A Bright May Morning - Woken by Your Call.

Increasing my sense of isolation

Your voice echoes down the telephone -

A lone flute heard in the distance

Or a far off lark calling for a mate -

Haunting the morning quiet as I struggle

                                                from sleep

Chilled to the bone by your absence.

You told me you loved me when, out of

                            the blue, you called me, 

Words clearing the shadows that webbed

                                               the skylight

Letting the sun break through.

But now truth is spoken the waiting seems

                                                        crueller

                                than it was at Tenebrae,

This house emptied of memory and

                                             lacking its soul.

Good Friday was all things but good, the

                                           loneliness visceral.

I sat at the window and tried to count seagulls

Ripping through plastic bags in the street.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

Poem started May 29th. - June 10th. 2018.

Poem completed November - 29th. - 30th. - December 2nd. - 3rd. 2020.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Advent Memories. (New Poem).

Trevor J Potter's Art: Advent Memories. (New Poem).: Slowly degrading memories. A signature on a testament. A photograph, paper thin and fading, Just like the pages of a discarded book, A ...

Trevor J Potter's Art: Neighbours.

Trevor J Potter's Art: Neighbours.: Love thy neighbour as thyself.  Who is my Neighbour? My neighbour is the fox prowling through the streets. My neighbour is the badger bu...

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.