Sunday February 20th. Squalls and Showers. (New Longer Version).

Debris from trashed houses flies high above London,

Chip board and cheap tiles buckle like bats wings

Under the heft of the wind.

Early Spring weather, squalls and showers 

Wrecking swathes of streets and quiet cul de sacs

Easily as a Russian Tank rips through fields of wheat.

Hail stones clattering against my backroom window

Zing their automatic rifle fire,

But not one fragment penetrates the glass.

If I were in the street I would scurry to a doorway

Hood pulled over my head. A refugee in flight

From forces I could never overcome.

But life can be light hearted. Caught in this storm

Our Kerry Blue crouched underneath a hedgerow

When my daughter tried to walk her in the park.

She did not want to imitate a canine cosmonaut

Lifting off through clouds into the roaring dark,

Or to be tossed like a stick into the dogs` Nirvana.

Close to where she crouched, early daffodils flourish,

Tall and straight, laughing silently.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

20th. - 22nd.  February 2022.

 

Feeling Nostalgic for the Twentieth Century. (New longer Version)

 

Feeling Nostalgic for the Twentieth Century.

I am feeling nostalgic for the other century I`ve lived in,

The colourful clothes,

The lack of mobile phones.

I am feeling nostalgic for rent of just a few shillings,

For ten bob notes,

For threepenny bits weighing down my jeans,

For cash in hand,

Not virtual pounds the Bank devours each night,

Filching my wealth when I am safely sleeping.

I am feeling nostalgic for hitch hiking for laughs,

For getting a lift from Apex Corner to Leeds

Just because I fancy a trip along the A One.

The last time I stopped a car was in Baden Baden,

But that was because the bus broke down that day.

I am feeling nostalgic

For making love at first sight,

Not waiting - waiting - waiting until the time seems right

Close to the hundred and thirty third dinner date.

I am feeling nostalgic for the freedoms I once had,

The freedom to roam across international borders

Without buying a visa or having my passport stamped.

I am feeling nostalgic for setting up home with a partner

Who is not a native of the country I happen to live in. 

I want back those days before carnivore Banks and Brexit

Hemmed in my well earned time and hard won spaces

For illicit commercial reasons.

I am feeling the need for taking some random chances,

Before there are no choices left to make.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter, 

17th. - 18th. - 21st.- 24th. February 2022.  

Saturday afternoon Zen, Listening to Pulcinella. (Revised).

Unwilling to trash the mood made by gentle music

Now playing on my radio

I do not pick up the telephone when it rings.

Living alone in lockdown I find I have new choices,

I do not have to answer every question on the dot,

I have reached a point of equilibrium,

The still centre of a lifetime, perhaps a new way of being.

I might be on a mountain top looking at the sunset,

The wild ox I hunted, caught and deftly saddled

Reclining at my bare feet, but of course I am not.

Everything I need for happiness is hidden deep within me.

Even Stravinsky`s music seems a part of who I am,

Or just now I thought so, before I switched to OFF.

At sundown I cherish silence, but I`ve never quite known why.

After a while I turn the radio back on.

An early Beatles classic makes the day seem real once more.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 

February 12th. 2022.

Monday 7th. February. Waking Early.

A clatter of broken wings. 

A cascade of paperbacks.

My picture fallen on the carpet.

Old ornaments knocked off the mantelpiece,

Also on the carpet.

February is not my favourite month.

I do not think there was an earthquake overnight.

A sudden wind blowing through crevices

Too narrow for a moths wing to penetrate

May have been the culprit.

This morning the mayhem was emphatic.

This morning even points of daffodil spears

Look out of place in the wind torn garden.

February is not my favourite month,

But it will soon be passing:

A child`s hand waving farewell from a window

Open to the sun.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter, 

February 7th. 2022.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Waiting For a Parcel.plus Denouement. (Completed P...

Trevor J Potter's Art: Waiting For a Parcel.plus Denouement. (Completed P...: Waiting for a parcel Curtails my social life My spiritual life Until the postman calls And then abruptly leaves. I cannot leave my home Unti...

Waiting For a Parcel.plus Denouement. (Completed Poem).

Waiting for a parcel

Curtails my social life

My spiritual life

Until the postman calls

And then abruptly leaves.

I cannot leave my home

Until the postman calls

To drop a cardboard box

At my unshod feet

Before abruptly turning.

I cannot leave my home

Until he softly knocks.

Waiting for a parcel

I cannot visit friends

Fill my shopping bag

Stroll in the back garden

Go to church.

I must stay in one space

The radio softly playing.

But when the parcel comes

I shall have ten new light bulbs

So I can stay up late

So I can write my cheques

So I can read my books.

Waiting for the postman

Now keeps my life on hold.

          Denouement.

Waiting on the fifth day

A sharp thud on the front door

Shakes me from the numbness

Glueing up my brain.

The postman smiles at me

Like the Hangman at a wedding

As he hands the parcel over.

"Have a nice day" he simpers

Before retreating down the pathway

Like a cat evading guilt.

I gingerly break the seal -

Four lightbulbs in pieces - six intact -

A cheap comment on my life story? - Perhaps.

I cannot recall a day when something was not trashed.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 

2nd. - 6th. - 7th. February 2022.

Writing About Deep Feeling.(Revised).

Your body curled close to mine.

Your nutmeg coloured hair folds over my face

Hot cascades of love.

Writing about deep feeling is not easy nowadays.

Romantic bliss degraded like an ancient photograph,

Framed but shoved into a plastic box

Out of mind somewhere in the attic

Where mould eats into bygones.

Porn has become ubiquitous day and night,

Outpacing Superman to the starry heights

Of school yard chit chat - office innuendo -

Sunday sermons against freedom of thought.

Romanticism has lost its razor edge

And can no longer cut deep into the imagination

To carve out poems with words older than time.

Time is a human concept thought up to mock our dreams,

Tarnish bright hopes then chuck them out as garbage.

But my dream of you has been constant since we met,

Your nutmeg coloured hair folding over my face

A hiding place where we can share our secrets.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter, 

30th. January - 24th. April 2022.