Christmas Eve 1961

The savings club paid out
and father flush,
his Christmas Box,
a crisp fiver
in a snowflake design packet
now safe in mother’s purse.

It didn’t matter, the long day
just once a year,
Northampton
on a double-decker, up top
encircled by the woodbine fog
and heavy condensation
fastened sliding windows.

Same plan every year
market first for the cockerel,
department store Father Christmas
fish and chips for lunch
then a late afternoon ogle at the lights
in the Co-op arcade.

Same bus home,
bags, boxes, packages everywhere,
under the seats, on laps
and the bloody cockerel’s head
swinging from the parcel rack
mesmerized me to sleep.

Merry Christmas.





© Graham Sherwood 12/2015

REM

I lie in the suffocating darkness
and keen to the bristling static,
be still,
I know they will come
in a swarm,
of whirling syllables.
The electricity recedes
to the tinnitus of words,
that whisper, shout and squeal
tumbling like shiny bricks
around my brow.
I keep still
to let them settle
here, on my chest,
there, my arms
needle-like anchors prickling
as they jostle for attention
pick me, pick me.
So light they can be inhaled
but not arrested,
nor contained,
if I am lucky
I can record their presence
then they are gone,
to the page,
captured, spent.



© Graham Sherwood 12/2015

Cob

Under a sky that glistens
shimmer thinning greys,

brittle reflections threaten,
loud as a spiv’s suit
inherently untrustworthy,

we are caught on a day without purpose,
it casts a leer
and we gladly buy its wares.

Padding out dismal hours
with half-truths and poor intentions,

our threadbare melancholia
rhythmically slaps our legs,
a cilice of woe

in this cack-handed purgatory
we seek enlightenment
but find only our shame



© Graham Sherwood 12/2015

Bareknuckle Love

I heard from a friend
that you’re re-writing old poems again,
a very brave thing to do.


I can visualize your eyes
Careering promiscuously from one word to another,
in pinball fashion.


Those sweet words from your sour heart
you bled them like a prize-fighter,
promises and punches from hand to fist.


To me your words are scar tissue,
raised wheals like the corners of a dog-eared book
tiny wrinkled fat thumbs dug into the page.


Would we could write again
erase the venom, kindle the flower
find new words to love.




© Graham Sherwood 12/2015

Caught

Agape and gasping
as a freshly caught fish
flung roughly to the grassy bank
comfortable but nonetheless dying
my sweating skin dries,
a sickly sweet pungency
organic, rotting
my crucial atmosphere so close,
parallel, but
a fathomless chasm distant.


I lose my precious sense of self,
dirt and decay seeps into pores
then my path appears,
but palpable confusion
wracking my brain,
spins me like a top,
the road ahead
lush with opportunities
beckons with a ring finger's promise,
but the form of a harlot



© Graham Sherwood 11/2015

Treize

black top hat
as Friday fades
three of clubs
ten of spades
friends smile true
red wine pours
devils seep
unlocked doors
chaos stains,
mayhem kills
a city's blood
red heart spilt
deathly quiet
sombre bells
questions form
sorrow quells
black top hat
on Saturday
world looks on
then looks away


© Graham Sherwood 13/11/2015

Row A Seat 1

Vaguely named shadows convene
to populate my past,
I hold the only front row seat, but
afraid to turn my head
cannot counsel their expressions, field their sighs
or sample any choked applause
that meets my ears, a melange of meaning
the symphonica of a life gone by.
My many ghosts all know themselves, as
jigsaw pieces boxed randomly
in the upper stalls,
ahead the fire curtain I am forced to study
forms the picture on the box,
my life in fragments, interlocked
few pieces left to set.



© Graham Sherwood 11/2015

Kit and Shadowtail

Next doors' pretty kitten, ungainly
clatters up and over my soddened fence
deft as a scrumping schoolboy
now left exposed amongst the naked trees
whose multi-coloured striptease act
adorns the lawn.

There's no whiff of a breeze, but
my bird feeder sways rhythmically
to the beat of the squirrel's cocking tail
upside down, secure, a furry barnacle
hacking through the battered mesh
daylight peanut robbery, blatant.

So a comical standoff commences
In nature's kindergarten playground,
precocious squirrel chatters
while guileful kitten inches nearer
unevenly matched, naive
I'll see you both again tomorrow.



