Contract

(Suffer the children......).

I will not

answer your question today

as you appear so cocksure

about everything else in your life

and quickly tell me

not to preach long platitudes

that have no relevance

to you and your generation,

So I merely sit here

in sorrow

hearing your confident words

come from my mouth

albeit an age ago, and

grieve, knowing

how you will feel

when the question,

eventually unasked

is finally answered

at the precise moment

I am no longer able

to answer it for you

© Graham Sherwood 03/2017

Riff

(The rhythm will always get you).


The rhythms of my youth

indelibly embedded

cut with the precision of a surgeon

claw deeply,

at my gut strings

plucking vulture-like

at my yearning stranded senses

ripping voraciously

leaving me breathless

contorted, foetal, spent.

This heart-breaking ache

retreats like an assassin

until the next vicious chord

twists the scalpel further,

paring hidden signatures

with deft, anguished delight

the zeitgeist unleashed

© Graham Sherwood 03/2017

Wight

(First impressions of IOW).


Crumpled beneath troubled cumulus
the island
a badly shaken tablecloth
lies carelessly thrown,
its frayed edge chines
dipping their hems into the sea.

This wight,
a diamond crumb
harshly torn,
ripped from Hampshire's
fractured skirts,
crouches wind-blown-wild
as witches knickers like spinnakers
flap loudly in the trees.

To quench this tempest
dragon's teeth needles
slather in wild surf
and flippantly percolate the spume
skyward
in frittered foam cotton

© Graham Sherwood 03/2017

On taking the piss

The warmth of Monday’s bedclothes
clings desperately to my skin,
and irritated by the discomfort of crusty eyelashes
that resolutely refuse to open 
I fumble clumsily to produce
coffee aromas that will usher out last night’s smells.

One pace from the back door
I stand easy, caricaturing Henry VIII
legs akimbo, the early spring breezes
squirrelling though every aperture of my pyjamas,
with coffee warming my lips, breezes cooling my arse
I find this contrary state temporarily bearable.

Until I need to pee,
so having contemplated the journey to the compost heap
hazardous at best in broken sandals
I discount the notion, shame though
it’s supposed to be good for accelerating rot.

Then a shaft of brilliance, that
far outstrips the early hour
turns up an empty tuna can
I hastily rescue from the black recycling bin,
deposit my sample swiftly
and balance it carefully on the windowsill.

I once again stand one pace from the back door,
this time hunched as a pious monk
as Thursday’s coffee steams.
Spring breezes having grudgingly passed
the baton to half-hearted rain
which slowly and surely fills
the can of fishy piddle.

© Graham Sherwood 03/2017

Mall de Mer

Intensely polished emerald green tiles, shimmer
like gently rolling waves, bizarre shifting puddles of light
lit by myriad spotlight moons.

Heads entering this surf piecemeal seem shocked
to be treading water in this retail ocean,
a crazed and frantic juggle and bob.

Cast adrift at closing time, and
unsure of rescue they swarm together, fraught
and tightly clutch expensive lifebelt carrier-bags.

But there’s saviour,
landfall promised by a bistro’s neon sign, so
they strike out bravely for wine and sweet repast

© Graham Sherwood 03/2017

Center Parc

Lean Suffolk winds
gush and worry through these pencil pines
where squirrels live, content
among posh cabins, bikes and anoraks.

This orderly, numbered wooden village
laid out, clean, as a board game corpse
offers inquisitive urbans careful shelter
as they search for sanitised rurality.

Bravely, clutching site plans,
they venture warily, in search
of their promised wild,
the great outdoors securely fenced.

These pioneering urbans, migrants
from the Rohan, North Face or Barbour tribes
return Superdry to light their fires,
cook victuals foraged from the village store
and wrestle with the tricky wi-fi hub.

© Graham Sherwood 03/2017