Friend's Friend's Friend

(Try this at home. Use a FB friend, click on one of their friends who's unknown to you
and take a line from their page. Repeat 10 times and then arrange into a poem). 

Doesn't get much cuter than 3 Hawaiian mermaids
what a gig that must have been!
so many people are going live
I thought I'd do my version.
You crack me up Kathy
only you would see and say something like that
no encouragement needed.
I'm in the Alfred once again,
oh too far for us, would have loved to see you
it's very quiet here in Marsworth!

© Graham Sherwood 12/2016

Organic

(Wintry garden observations)

Spade cracks heavy blue grey clay
each piercing quake
a baleful squealing squelch,
life force evacuated
cleaved, lifted, turned over bare
a submissive corpse,
the plot sports a cadaverous battlefield
anointed with my sweat.

Remorseless
resurrection now begins
with horseshit salve
a potent potion
the victor’s gift
for ease of future skirmishes
and the chance of roses.

© Graham Sherwood 12/2016

Cemetery

(Garden in repose)

A light frost blooms on terracotta pots
Summer’s geraniums stand white-faced,
shocked stiff, unable.
Spider knitting hangs lank too,
then glistens briefly
at the first shaft of sun.
Our three squirrels grumble
busily at the empty feeders,
offering unimpressed stares
towards my steaming coffee mug reflection.

The garden has become a cemetery
of unburied lifeless visitors
that shared my salad days
of mottled warmth and dew
but now pay the price,
prone, sacrificial, destitute.
Copper leaves dance no longer,
matted between barren stems
crucified by this sudden chill
twisted, caught like rotting fish
in cobweb nets.

There is no life here
in these slatted shadows,
there is no pulse.

© Graham Sherwood 12/2016

Nether Muse

(More insomnia).

Ebbing from safe anchorage,
willingly as if hypnotised
I enter the soporific darkness
in search of words containing light.

As the Angelus suffocates behind me
and an invisible contagion
of night daemons quietly close ranks,
here I am plagued by music
from the deafening silence.

My pupils dilate to saucers
desperate for sanctuary,
from this deprived inebriation.

Then an unlikely fissure,
a needle’s eye, of
brilliant black light,
a polished ebony altar
bearing my words.

© Graham Sherwood 11/2016

Cohen Haiku

poet leaves his stage
soft words still ring in our ears
cry hallelujah.

© Graham Sherwood 11/2016

Haiku-ween

All Hallows Eve ends
old bones return to the grave
skeleton keys lost


© Graham Sherwood 11/16

Struck

(In memory of the late PC Martin Fletcher)

What am I bloody well doing here?

Bussed up

all the way from Northamptonshire,

we’re knackered before we start,

the overtime will be handy mind

with our Ben off to college.

Keeping the peace in a sodding field,

bleeding daft.

I’ve never seen so many police horses,

stay out of their way, big buggers.

Here we go, it’s kicking off,

it’s funny really,

we were only chatting to these blokes

half an hour ago,

they’d come nearly as far as us

now its fisticuffs!

© Graham Sherwood 11/16

Koan on a Snowflake

Where is the single snowflake

that fell to earth in a storm,

one wondrous moment

in the palm of my hand,

before melting into oblivion?

What purpose did it serve

or message did it bear,

where is the snowflake now?

© Graham Sherwood 10/2016

PoliticaL

limp lettuce liberal lemmings,

laughingly lecture

labour leader’s long lost legacy.

-L-

later, liaising legions

lying lacklustre, lachrymose

laryngeal lesions lashed

leagues licking libidos

licentiously lurching leaning left

-L-

lapsed latently leveraged

lewdly lauding laminated

lapidary leaked letters

lavishly launched literature

learning little

landfill likely

landmark landslide looming

leaving lifestyle limbo

© Graham Sherwood 10/2016

Wide-Angle

We all come to this sea,

for the promise of pearls,

fabulous riches

found full five fathoms deep,

but our fine word nets naively

gather unwanted disciples,

tainted limpets that cynically cling,

invade our true sentiments

and weigh down our aspirations

with jealous avarice.

With acrid scowls, we

from beneath our cloaks

judge our fellow anglers’ casts,

berate their bountiful catch

and dismiss as luck

such just rewards.

