Reading in an Abstract Garden.

 

Processional.1 & 2.

 

White Glass.

 

Holy Fool.(Completed Poem).

Lost in the debris of secular life

The Holy Fool wears a mitre

But cannot tell you why.

I am not a priest, I am not a prophet;

I have never spoken on TV.

I spend my nights deep in the subway.

I am absolute in my poverty..

Commuters rarely notice him

They zig zag blindly passed his pitch

Smart phones pressed against their faces

I am not a priest, I am not a prophet;

I have never spoken on TV.

I spend my nights deep in the subway.

I am absolute in my poverty.

But the Holy Fool is as wise as the Angels

Simplicity has gifted him

Eyes that can penetrate complex masks

Into the lonely lives of strangers.

His hands are bandaged. His tears like smiles

Stream his anguished face with rainbows.

He does not beg. Those few who greet him

Can never again belittle the poor.

I am not a priest, I am not a prophet;

I have never spoken on TV.

I spend my nights deep in the subway.

I am absolute in my poverty.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter 

1st. June 2025 - 19th. July 2025..

I was thinking of a miracle of Saint Zita of Lucca.

Cathedral. A Poem.

When I was young I built a cathedral 

In our back garden.

The dome was a rock,

The walls were piles of broken bricks

Stacked on uneven ground.

My father broke down my poor cathedral

With hoe and shovel.

"Children should not live in their dreams"

He said. "They must learn their limitations,

Hard work and common sense".

His church was the cricket club.

Saint Francis was not even a name.

Today I dream cathedrals while I sleep.

Their altars are the smiles of all the saints.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter 

30th. May 2025.

Rough Cuts. I still like Pop Art, British not American.

 

Prisoner.