© Graham Sherwood 11/2015

Beware the Pen

I am wary of the pen
a place where words reside,
bound and fettered
in regimented dictionary
monothelite, compressed.
As ink courses, then life begins,
my thoughts become words
given form, embryonic
ready for growth,
staring intently from the page
coercive, hypnotic shape-shifting,
mesmerizing entities.
I avert my eyes
but they evolve cynically, devious,
love to lust, melancholy to sorrow
pathos to satire to sarcasm
I correct and erase
yet still more come.




© Graham Sherwood 11/2015

Cur

Such professed innocence,
a shameful masquerade
where thoughts are slashed,
butchered by your viperous tongue
that spits its venom with scorned abandon
out into your hostile world.
You stab and fight
then cauterize your wounds
with the tainted saliva of a zealot
rich in bile and cancerous malevolence.
What made you thus?
where sprang this addled poisonous spring,
that gorges on the weak
and drowns the precious words of men?



© Graham Sherwood 11/2015

Sis

I knew something bad was about to happen,
lying in bed, in newly pressed pyjamas,
Jimmy Greaves ghosting past defenders on the wall
the early autumn sky had shown signs of change
so I knew the day was about to end poorly.


A bang, wood on wood, a muffled squeal from you
and then your charge up the staircase
followed by much heavier stomping
ricocheting along the sparse landing, past me
I could hear you crying as my legs swung down to the lino.


But then he started shouting,
he never shouted, never, other than to the dog,
palms over my ears, I heard the noise but not the words
then quiet, apart from your sobs
and all I could think was, how upset you had made him.


Thank God we woke to a Sunday
the whole day spent avoiding strewn eggshells
he could hardly look at you, betrayed,
and my schoolboy ignorance faded month by month
at the sign of your fattening belly.





© Graham Sherwood 10/2015

Brick

I consult the tarot
and weigh my loss,
determined,
thinking I shall accept death,
impartially
as a farmer amongst his flock,
with crass ambivalence,
a furrowed brow, narrowing eyes
the unseen weight cradled,
confidently like a newborn
but still its anchor
draws me way way down
to the dark silt of anguish




© Graham Sherwood 10/2015

B4

We breathe within our own dystopia
shoaling, swarming in this hexed, wired world
we walk, we see, we talk,
we listen to myriad hypnotic tones,
cursors,
likes,
no longer remote
but sentient
in a counterfeit world,
the electronic bible speaks
and fools become professors
rich opinions duly slain
for chat-facts
revered, shared,
a toxic viral stew
we regress
in a blink
to antediluvian chaos



© Graham Sherwood 10/2015

Filament

(An emotional eye-to-eye moment with my granddaughter).

O, you could look at me now
as did that beautiful baby child
eyes like planets, astonishing
I am her god, a hero angel,
She, my unknown universe
to fill with love and songs, and
rhyming words



© Graham Sherwood 10/2015

Write your own story

(an overcomplicated nemonic of experimental verse).

wondering which welcome
rather royal reckoning
interrupting interesting islands
terrifying tangible tension
equalise everyman essentially

youthful yawn youngest
outline orchestrated overture
unperturbed unusually urgent
reliably reticent rogues

oldest offhand ostracised
willingness waterfront warned
negligent nuanced notion

supernatural schoolboy scrounging
tightrope trotting tantrum
onwards only option
rascal righteous reality
yesterday yonder yellow



© Graham Sherwood 10/2015

Inked-Off

(A study of tattoos).

Hard,
I can make weak men strong
and cowards brave,
burnished manufactured muscle,
my painted opus flows elbow to wrist,
contorted runes, hieroglyphs
or the oriental yin and yang,
I ward off demons, trolls, jinns
and drunken twats.

Soft,
my shouldered diaries
list my roving fucks,
my children’s births,
given names and family tree,
and tribal colours lace my neck,
I pick my nose with love
and wipe my arse with hate,
embrace with mum
and wank with dad

I am ink!



© Graham Sherwood 10/2015

Blue Collar Black Face

(Polite rage over Socialist inertia).

