Maureen.

November blues.

I am learning at last to mourn for my life,

Something I have never done before

However bleak the season,

However sad the news.

I am a summer person,

That time of year when blind hope re-emerges

From the tight cocoon

That winter wraps around it like a bandage

While the bright wings form.

Hope is love reborn.-

But last night I learned the girl with laughing eyes

Had knocked back her last glass of champagne,

Packed away her typewriter and papers

And quietly slipped out into the cool mists,

The silent mists of autumn.-

Farewell old friend, you were closer than I thought

To the deep sad core of my restless being.

A sort of sister, adopted at first sight,

You have taken part of my truth to the stars.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

November 10th. 2021.

For Maureen, 1934 - 2021.

Instant Love. (Revised Ending).

You grab my lap as your kingdom

Hot threads of hair burn my lips

Your forehead pressed against mine

So hard we are both bruised.

So this is instant love, inevitable and

                                        dangerous,

A sudden visceral war.

                                    I request a truce,

Needing to readjust, to find my equilibrium,

That quiet mood I was accustomed to

Before you sashayed into my living space

Tearing my days apart.

But you`ll have none of this,

You know that you have won,

And dare not give up an inch of stolen

                                                  ground.  

Is love always like this?

You kick off your high heels, then make

                                     yourself at home.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

November 2nd. - 6th. 2021.

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Trevor J Potter's Art: Pauline. (Completed Poem).: Grief lasts for a lifetime. After fifty two years I am still grieving for you. When I saw your self portrait made from stained glass I...

Intimate Music. A Love Poem. (Completed Version).

You are my closest truth

My harp 

My cello

I cleave you to my breast

And make new music with you

I am your voice

You are my real voice also

The grace notes

Our inner melody

Our Song of Songs

Our Psalms

When I touch the notes awake

Truly I become you

And you become me also

You are all that makes love real

My harp

My cello

I cleave you to my life

And make true music with you

Never a discordant interval

Never a note out of place

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

October 30th. November 2nd. 2021.

My true love is both harp and cello, depending on the time of day.

All Hallows Eve.

Struggling light. Twilight dissolves the day

Deep into mists of memory.

I watch the sunset darkening the garden,

Draining the autumnal colours of that vivacity

Death lends to the edge of life.

A black wall denser than the darkest night

Descends, separating the mild months from old

                                                                 winter

With an almost fatal finality.

We cannot step back through the wall to summer,

Time is a one way ticket however hard we argue.

The leaves are beginning to drop, cover the asphalt

                                                                      path

With a moist carpet slippery as ice floes,

Next April almost implied by their transient beauty.

Beneath the fallen leaves a pile of surgical masks,

Used once, then quietly dumped without due care

By families walking to and from the school.

Their pale blue makes me fear the sky may fall.

I will never stoop to clear away these masks,

They reference undisclosed infections

Known only to the people who have worn them.

I open the front door, it is time to re-enter the house.

My supper is already cooked, I have only to reheat it.

I wipe my feet on the mat, but keep on my surgical mask

Before I know for certain I am alone.

In the quiet of the evening I imagine footsteps behind me.

Friend or foe? - Neighbour or would be thief?

The street lights flick on suddenly their silver tinted dawn.

My shadow glides before me into the hall.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

October 27th. - 28th. 2021.

I have always found the few days at the end of October and the beginning of November to be wierdly claustrophobic. A time shadowed by regrets.

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