Our proverbial sins

Your stitch is late
and I am lost,
the seam of my avarice
spills to the floor
with my heart.

And from my lifeless palm
the dove of wrath,
set free for further mayhem,
plots from the box
unblinking callously.

You, your milky tears
and useless pride,
are left behind to weep and sweep
the litter of my errors
like life’s janitor.

So where are those riches
that were promised you?
Sowed in the earth
with undue lusty haste,
and no sign of dividend.

Now richly sated, you
once the glutton for my love,
come timely late
to light my pyre aflame
with your licking tongue.

Blind foolish envy
is new currency for your loss,
I wait, to calculate my debt
to eternity’s account
abacus in hand.

My demonic choir is laughter,
performed with barren sloth,
cynical, thin, enduring,
to hex my empty torso
on each step to paradise.

© Graham Sherwood 11/2012

Tontine

Show me your ticket for the tontine of life,
where entry is free, the closing date long,
the winner takes a lonely prize.

Show me your ticket for the tontine of love,
where entry is hurt, desire and despair,
the prize thin as breath, a vapour.

Show me your ticket for the tontine of hate,
where entry is wrath, hostile and dark,
the winner can never be safe.

Here is my ticket for the tontine of death,
where entry is free, a brief rubicon,
the prize lies unknown, uncertain.

© Graham Sherwood 11/2012

Scandi-Verse

I gently squeezed my heggedal,
it felt firm within my grasp,
the benzy smelled of lemon zest
the afjarden fresh mown grass.
Standing on the toftbo
I rummaged in my skubb,
my besta had been scratched somehow
and needed a light rub.
I dusted down my ribba
and my stornas too,
you handed me your barbar
my arv I gave to you.
Feel these dittes you asked me,
do they feel alvros to you,
perhaps a little werna
but they do look good on you.
We both lay on the skarum,
my knodd lay on the floor,
you showed me where your pluggis was,
I fumbled with your klor.
At last we both were ekne
and blessed our gosa how,
with pressa and some mulig
We all love Ikea now.

© Graham Sherwood 11/2012

Nymph

I watched her move amongst the sculptures,
slowly but chaotic,
through the wintry garden
gently stroking the ripe curves,
palming the patina with long, slim fingers.
Had she been naked and still,
sat upon their chiselled flanks,
a new lithe goddess
I would have smiled and bid her come.
But all too briefly she turned to call,
to chide the cold autumn air,
thus the magical muse was stolen,
a captive of the twilight.

© Graham Sherwood 10/2012