Grey poverty and shining ignorance,
both born of passive rage
now lie burnt out behind taut eyelids,
neither choosing fortune’s path,
two poor and proud
unwelcome bedfellows
both strangers
gouging blindly heavenwards
to scar their unjust biased constellations,
then fall, defeated
spent, unsatisfied
to await their tragic epilogues,
duly cowed, with star-bruised fists
and jaundiced eyes, they fight
neighbours, friends and families
until the dust is equal.
but from this dust comes golden salt
complete with clever tongues,
sharp, aware, seers
through cracked telescopes
they spot the hidden path
but swiftly cloak
its entrancing distant glow



© Graham Sherwood 10/2015

Quest?

(The question we will all ask in the unlikely event
that there is a hereafter).

We, all of us
carry one question
from birth to dust
our life’s account
is richer thus,

unasked, unsolved, unanswered
this question leads us on
to find the learned place
where thoughts, wonderment
and inquisition rest in peace,

to the guardians
be they angels, witches, demons, gods
we offer up our charge
the question passes
and the answer is….?



© Graham Sherwood 09/2015

Snapshot

(first peer at a dull morning).

My nose warily parts the curtains,
it's a stubborn,
can't be bothered day,
a timorous dishevelled morning
has been summarily elected,
poked in the back by the sharp stick
of the bullying afternoon
and left to wobble nervously
on the indecisive plank of dawn.



© Graham Sherwood 09/2015

Monologue

I hear the ends of sentences
before you have spoken,
the words echo and boomerang
backwards
an argument at odds with itself,
I am ever surprised,
devastated or elated
by these palindromic shuttlecocks,
hit hard, but landing softly
spiked backchat of barbed ire,
designed to stun not kill
this very one-sided conversation.



© Graham Sherwood 09/2015

For Mehmet Ciplak

was the salty water warm
that stroked his head?
was that tiny bundle lighter
than your leaden heart?
can you ever notice beauty
or watch the blue waves break
and hear that familiar
chisk and claw
ebb and flow
without his stranded flotsam
seared into your view?





© Graham Sherwood 09/2015

Koan on a Wish

An old man grants a young girl a wish
for she has done him a kindness
and it is also her birthday.
After her protestations
she agrees to make a wish
but the wish will not come true
if anyone is told its nature.

How does the old man know her wish
and will the wish come true?




© Graham Sherwood 09/2015

Silver Birch

cool on palms,
smooth
this pigskin mottled
paper bark
proudly worn,
wraps wary bulbous
ocular knots
a stand a sentinel
for these silver powdered ghosts,
whose brisking leaves
bugle the call
about! about!



© Graham Sherwood 09/2015

Welcome

(I read today that there is a debate
over what to call these unfortunate people).


we hunt down refugees
fence off migrants
denounce clandestines
jail illegals
refuse asylum
expel exiles
but…
search the heavens
for an alien


© Graham Sherwood 08/2015

War of Words

I glimpse your dagger of sarcasm
kept honed for cutting remarks
and the poison pen hovering
above the letters that you craft,
its nib polished silver
a blade bleeding cruel ink.
Callous lies you wrap in tissue
masquerading as gifts of love
but each barbed with razor wire
ripping heart sinews like cotton wool,
silently, easily.
I am fast learning that my vocabulary
is too feeble, not battle ready,
hollow vowels seeking invisible consonants
to make their mark,
perhaps to spell the word
surrender.


© Graham Sherwood 08/2015

Now?

(my favourite was an eye).


What is the logo for now?
A word so fleet of foot
too short for measure
there being no future in its tense
and so easily lost to the past.
So what are you thinking now?



© Graham Sherwood 08/2015

Overview

(Clouds, always worth a look).


We discuss the sky often, both agog
under that unfathomable space,
that infinite openness
what else ought we call it?
some things have no need of a name
and sky seems such a paltry term
for such a boundless vista.
But how you scowl
when slate grey volcanoes puther
from unseen horizons, dark soot embryos
erupting to colour your view,
crashing over your head
prodding the ache of a frown
into one bilious migraine.
You know they’ll soon be gone
those busy inquisitive wraiths
but still let me shake a useless fist
and shout into their violent vacuum,
acting as your erstwhile champion
before sailor blues begin to reappear
in bandy-legged unison.



© Graham Sherwood 08/2015

Tunnel Vision

(A view on the Calais malaise).


