April Roses. (Revised)

April roses in my garden!
The golden tulips have lost their glory,
Their delicate chalices torn to shreds,
Threads of silk scattered, decaying,
Dissolving into sodden earth.

But three small roses were born this morning,
Breaking out from tight green buds.
Lazarus butterflies bursting their shrouds.
White blossoms on the crown of thorns.
Three white doves resting their wings.

Sheltering at home from Corona virus
My garden has become my sacred space,
My fenced in refuge, my Ark of safety,
My window on the world of nature.

A small square window drenched in colours.
A stained glass window shimmering light.

My rose tree blooming on Saint Mark`s day?
White blossoms on the crown of thorns.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
April 25th. - 26th. 2020.
I do not expect to see a rose tree blooming in my garden until late May or early June.

Neighbours. (Revised)

Love thy neighbour as thyself. 
Who is my Neighbour?
My neighbour is the fox prowling through the streets.
My neighbour is the badger buried in his set.
My neighbour is the skylark soaring in the clouds.
My neighbour is the astronaut soaring to the stars.
Brother Sun - Sister Moon - Comets swathed in Brother Fire.
Brother Sleep - Sister Dreams.

My neighbour is the sheep dog crouching in the fields.
My neighbour is the baby screaming out for supper.
My neighbour is the old man hobbling on white sticks.
My neighbour is the grey horse slaughtered for his meat.
Brother Lion - Sister Tigress.
Sister Zebra - Brother Wolf.
My neighbour is Saint Francis preaching to the song birds,
The sun dancing rainbows in his falling tears.

My neighbour is the junkie shooting up cocaine.
My neighbour is the sex worker hustling on the streets.
My neighbour is Saint Clare praying in her sanctuary.
My neighbour is the doctor dying with her patients.
Brother Death - Sister Sorrow.
Brother Hope - Sister Fear.
My neighbour is the scientist working night and morning
While patients gasp for air in Hospitals and Bedsits.
My neighbour is the nurse
Breaking down when exhausted.

Saint Catherine of Sienna saw Jesus in the sunrise.
Saint Francis of Assisi saw God in summer flowers.
Both saints felt the spear and nails pierce their hearts and hands.
Both saints understood that all that lives is sacred.
Wild bees collected pollen from their gentle voices
When they talked with the lepers, the poor, the dispossessed.
Their neighbour was the beggar branded on the forehead.
Their neighbour was the small child who stole a loaf of bread.

My neighbour is the gypsy excluded from the Food Bank.
My neighbour is the refugee drifting in mid ocean.
Every outcaste is my neighbour. The stateless and the terrorised.
Friends I have yet to meet.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter,
April 21st. 2020. - February 28th. 2021.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Willow Pattern.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Willow Pattern.: I am this shadow You cannot hold me Only observe the outline Transformed into birds We soar high above the arched bridge Into the w...

Not a Willow Pattern.

This plate is cheap, in fact a blatant fake,
A willow pattern plate without the willow,
Just four loose branches waving in mid air,
And not a trunk in sight.
Other trees appear complete, but more like lollipops
Than any plant that ever graced a coppice.
The temples are skew - whiff, perhaps about to tumble,
Their spires twisted into awkward angles,
And far too lofty for the lower floors.

Its the lack of people I find so distressing.
The bridge is here, exactly as expected,
But where are the three wise men crossing over,
Unlit lanterns held like fishing rods?
A distant boat drifts by on milky waters,
The crew are either absent or asleep;
The sails top heavy, the canvas stiff as wood;
And displacing swallows swooping in the heavens,
Four dead leaves spin upwards on the thermals.

I find the lack of people weird and eerie.
The two blue swallows, representing love,
Seem to have cut their loses, fled the painting,
Sped to seek a more congenial setting
Where trees are carefully drawn,
And space exists to build a homely nest.
This plate was never meant to be displayed,
Its just a simple day to day utensil,
Something to grab a meal off in a hurry,
Then stack away beneath the kitchen sink.

Yet I wish the artist had been a bit less slapdash,
I would then have used this plate with some respect.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 
April 16th. - 17th. - 18th. 2020.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Easter Tuesday 2020. Transformations. (New ReWritt...

Trevor J Potter's Art: Easter Tuesday 2020. Transformations. (New ReWritt...:                      1.                                   My Garden. My garden is my chapel The Ark that keeps me safe Here I can sit a...

Easter Tuesday 2020. Transformations. (Revised)

                     1.                                   My Garden.

My garden is my chapel
The Ark that keeps me safe

Here I can sit and think
Far from the tear stained streets

Here I can meditate
Among the Easter flowers

The tulips in my garden
Are sun filled cups of praise

                     2.                                  Garden Thoughts.

Where we were born is lost to us
Where we are we have to be

We are not the names that were given us
We are the names we choose to love

We are not the truths that we were taught
We are the Truth that quietly claimed us

We are not the words once said in haste
We are the wise words not yet spoken

We are not our parents wayward children
We are who life has let us be

Thoughts spin their webs deep in my mind
There is no way I can control them

Resurrection lays bare the skull of Golgotha
Cracked open by the weight of The Cross

We once mocked God - our hostage to reason
Now God is seen in everything

                      3.                                             Contemplation.

I sit on the white stone window ledge
Listening to a far off Dove

Perhaps the Dove sings on a branch
Fragrant with abundant blossom

The tulips in my London garden
Are sun filled chalices of praise


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
April 14th. - 15th. - 18th. 2020.

Maundy Thursday in my Garden.

Glowing in the April sun
Yellow and red cups of light,
Communion cups raised to the sky,
Cups innocent of the Blood of Christ.

I sit on the wide ledge of the window
Watching the tulips nod in the breeze
That lightly shakes them without malice,
Shakes them but does not break or shred them,

Beauty shredded into earth.

I sit on the wide ledge of the window
Listening to an uncanny silence
I have never experienced before in London,
The silence of multitudes holding their breath.

Today, it seems, is Maundy Thursday,
The day Jesus established the Eucharist,
The day, in church, we kneel and wait
As the candles burn low and the icons are covered,

Covered in grave cloths purple with grief.

But today the churches are closed and shuttered
Because of the plague that shadows the world;
And because I must now dwell in isolation
My garden has become a sacred chapel.

I sit on the wide ledge of the window
Enthralled by the shimmering sunlit tulips,
Deep cups balanced on tall slim stems
Rising straight from the tomb cold earth,

Communion cups waiting to be filled with wine
In the clear dawn glow of the resurrection.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
April 8th. 2020.
This poem can be read with Easter Tuesday Morning 2020..