The Robins Nest. (Revised).

 There, lodged between the church door

And the wooden door handle,

Deep in the narrow dark, the hand deep

                                                     chasm,

Protected from the rain by the entrance

                                                     porch,

Was the neatest of robins nests,

So neat and tidy it should have won prizes,

Or at least a brief mention

In a house-care magazine.

I peered into the narrow dark, marvelling

                                                  how small

And cramped a living quarters

This family of robins required to feel at home.

No thing out of order, each twig slotted into

                                                              place,

All things plain and useful, no thing overdone.

Saint Francis would have approved of such 

                                                        frugality,

Remarking how safe and warm this fragile

                                                           nest is,

Discretely out of view in a public space.

A well kept home, snug behind the door 

                                                     handle

Of a quiet suburban church.

And now, as I sit at my desk, writing this

                                                         poem,

I wonder why I need eight rooms and a loft

To feel at ease in;

The front door chained and bolted, the windows

                                            always locked.

 Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

May 6th. - 11th. 2021.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Sophie. ( Born a century ago today, May 9th. 1921)

Trevor J Potter's Art: Sophie. ( Born a century ago today, May 9th. 1921): I press the key. A face I do not recognise lights up the screen. A girl with candid eyes, High chubby cheeks,                          ...

Trevor J Potter's Art: Seventeen 2020.(Completed Poem).

Trevor J Potter's Art: Seventeen 2020.(Completed Poem).: I notice you are now in high heels. Tall as a flamingo. Frightening the boys. You zap their self confidence with a laugh. When I was youn...

Plum Garden of Kamata. (Rejected Version).

Old labourers deep in prayer.

Chores over until the morrow.

Broken hands with stunted fingures

Clasped together desperately.

Pollarded fruit trees reaching high,

Branches cut back with precision

To stimulate new growth and blossom,

The sky the colour of ripening cherries.

Two girls dressed in warm kimonos

Stand beside a turquoise lake.

They stand quite still, listening to silence

Ebb and flow through the stillness.

The chill air of an April evening

Tainted with a scent of frost

Has filled thatched homes with yellow light.

Candles burn behind closed windows.

As secret as the quiet interiors

Of these houses by the lake,

The labourers pray beyond the limits

Of this beauty their work has made.

The artist, printing on fine paper

The delicate textures of this scene,

Thinks only of the plum tree blossoms

As he deftly grades the inks.

He also is outside the limits

Of this scene he replicates.

The two girls standing by the lake

Break the silence with a laugh.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

May 2nd. 2021.

Friday Night Blessings.

The flowers in my garden are watered by beer.

Cans and bottles thrown over the garden wall

By revellers on Friday nights.

They shout and fight, but rarely for more than

                                                              an hour.

I thank you good neighbours for the blessings

You have bestowed.

Forget-Me-Nots flourish where the tipple has fallen

In spits and splashes, often in the early light,

And my roses are not offended by Special Brew,

Although the cans attract both snails and slugs.

Unexpected pleasures are often the most loved,

And your noisy addictions have brought a scenario

                                                                   of beauty

I could not have planned myself.

Wild flowers root deep where your litter has fallen,

And soon the bees and butterflies appear,

But I still do not appreciate clearing your mess.

Your beer is welcome, but as to your cans and bottles,

Please take them home before the moon has set.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter,

April 30th. 2021.

A Flower Meditation.(Revised).

The silence of this flower

Is its true beauty.

Just being in her presence

Is a perfect meditation.

I look and look and look

At the fragile, sun filled cup.

Hard graft did not create this,

Just a simple natural process.

No Chinese porcelain vase

Could ever be so flawless.

In her presence thoughts grow quiet,

Cease to be a wild distraction.

This tulip, filled with sunlight.

So calm and still, yet in transition.

I sit and look and listen,

At one with all I see.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 

April 27th. 2021.

Written on my birthday.

The Last Journey.

 Like a ghost walking

He stepped carefully

Into the car that would speed him home

As though it were a boat rocking

Against the storm lashed quay.

For a moment he mistook the chauffeur

For the Ferryman

And turned away startled, but not afraid.

He looked back at the crowd of smiling nurses

Gathered on the steps to wish him well

And gave a nervous wave.

His quirky smile was delicately nuanced

To hide his grief at parting

From so many friendships made in three short weeks.

His life had been a continuum of partings,

But this time the hurt was visceral.

Somehow he knew this was the final journey,

That his heart was only strong enough for this

And would soon give way

And simply cease to beat.

Better to die at home in his old warm bed

Than cut off from his wife and family.

But the icy wind this wintry April morning

Made him cling to dreams he knew were ephemeral.

He dreamed of a different journey, in a fine tall ship,

To the archipelago where he was born.

There he could rest and watch the dolphins leap

The quiet waves lifting slow towards the shore.

And there Charon`s barge, crowded with lonely strangers,

Was just another small boat out to sea.

He nodded to the chauffeur awkwardly,

And without more ado was driven away.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

April 17th. - 18th. - 20th. 2021.