From an oppressive barren heat
into our unseasonal northern chill
they blindly come, filthy
on their camino of avarice
to scurry around Coquelles,
gnawing, ripping, squabbling
at the flimsy token barrier,
easily breached
their thin eyes desperate, cold
play a tormenting game
each night, a joyless lotto
high stakes, win big, what chance?



© Graham Sherwood 07/2015

Bea and the Badger

(Granddaughter love).


A badger broke from cover
in Pitcher Lane at 7.03
I don’t know who was more surprised
Bea or me or he?

Unbothered he damply sniffed the breeze
still wet with morning’s shower
then nonchalantly glanced at us
before trundling through a bower.

Bea looked at me, and then the tree
and back to me once more,
at eighteen months with what she’d seen
she wasn’t really sure.


© Graham Sherwood 07/2015

The girls 3/50

They pass
always in twos, arm in arm
in tight-knit jumpers, long,
hiding short skirts, black tights
stalking like liquorice sticks,
bird’s nests bouffants, backcombed
straggled fringes
to hide the Dusty Springfield eyes,
looking but not looking
at the boys,
it’s always the taller one they want.

Later they'll give the boys a treat,
sitting primly on the damp grass
in the rec,
a glimpse of knickers,
their secret is to look bored
listening to a tiny transistor,
sweets for my sweet
sugar for my honey
no fags until Friday
unless the boys offer
and want what in return.


© Graham Sherwood 07/2015

Prom Queen

Tonight I will be beautiful too,
In the shrieking frenzy
amongst the loveliest girls
my pretty friends,
drowning in their self-obsession,
tonight
a one time only friendship,
the first time
they will see my face
without the niqab
with a feint smile
I will be noticed
at last
I have the dress,
the hair,
the shoes,
the bag,
the eyes
the bomb





© Graham Sherwood 07/2015

The boys 2/50

Cross-legged at the crossroads
on peeling green council benches,
where the elderly often stare with wet eyes,
young boys , blowing grass between their thumbs
peer into the distance
to glimpse their futures
and their forbidden fruits
delivered by road.

They dream of music stardom,
fucking the older village girls,
earning money and shiny motorbikes.
One or two, the handsome ones,
have had a feel behind the Working Mens’
small soft warm breasts
bartered for a brittle kitkat
from the cold milk machine
outside the chipshop,
knees remain together,
strictly top deck only.

Some will venture, others stay
snagged in the net
the stew pond of regret and despondency
with local wives, made into fat mothers
blinkered by a cold sex present
and a warm beer future
skittles and an angry dog.



© Graham Sherwood 07/2015

Eremos

In a hole, concealed, inwardly satiated
one eye panning, then acutely fixed
on easy prey, parading before
his fang-like claws,
and bullying mandibles that rip and tear
pull and jag,
bruise and cut
just enough to mark then,
as if cowardly,
a slow but cautious reverse,
perhaps ashamed, remorseful
of this frightening violation



© Graham Sherwood 07/2015

The place 1/50

Two roads cross at an ancient obelisk,
crumbling red stones,
anonymous tomb or local myth,
thoughts of a highwayman’s fancy.

Down the older-end, of similar build,
cottages, moneyed folk, incomers, posher
than the new top shop post-war boxes,
thrown up quick,
young families in new shoes, with old tongues
clickers, pullovers, finishers
tacks in teeth and the reek of leather pong.

But there is disease here,
an ambivalent melancholia
“a watch it die and then moan” malady,
virulent, as each factory wizens, and folds
blown into the wet gutter
with the daily mirror chip paper.


© Graham Sherwood 07/2015

Koan on knowledge

To answer the questions of life
a man must first allow the question
or how can he know anything
of life


© Graham Sherwood 07/2015

A theism

must faith be blind?
for
faith cowers under fear,
and
reward requires one's faith
so
ignorance is faith itself
but
martyred faith is celebrated
when
faith pulls a trigger
on
those of little faith
how
can this faith endure



© Graham Sherwood 06/2015

Class of 2015

There was a distant time of yore
when rich meant fat and thin meant poor
but that doesn't figure anymore
The fat wear sports clothes every day
but this doesn't keep the lbs at bay
it's not our fault they always say

The thin are wealthiest now I guess
live on rocket and watercress
nothing more and nothing less
The poor seem resigned to benefits
buy huge tv's, get tatts on tits
and pitbulls rip their kids to bits

The rich stay smug behind strong gates
but moan about poor savings rates
posh pensioners all in dire straits
So life’s not always what it seems
fat, thin, rich, poor we all have dreams
but suffer from insomnia it seems



© Graham Sherwood 06/2015

Koan on Boredom

At sunrise
the man asked the boy
to hold his bag

It is very light,
the boy replied.

