Paper Cuts

You hold my attention
with both hands
as if cradling a cup
brimful,
careful
not to let my eye contact spill.
but the drone of your magpiety
begins to seep into my sense,
mentally I begin to fold,
an origami defence
fashioned quickly to
a blank prayer book.
Our beliefs are enemies
who have never met,
despised images never seen,
dogma unheard.
but my paper creases
become sword cuts
to your fumbling fingers,
my angular points
spears for stabbing your
feverish eyes
thus as paper folded tight
I am defended
albeit blank,
speechless.


© Graham Sherwood 02/2016

Card

You cannot know
isn't that the point
anonymity?
and, I'm not sure
how you'd react
if you did know.
Things would change
irrevocably
I'm sure
and I'm not prepared
to lose you,
the tiny piece
of you
I do have.
So wonder on,
be curious
tormented
angry.
Should you ask me,
outright
face to face,
I'll laugh
look you in the eyes
smile, and say
you might be right.
safe in the knowledge,
no-one believes
a card.


© Graham Sherwood 02/2016

Puthering

Here hangs an unlikely chill,
come ephemeral clouds,
myriad gnats
to dance a busy stitch
around the warming air,
ecstasy unknown to man
futile crazed chaos
frantic,
before the fickle drizzle
casts each one asunder




© Graham Sherwood 02/2016

Sole to Soul

My beard itches as I ponder 1 Across
and subconsciously begin to stroke my chin,
awaiting your admonishment.
I notice spectral breath
on the kitchen bay,
a familiar handprint dissipates
occasionally badly stacked pans shift in a cupboard
through yet another sleepless night.
The stairs may creak one step behind mine
or a phantom chisk on the gravel path
keens to my ear,
sometimes a pencil, amongst the
scattered cushions I never use
and of course the voices.


© Graham Sherwood 01/2016

Thief

Circling like a cur
shunning our glow,

the music fades
to a faraway hum,

with belly to the earth
leering closer,

long dark nights spill
into morose mornings,

the stage now empty
actors gone,

thus disarmed
we bed,

no crowd applause
whistles or bravos,

that time is here
and before we wake,

January kills



© Graham Sherwood 01/2016

Zeit

Fragile
stilt-heeled, silver skinned,
one flash painted brow
shapeshifting
in an awkward, angular stance,
broken, reformed
re-broken,
museo


© Graham Sherwood 01/2016

Moment

I can hear you saying it
out here through the foggy nethers.

Where did he learn that from?

A simple line of words
well beyond his seven years.

Grandpa Bill
of course, that was one of his.

You stare long at the child
before looking up
skyward,

and I know you can't remember
when you last spoke my name.



© Graham Sherwood 01/2016