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