As the sun westered
the boy complained
of the bag’s
unbearable weight.

but there is nothing
in the bag
the man replied.



© Graham Sherwood 06/2015

Early Morning with BB

We startle unseen pigeons
that ask who? Who?
from their camouflage
then wince at the
slap clap flap
of their ungainly launch
clattering through broad leaves.


Through the old village
quiet still, just
the smell of fresh toast
and the whistle of a kettle,
Damp moss steams
on the old cemetery wall
BB points a finger, frowns and says oooff!.


On the quieter path
the lake breeze exhales
to make the teasels bristle
leaning in unison
to whistle and hum
brown heads tilted
in a gospel choir rhythm.





© Graham Sherwood 06/2015

Koan on Being

In the theatre of the world
one man may play all the characters.
How can we be sure his true self
is really on the stage at all?



© Graham Sherwood 06/2015

Oxford St

(Inspired by TS Eliot)

Damp mist circles my legs
swirling, as a creature,
wet nose sniffing me
as if to approve my suitability
for passage.
Under the meagre streetlamps
the dampness hangs lank
like fine muslin,
I pause mindlessly
to await the next pedestrian
then gingerly move away
my freedom gained.
Before the corner, I glance back
to see the vague silhouette
trapped within the fussing mist
and no other in sight.
The bright-lit boulevard
feels a safer place,
the incandescent shop fronts
valiant, spear the mist with
savage goring rents,
its threadbare banners
cast about the damp path.


© Graham Sherwood 06/2015

M-e-n-U

I bring bread, wine, meat and sweet berries
and lay them on your kitchen table.
Both unsure, we fidget,
you busily preparing food
me clumsy, with a troublesome cork.
I risk a glance at your easing profile,
you, amused by my fumbling efforts
offer a welcome sympathetic smile.
Midnight,
and the wine has wrestled with our tongues,
so talk rides lightly on spicy breath
eyes stay camouflaged by stained glasses,
in purdah,
water stays untouched.
Now is the tricky stage, and
one of us needs to make a move,
there is no bill to pay
so both unsure, we fidget once more
and await the telling signal.



© Graham Sherwood 06/2015

Remiss

The test over,
nervous wait commences
twenty-one days
slim brown envelope
rasp of letterbox
slaps cold tiles
hold think stare
future folded neatly
slow fearful opening
resignation bad results
exhale deep breath
negative news positive
slow tear trickles
thoughts lost blindly
another year bought
relief reprieve sentence?



© Graham Sherwood 05/2015

Going Home

(Inspired by Travels with Charlie, John Steinbeck).

Why this ache to return?
this was home when you lived here
were born here,
old friends you seek
are now truly old
not the blood brothers you once knew,
played with, laughed with, cried with,
died for.


Walks seemed longer then
trees taller,
roads safer,
days warmer
now innocence is nowhere to be found.


Girlfriends all gone away, taken as wives,
old adversaries some have died
or now look benign as you.
Why take them for a drink
old warriors now seeing sense,
of those stupid teenage vendettas,
let dogs lie.


Console yourself with landmarks
the ironstone church, ruined folly
Dick Turpin’s obelisk, steadfast,
now seated cheek by jowl amongst plastic flats.


So go,
sit on the deserted cricket square
let wickets tumble with your memories,
then leave,
you shouldn’t have returned,
you left for a better life
outside, somewhere else
why don’t you understand
You don’t belong here?






© Graham Sherwood 05/2015

Night Howls

Radio Luxembourg, wafting in and out
on a faulty crystal set 1964,
ethereal reception, a night ghoul
rhythmic pulsing
a foggy heartbeat,
something evil breathing unseen
in the bedroom's dark.


Our two local village greasers,
scrawny boys, clinging on for dear life
to a wraith-like bastard Norton,
self-built, unpolished black
screaming and squealing past, late
heading to the Beehive Cafe,
a sticky end coming
them two, my mother would scowl.


