Trevor J Potter's Art: Rapunzel Reads the I Ching. (Completely new Version).

Trevor J Potter's Art: Rapunzel Reads the I Ching. (Completely new Version).: Rather like a child sitting on the river bank Watching the ripples form, That girl who threw a fistful of square white stones Every morning ...

Rapunzel Reads the I Ching.

That girl who threw a fistful of square white stones

Every morning early

To read the I Ching before her aunt awoke,

Demanding toast with honey as she checked the morning headlines.

Demanding a weekly Beano sent up on a silver platter.

When did she last throw that handful of old stones,

And what pattern did they make where they fell

On the threadbare carpet in her small bedroom?

Did they prophecy love or a sudden early demise?

It seems she abruptly ceased to socialize,

Keeping the one door locked - pulling down the blinds -

Living off junk food delivered after dark

By a strange stooped man with a limp and a single eye,

A sort of Rumplestiltskin lookalike

Who spied for her aunt while serving up the pies.

The aunt, some say, eats little girls and boys,

That`s why Rapunzel had bolted all the doors.

It is said each night she let her hair hang down

In golden shreds out of her first floor window

To be climbed by a lover smart enough for the task.

A teen aged princeling? - A Rock God in pink loafers? -

A roofer light on his feet?

But I treat these tales as hearsay, ridiculous tittle - tattle,

Fake news that has tumbled twice around the stars

Before burning up attempting a clean reentry.

The rumour is that she has had a baby,

A big plump boy with lots of golden curls

And a cheeky smile wide as the Firth of Forth.

Single mums are not uncommon in her family. -

But her lesbian aunt would certainly not approve,

That is if Rumplestiltskin spilled the beans.

And now I hear she has scarpered from the tower,

Run off with her lover, whoever he might be,

Deep into the forest late at night.

What is certain is that her aunt was taken into custody

A day or two back. Something about the contents of her pies

And the lifelike appearance of her gingerbread men.

Also a bag full of golden hair was found in the kitchen,

Alongside a babies rattle and a pair of pink loafers.

And it turns out that Rumplestiltskin was working for the Yard.

And so we now must await the court appearance

To discover who told the truth,- and who told lies. 

Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 23rd. -  30th. December 2021.- May 28th. 2024.

Solstice Nativity.(Newly Completed Version).

The daylight is too subtle at this time of year.

I prefer bright colours -  Odilon Redon on speed

Cutting to the heart of the matter

With the prism blade of his art.

Jesus is the god of sunlight,

He exists in the colours of the rainbow - the song of the Lark

Soaring into an intensity of blue

That almost blinds us as we look due east.

The Wise Men came from the east,

Following a star to find a child in a stable - a baby in rags

Sleeping among horses and cattle,

An innocent among the most innocent of creatures,

A small bundle of love and rainbow light

Born without language, just a scream of pain

When he cries to his mother out of the depths of hunger

In the cruel dark chill of winter.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

16th. December 2021. 

9th. January 2022.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Kernow. (Corrected Poem).

Trevor J Potter's Art: Kernow. (Corrected Poem).: Away too long But Cornwall now forgives my years of absence, Welcomes me back to trek her cliffs and moors, But bars my entrance into hig...

Trevor J Potter's Art: Monday Afternoon by the Welsh Harp. (Rewritten).

Trevor J Potter's Art: Monday Afternoon by the Welsh Harp. (Rewritten).: Making love in the park was not a good idea However romantic the notion may have seemed Before we put the idea into practice. The mild ...

The Taiko (Drum) Bridge, Winter. (Revised).

This is how the year ends,

This is how hopes fall apart.

Thin black lines scratched on white paper

Indicate a bridge, a hill, a forest,

A village deep in snow.

No smoke rises above the steep white roofs

That seem to grow straight up from the frozen earth

Like plants left out for the winter.

The walls of the houses are hidden beneath the

                                                                   roofs,

And not one door or window can be spied.

The cold feet of the weary travellers

Have not been sketched, or even indicated

By the quick hand of the 19th. century artist

Who often worked with one eye on the clock.

He was concerned that drifts were deep that year,

And getting prints out to his rural punters

Was not be an easy task.

The transport system was somewhat rudimentary.

The travellers trudge towards the snowbound village

Neatly built behind a pale red fence,

On a bend of the mountain road,

A road not wide enough for laden horses.

This fence, it seems, is the only dash of colour

The artist splashed on an almost monochrome scene, -

Monochrome, that is, apart from the lifeless river

Reflecting exactly the blueness of the sky.

No traveller has a companion to converse with,

It seems every man is left to fend for himself

In the infinite solitudes

Of this desolate road that climbs the frozen heights,

But this is how an old year generally ends,

On a lonely day when Hope is clad in tatters.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

December 2nd. - 3rd. 2021.

Hiroshige print illustrating December on my 2021 Calendar.

Trevor J Potter's Art: The Forest Knight. - A Winter Parable. (Newly Comp...

Trevor J Potter's Art: The Forest Knight. - A Winter Parable. (Newly Comp...: A strange flower from the sleeping forest. Deep in sleep I am often a child Observing through mirrors alternative worlds. I see the Green Kn...