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