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