Not Being Allowed.(Revised).

Not being allowed to touch you

Is not being allowed to live.

Not being allowed to kiss you

Is not being allowed to love.

Like a rabbit in a steel trap

Waiting for the blow to fall,

Not being allowed your kindness

Is not knowing kindness at all.

Last night I dreamed I held you

In the gentle dark of our bed,

But when I awoke this morning

My fists were punching the wall.

Not being allowed you near me

Is pure violence against who we are.

You are my voice, my true word,

Without you the silence is All.

I sit alone in my locked cell

Not able to take nor to give,

Not being allowed to hug you

Is not being allowed to live.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

November 27th. 2020. - December 1st. 2020.                                                       

Trevor J Potter's Art: The Beauty of November Rain.

Trevor J Potter's Art: The Beauty of November Rain.: I am glad rain is falling this November noon. This is the time of year for the beauty of rain To become apparent, soaking the fallen leaves,...

Harvest, Thanksgiving and Christmas. (Rewritten).

 I watched enchanted the pardoning of the turkey,

A strange Thanksgiving custom that seems to

                                                   make no sense,

The turkey, after all, is the victim not the killer,

The Chef Rotisseur the one who bastes and

                                                                 carves.

I was skiving in the salad section when a teenage

                                                                 commis

But nowadays I only cook for friends and family,

Roast Turkey an absentee from our festive table,

The meat too dry - too bland - and always somewhat 

                                                                   stringy.

We usually feast on Goose - or Duck a l` orange.

But this year there will be no guests on Christmas day,

Sometimes the phones will ring - emails blip # Merry,-

But online voices are never as sweet as hugs. So maybe

I will improvise a one man party, or stroll in shades & 

                                         mask on Hampstead Heath -

Incognito among lonely strangers - watching the last

                                                                    leaves fall.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

November 25th. - 28th. 2020. - December 6th. 2020.

This is Poem number nine of my set of 14 line poems about my reactions to living through lockdown November 2020. This, as things stand, is the penultimate poem in the sequence, The Beauty of November Rain being the last.

Hollow Heart of Time.(Revised).

Swallows in November? Some stay a full month more

But have to glide late autumn winds to Africa

Before the winter solstice lights the inner chambers

Of Neolithic tombs. This is the hollow heart of

                                                               measured time,

The dark womb of the year - coiled and fallow -

Next years seed potatoes secured in sacks and boxes -

Scavenger foxes criss - crossing railway tracks.

I sit and type this poem, half aware of evening birdsong,

Shrill bells from apple trees across the road.    Discrete

Suburban gardens growing wild for several decades.

Developers planning houses where wrens and sparrows

                                                                                   nest.

One whole year in isolation has taught me how to listen,

Learn the sounds of changing seasons, note anomalies I 

                                                                               missed 

When I biked to work all weathers, down streets of glass

                                                                             and steel.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

November 23rd. 2020. - December 1st. - 2nd. - 7th.2020.

January 29th. 2021.

Poem number Eight in my sequence of November poems. This poem pairs with number Seven.

Swallows in November.(Rewritten).

Swallows in November? Even the flocks are fooled

By unexpected sunshine, winds strangely soft and

                                                                           mild,

Leaves late in falling, red roses fat as apples,

Grape Hyacinth already flourishing, tangled shoots

                                                        an opulent green:

Above this Spring like scene the swallows soaring.

Words that are strong and true are hard to find. I pack this 

Half made poem into my jacket pocket. Maybe thoughts

                                                                      will coalesce 

Into coherent images on my Sunday walk. The pavements 

                                                                    shimmer white,

Reflecting surreal brightness. The scales of nature tipped

Way out of balance             reveal a toxic paradise of heat.

Instead of flying south, swallows over winter in Somerset 

                                                                              and Kent.

The walk has cleared my mind, I can now complete this

                                                                                 poem

In the privacy of my kitchen, the mobile phone turned off,

But a sound of evening birdsong makes me pause before

                                                                                I write.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter, 

November 22nd. 2020. - December 1st. - 7th. 2020.

This is poem Number 7 in my November 2020 sequence of free style sonnets.

Pink Umbrellas in November. (Rewritten).

Mums carrying pink umbrellas in the rain,

Maytime umbrellas in squalid mid November

When all is grey and dark and dripping wet,

Mist liquid grey dissolving sunset red.

Snow is promised early in December, yet

These pink umbrellas make me mourn for Easter;-

Plum blossom blown to shreds; church bells

                                           shaking windows.

Children - less aware of changing seasons

Than we, fat bellied, aching, hostile adults,

Lugging bags of shopping up the hill -

Skip and scream beneath the pink umbrellas

As if they pranced through ornamental fountains

One final time before the new term starts:

One final time before the swallows exit.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter,

November 20th. 2020. - Rewritten January 28th. 2021.

Poem number six in my sequence of November poems.

Memories by Lamplight, Grey mid November. (Rewritten).

Turning lights on mid afternoon - my thoughts

                                                             return to

Anne, (1928 - 1974), teacher, friend and listener,

Who sat at table with me, got me to write a poem,

Watching the words meander across the page

Like a desert river slowly evaporating.

This was in Boston - nineteen sixty something -

Myself, barely out of my teens, flown over for

                                                 a long weekend -

Some singular saint having paid the airline fare.

That was a weekend rich in love and laughter, but

This autumn 2020 - deep in November lock down -

The weather poised on a knife edge, winter ghosting 

                                                                 into view, 

I must come to terms with living solo - as I do, Anne 

                                             just a voice on my PC -

Sometimes merely a whisper, sometimes clear and true.

Such memories have become familiar friends, reminding

               me who I have been, and who I can be, if I dare.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 

November 17th. - 18th. 2020. - December 2nd. 2020.

Revised January 29th. 2021.

 Poem number Five in my November 2020 series.