You wanted to make love by the lakeside

But too many strangers were passing

And we were too much in the light

Now the phone is our only direct link

- Apart - that is - from telepathy -

To keep us in touch through the winter

- You seem so distant - yet with me -

Words fade more quickly than visuals

From my incomplete backlog of memory

Just a few pert comments remain

Photographs have been claimed to be factual

But they are merely flat shapes on a surface

They are static - a likeness is just an illusion

Photographs are the language of stillness

They can never convey your vitality

Nor your living presence beside me

Emerging from sleep in the dawn

A vision of chiaroscuro

The lilt of your voice down the telephone

Describing a June sunrise

Trevor John Karsavin Potter

December 13th. - 14th. - 16th. 2020.

This poem can be read as a Round,

                           *

                    The Gift.

The piece of clear rock crystal that I gave you

With your Christmas Card and the letter sealed

                                       and marked as Private

Is a token of fidelity -

Something for you alone

Keep it safe

Nothing else that I have had the chance to give 

                                                                     you 

Has such an ancient history 

Or a future half as long -

This crystal will survive all we can know

It holds no secrets - it shows the facts like any 

                                                  bedside mirror -

It has no magic - only fools think that -

But the truth it shows is deep within us both -

It is the clarity that love gives to our living

When we stand face to face - honest and without 

                                                                        fear.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

December 21st. 2020.                           

Alternative Realities. (New Longer Version)

Help

I am a hostage on an island

A Looking Glass island

But someone has covered the mirror

And locked up all the chess pieces

And sunk all the little ships

Help

I am a hostage in a dream world

A world dreamt up by fools who never wake

Fools who hold two Kings and all four Aces

In the Hand of Poker they are always playing

Their dream is not my dream but I am in it

Help

I am a hostage lacking hope

I need a White Knight with a rope and ladder

I want to climb back through the Looking Glass

And touch down in the old world that I knew

Once upon a time

Meanwhile

Every clock here disagrees

About the month the week the day the hour

And every time I try to reach the house

I find the path returns me to the garden

Where all the flowers chit-chat, and few make any

                                                                        sense 

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

December 12th. - 13th. - 2020.

With thanks and apologies to Lewis Carrol. 

Trevor J Potter's Art: The Discarded Photograph.(Revised).

Trevor J Potter's Art: The Discarded Photograph.(Revised).: When, by chance, I picked up the photograph, I thought I had picked up a portrait of you Laughing by the seaside, but private, as you       ...

December 1st. Midnight Poem. (Complete).

The year is old - very old,

December - month of the zimmer

                                            frame -

The white stick -

                           the broken shoe -

Earth piled brusquely on a 

                                paupers grave -

The slow depletion of memory.

Snow soft falling - grey - not white.

Snow soft drifting through a broken 

                                            window.

Snow freezing the eyes, the ears,

                                   the tongue -

Snow in the mouths of hungry canines

Snuffling for bones in frosty gutters -

Snow in the cap of the squatting 

                                             beggar.

Snow - slush ochre - in a vandalized

                                                pram.

On the loose in cities -  through deep 

                                concrete canyons -

Dogs scavenge in packs -  restless -

                                          snow blind,

Tundra bred thugs - safe in a gang -

                             piratical in a crowd.

They scatter in terror if a car 

                                             back fires 

Or a child aims a snowball -

Long ears flapping loose - like galleon 

                                                       sails.

I sit in my back room writing this poem

Lost in my dreams while the old year 

                                                         fails.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

December 1st. - 10th. - 11th. 2020.