© Graham Sherwood 10/2016

Dream Daemons

I have captured my daemons

near 5.45am

Sisyphus and Tantalus

caught like errant moths

wings plucked

imprisoned

 in the bell jar of my waking

stripped of nocturnal immortality, and

like Count Dracula,

forced to face their deathly dawn

chained together, like

crumbling funereal edifices

scotched teetering

upon the bottom of my bed

sallow and redundant

I, like a great white hunter

sit proudly between them both

relieved

but saddened at the same instant

to have finally deposed

their tormenting reign.

© Graham Sherwood 09/2016

Tango

Where certain things are concerned

our fleeting impasse

cries for help like a drowning child

a frenzied but short lived affair

before a millpond calm returns

to cloak the drama hidden underneath.

So, as we sit peacefully

both knowing, that

corpses eventually surface

to create a far more serious maelstrom,

we hurriedly gather rocks,

not for ammunition,

for ballast, 

to buy us time

to put on fine clothes

to plan a proper funeral

© Graham Sherwood 09/2016

Cricket Tea Haiku

Willow pattern cups

sliced cucumber sandwiches

scorer takes a break

© Graham Sherwood 09/2016

Road Trip

I’m going to take that road trip that I’ve dreamt of for so long,

search for myself and who knows what else might come along.

I’ll buy a bashed up Chevrolet, perhaps a vintage Oldsmobile

she’ll share the trip and keep me dry; I’ll call her “Sweet Lucille”.

There’ll be cool music on the radio, from lots of FM jocks

I’ll sing out loud, windows down, breeze blowing through my locks

You see I’ve also grown long hair, a nose ring and some tats

and one of those little goatee beards, perhaps a mite ersatz

First stop will be the desert, massive skies and cowboy rocks

meet the girl from Vanishing Point, wearing nothing but her socks

I’ll find some hippies, drop some tabs, pick fights in remote bars

drink thin beer, write great words and shout out to the stars

My clothes will smell but what the hell, no one will give a fuck

out on the Mesa, solitude, just me and my beloved truck

I’ll find what I think I’m looking for, nature’s hostile terrain

but if I miss the landmarks, I can always come again

You see it’s all about discovery, true reality, a test

Nature and the elements, a search to find what’s best

I know I’ll return a better man, at peace, calm, full of Zen 

Perhaps I’ll save up, chuck my job and do it again

But can I offer warnings, to others yearning for the road

to find themselves a Shangri-la, become no fixed abode

Don’t listen to your inner-self where common sense is sparse

Be like me, a pipe-dreamer, who stayed sat here on his arse

© Graham Sherwood 09/2016

Roller Coastal

Dull marine blues, wrestle grass-stain greens
these tumultuous, never-ending rolling horizons
rear up, to strike us down, fade
then slither beneath our keel and buck us skyward
on this perpetual ocean rodeo.

They come again, and again and again
but this time with teeth bared
lean watery shark’s fangs, drip
from the face of each ominous crashing wave,

there’ll be no let off this time
so we founder and fold.

© Graham Sherwood 09/2016

We?

I write,

You talk

I plead

You shun

I phone

You sleep

I walk

You think

I call

You dream

I drive

You hide

I search

You run

I cry

You smile

I fall

You scream

I die

You come

© Graham Sherwood 09/2016

Quest-ion

 The problem is, knowing where to look.

 You see,

 you’ll find no angels in the heavens,

 or saints adorning lofty pillars,

 no glowing robes, haloes, celestial dust

 fiery chariots for that matter.

 Because,

 saints stay mostly in the gutter,

 smell of vomit, piddle and stale tobacco,

 with black nails chipped, bitten

 beneath jaundiced nicotine.

 So, 

 the harder you look

 it becomes more impossible

 without the signs.

 You’ll never spot a saint or an angel,

 they do not wish to be found, but

 they will find you.

© Graham Sherwood 09/2016

Pics

The mountains are warm today,

friendly pale maroon with

richer oranges, scavenged

from a setting sun.

Yesterday they were proud

starched collar, godly grey

spanning the horizon

like a paper tear, badly repaired

untidy jags, in angry misshapen folds.

The locals say it will be cooler tomorrow

and the pics will recline bedecked

amongst white pillowed plumes.

© Graham Sherwood 08/2016

5-Bar Gait

Gingerly climbing the decrepit gate

it creaks then shudders, and

I bark my shin

before tumbling

into sun-baked tractor ruts.

Revealed,

the angry crimson slice

smarts keenly below my knee,

so I dab copious globules of spittle

onto the glistening wound.

Glancing through the hedge,

a similar shoe to mine

mouth agape, smiles back,

then and only then

do I see the funny side of this

ungainly fiasco.

© Graham Sherwood 08/2016