With sleep close, a Jubilee class
clear three miles away,
a Banshee howling past the Weetabix,
the sweet cereal pong
hanging on a easterly breeze,
I never ate them after Gibbo started there
she always had a candle off her nose.


My father, head hard against the board
snoring on the in-breath,
beauteous music,
a bizarre unmanly angelic chorale
metronomic,
asking a question, who? Who?


Now they’ve all gone,
Crystal sets to DAB
Sep and Coxey dead
cleaned up in July 1965 on the A6,
Jubes to Diesels,
Weetabix to the Chinks
and my father to an embolism
aged just sixty-one.


All gone,
but the nights still howl.





© Graham Sherwood 05/2015

Bakers-do-Zen

Flour, a dense weight,
in the hand weightless,
should water be dry
it could be flour


© Graham Sherwood 05/2015

Murder

(The danger in nature).

black crows white sheets
orange eyes ivory beaks
grey slabs crimson blood
green spears brown corpse
yellow puss pink tongue
blue skies gold sun
black crows white sheets



© Graham Sherwood 04/2015

Up Marden

(A quiet week in west Sussex).

That evening stroll through badger wood
amid the aimless scurry and tinny cluck of pheasants,
May's green fluff adorning bare branches and
murderous ivy quenched on strangled boughs
hides busy late trilling birds.

We warily cross brambles that arch like green surf
cascading over ramshackle fences
to hike between the wide fingernail trenches
freshly clawed by a greedy tractor
lain perfect on flinty plough

We stumble on the tiny church, surprised,
book damp ancient painted walls, untouched,
silent guardians surround its mossy flanks
under a sombre yew green canopy
youthful names on ancient tombs.




© Graham Sherwood 04/2015

Petrichor

(Who knew there was a name for this?).


The first taste is with the nose
a cooling waft, not yet a breeze
confirmed by a slow licking of lips
and another long but gentle inhale
as if smelling melting ice.
Trees bristle,
but not in a warm way
almost shuddering
and the earth’s sponge flexes
making ready its scent
sensing intercourse
before rain comes.





© Graham Sherwood 04/2015

Stormfall

(Storms never cease to amaze).


The storm leaves much more quickly than it arrives.
In the distance, invisible behind our false horizon
it was announced, as if not to cause surprise
a low, throat-clearing grumble.
Bruised copper clouds spread like creased bed linen,
smoothed by an untrained hand,
no lightning, just a discordant moan
then the pregnant pause, silence,
before the mother of all raging explosions.
The interval always catches us out
and we cower briefly before straightening up,
a nervous giggle or smile hides our shame,
another crash louder than the last.
Good god
we whisper as unbelievers
but there is no more
and the snare drum tension
is replaced by a fresher tang,
a gift left, to remind us of our place.
Someone, somewhere will have died
but not here, not today, so
we pick up pots, sweep steps, wring out our ears,
the storm has left more quickly than it arrived
and we are thankful.




© Graham Sherwood 04/2015

Easter Haiku

(A woeful TV election debate).


Seven leaders died
crucified a day early
no resurrection


© Graham Sherwood 04/2015

Virtual Realm

(Has the internet become our parallel universe?).


This, the one true otherwhere
the fabled unseen world
a fibre-optic parallel universe,
that clever men have sought
to study, know and visit,
pondered on for many decades,
the kingdom of differing sameness
where good is evil
reality unreal
and identities change to fantasies
back and forth seamlessly,
where man can walk on water
look, move and not be seen,
become a prince, king or emperor
voyeur, lover, thief or beast,
unfettered, ungoverned
rabid.


© Graham Sherwood 04/2015

Reckoning Up

(Deathbeds and Dementia).


Tentatively wheeling and circling
like over cautious predatory birds,
my demons eventually pick their place
and settle at my bedside
to stake their claim and
barter for their treasure.


Without speech
I am nonetheless privy to their deliberations
and visit deathly glances upon their stolid
emotionless faces,
This is the long game then,
a jamboree of addled thoughts.


As shredded fibres yank and coil
rewired memories, facts and dross
all jumble into soup
stirred by the tarnished spoon
of my departing intellect.
The demons begin to delve.





© Graham Sherwood 03/2015

Tartan Beret

(The true beauty of youth).


