Chronokinesist

Time is not constant
although many consider it so,
it has moods, behaviours, consequences
that we may bend and fashion,
stretch and mould to our will.
Time moves warily through its environment,
becoming cool at dawn, lazy when warmed
erratic in the rain and clumsy in dense fog.
The speed and passage of time can be varied,
during the fleeting darkness of night
or the drudgery of the ambient day
and we may use it as our servant.
So learn to master time,
harness it to your will,
use time for its natural purpose.

© Graham Sherwood 02/2017

Stampede

The last parched fragile leaf

brown, contorted agonized

becomes dust between our palms.

Stop

We cleanse ourselves with venomous spittle soap

then rinse, cursing with the snarled sermon mantra

of our new–found addled beliefs.

Stop

Gorging on this banal scripture rhetoric.

we are oblivious to the putrid charcoal toxin

that cloaks and stings our blinded eyes,

Stop

With torn ears bleeding

they drown beneath a white noise music genre

purporting counterfeit realities

Stop

Families become vacant strangers

we friend, best friend, unfriend

with desolate alacrity

Stop

Our artificial intelligent limbs spasm

rust, dull, contort and curl

we become leaf, we become dust

Stop

© Graham Sherwood 02/2017

Sunday School

In the oppressive torpidity
of unseasonal February sunshine,
three overdressed tired old men
squat like fat budgerigars
on the overpainted wrought iron bench.

Like mothers, shooing away their young
they occasionally shuffle their Velcro feet
to discourage the encroaching fat pigeons
intent on a squabble
amongst last night’s fast food detritus.

One man a passive Attenborough
considers the irritating persistence
of the scavenging birds, afloat
in ketchup-bloodied polystyrene barges

A second enviously regards
the reckless lunging tackles
made by schoolboy footballers
caged within the abandoned tennis court

The third stares intently
at the young girl’s knickers on the swing
with the considered appreciation
of a competition judge.

© Graham Sherwood 02/2017

Bagatelle

Watch me spin and collide, tumbling
through the bagatelle of life,
sometimes floating serenely
my generosity lavishly dispensed,
before stumbling, without
the advantage a blind man enjoys
thrust into the suffocating darkness.
I perform with the casual urgency
of a ringmaster’s clown
flapping gamely,
an urgent paper message
lost, unnoticed between
the hungry spines of a drain.
So inevitably I plummet,
to land heavily upon the welcoming
silt of insignificance,
destined to stare back at the pinprick stars
named hope and ambition
and wonder why?

© Graham Sherwood 02/2017

Carillon

Our muddy boots kick up the
funereal reek of autumn's late demise
still festering under damp blown leaf litter,
prisoner to the webs, finger twigs and grasping briars.

We are stopped in our tracks,
a pedigree of church bells
arranged like raucous choristers
tumbles across the shallow valley
and shivers briskly along its watercourse.

This clarion water music
having chartered the freshening breeze
puppy-licks our faces
then clatters by like a schoolboy late for lunch.

As virgins, we sigh and greedily milk the notes
that squander wantonly between
three bowed willows that line the narrow causeway

It ceases suddenly
and we wait like mourners
blowing into our scarves
as if to rekindle embers
hoping for a repechage

© Graham Sherwood 02/2017

Migrant

I left without a second thought

it was time to go, eighteen and in love

the ties snapped easily, no backward glances

no goodbyes, handshakes, kisses

we didn’t do things like that then.

“Your sons and your daughters are beyond your command

your old road is rapidly aging”.

Near fifty years on

I’ve returned discreetly, stealthily, unrecognised

treading on familiar places, an archaeologist

in search of young faces from the past

I know I will not find.

“The changing of sunlight to moonlight, reflections of my life

oh how they fill my eyes”.

But I must still walk these ancient lanes

search out the indelible aromas

of my childhood, that have lingered, trapped

within the mortared walls, the bark of trees

at verges, in gutters, down drains.

“Ah, but I may as well try and catch the wind”

Latent life forces have drawn me back

to demand this duel, unfinished business,

paraffin, fresh bread, newsprint, coal sacks

chip paper, leather, cobwebs, Brylcreem,

corned beef, bleach, Double Diamond.

“Dance trees and a winter bird, fly home, we're here again, here again”.

I must be wary of becoming inebriated, light-headed

as curious locals cast worried glances,

a stranger! here? lost! hurry without checking their stride,

they see a splinter festering that will soon be gone

not knowing I will be compelled to return.

“And if a time comes when I'm feeling better I'll be back like the birds in the Spring”.

© Graham Sherwood 02/2017

(lyrics credited to Bob Dylan, The Hollies, Donovan, Blue Aeroplanes Kate and Anna McGarrigle)