Fat raindrops tumbling into slate-slick puddles
like dropped pennies, splashing.
Holding out your hat, upside down
the tartan beret,
you comically try to catch them
laughing, as if you could win a prize,
before emptying them out with a flippant shake,
all interest gone.
I watch you as your body floats,
perfectly, a sculpture brought to life,
moving through my astonished vision,
the trill of laughter, soprano
in such a beautiful storm.



© Graham Sherwood 03/2015

Price of Love

(We are all trying to own something, no longer for sale).


You ask to come,
to talk to me
but have nothing to say
only something to sell.
There was a time, one brilliant year
forged with the intensity of desire
tempered only by fitful sleep
when we traded words,
special morsels, cherished by us both
each one a scent, a lacquer, saliva thin
licking each other until sated.
Now it’s a complicated alphabet
with garish prefixes,
suffixes that scratch,
each one priced with thinly disguised
labels of indifference.
How many you say?
How much I counter?


© Graham Sherwood 02/2015

Hippy in a Suit

(A reflection on the golden decade).


Such beautiful music and magical words,
1970 and I a pinstripe poet
living a three-piece life.
we weren’t afraid to show our bodies then,
peeling off our inhibitions with our clothes,
our emotions like the layers of an onion,
crying came easily, love easier still.


Our art, was more important than feelings,
being the broker of our relationships,
the chords and clever quips
twin sabres to slice our umbilical hearts,
but I never bled for long, cauterized
by the next Pied Piper, sweet of song
that bid me follow his tune.


So the beautiful entrancing babies
blossomed to become icons of the age,
I worshipped from a distance
and watched them butchered and drugged,
scarred by their greedy vicious muses,
lain stranded in a disappearing time,
they in Kaftans, me in a suit.



© Graham Sherwood 02/2015

OMG

(Know your own God).

We worship different prophets,
listen in earnest to their devout words
and marvel at the miracles,
that some say are smoke and mirrors.
So are we foolish to be fooled?
If there be gods, with real omnipotence,
then surely we would seek to bring them down
in favour of more friendly deities,
that sit with us, that feel our pain,
those gods that we can touch
in common dress, who whisper prayers
that all can hear, reason and embrace.
These gods are here, amongst us now
in plain apparel, soft of voice, rich
with love, ethereal.
So take the time, find the clues, search,
you may be closer to your god
but who would know?


© Graham Sherwood 01/2015

Tidings

(The senselessness of drowning at sea).

The sea, a vengeful bully
that we must fear, and
befriend at surest peril,
an evil pulsating heart
clawing, dragging on our shores
demanding libation,
at which we hide then curse in secret
later to pay foolishly
until, once sated
draped in brilliant slumber,
we dance amongst its cloak
a benign lace, wrinkled, in which
our angst is rinsed,
baptised, forgiven, delicately erased
from fickle memories
to further wait
the slavering hungry storm.



© Copyright Graham Sherwood 01/2015

Resolution

(the battle over good intentions).

The change to crisp chill air feels good,
before the damp malaise of January guilt
climbs onto my hunched shoulders
to whisper accusingly, repeatedly,
So what are you going to do?
How far can this go?
Only you can decide.
So is it ability or passion
diligence or desire, that
will garner a destination.
We’re all on a journey right?


© Graham Sherwood 01/2015

9th Age

(It is said that a man's life is measured in sevens).

It doesn't matter what I think
or how I choose to make my representations,
nobody notices that my clothes Ill-fit,
that my shoes are fastened with Velcro
and a few grey whiskers
stubbornly bristle on my throat.

I can stare at young pretty girls
without the fear of scowling reprisals
and face down youths
hell bent on mayhem,
the winces from my worn out limbs
go unnoticed and become tenable.

I have become a listener, not a debater
the slightest change In temperature or mood
draws me tortoise-like inside
this cringing geriatric carapace,
thus soon, I will be invisible
the insignificance my swan song.


© Graham Sherwood 01/2015

Rubicon Years

(New Year and shamefully morose).

From here my life's a comic strip
the future wrinkled, faded, a torn
final edition, an easy read, with
no surprises, none expected
the epilogue looming,
the good man wins
but dies trying.
My characters are now played out,
the hero, the villain, the lover, the fool
all back in wardrobe,
their destinies hang lifeless, hollow
as my ghosts foxed and burred,
hiding between my anniversaries,
I am soon to be a back number.


© Graham Sherwood 01/2015