Fucked

I cannot make that sort of love anymore
not the sort of love you seek, need,
the sort of love young bodies make
violent, all-in, reckless selfish love.
No those days have gone for good
your young smooth flesh
a peach’s bloom
down amongst your sex
hair to your waist lashing out
my face your face soaking wet.
Now it’s feels wrong 
to ponder such a scene
to remember a young girl’s form
so eager, earnest, care abandoned
love masked as sex
insane unpunctuated fucking
that only adolescence may enjoy
I cannot make that sort of love
anymore.

 © Graham Sherwood 06/2018

Parenthesis

A father is a redundant lover
seamlessly displaced by his progeny,
(a blinkered provider, worker, 
absent for many of life’s milestones,
a time-poor spectator to growing lives
a parallel source 
of endless and unconditional love)
a hunter a gatherer of resources
a hoarder of unused love
destined to be reserved
and poured on the heads
of his progeny’s progeny
finally to become once more
an unconditional lover
circle complete.

© Graham Sherwood 06/2018

Reprise

You know that sort of mysterious dusk
when the paling blue sky of a warm day
becomes a tranquil sea
and the few clouds left behind
form south-seas islands or 
volcanic mountain ranges,
It’s then, with my good friends
cabernet sauvignon and merlot
that I set sail, the mild Levante on my shoulder 
to float above the tuillieres
steering my course westward 
and try to live this day over again.

© Graham Sherwood 06/2018

The Tyndall Effect, (why kingfishers aren't blue)

Last week’s candles now look a sorry state, but
the tardy conkers will prize this rain,
I pick my steps gingerly, on and off the path
a carpet of sodden cherry blossom
subtle rouge stains, bleeding
into the darker puddles. 
Ferns begin to unroll their tongues
eagerly licking at my bare shins,
the taller grasses also bathe my knees
leaving seeds that lodge between my toes
they itch mercilessly.

Three times a week 
I take my usual rest on a sleeper bench
to scan the stream for the kingfisher,
this morning the muddied current
is swift, the sluices must be open.
I saw one once, just once,
last summer
a magical piercing flash
arrowing just above low water,
breath-taking,
so, I wait.

© Graham Sherwood 06/2018

Koan on Space

Consider the humble ring doughnut.
Is the space in the centre 
a part of the doughnut,
or is it simply nothing at all?
Without it
the doughnut cannot be a ring,
so does the space really exist
and how does the space in the centre
affect the doughnut’s taste?

© Graham Sherwood 05/2018

Kings Cross

Steam no longer hisses here
save for the baristas churning latte milk,
no more crunching bogies grind
just the rasp of Javan beans,
no bouldering blue grey plumes
to avalanche the rib-arched span,
body odours, none of coal
save the chargrill smell of foreign grub
no crinolines nor travel trunks
no crisp-dressed porters doffing caps,
but ensconced within the parcel yard
a whistle blows, a thunderer, time to depart.

© Graham Sherwood 05/2018

Gullabaloo

Sinister gulls that have never yet tasted the sea
bicker and squabble in chaotic aerial combat
wheeling diving rising banking 
like wind-blown litter
scavenging the frozen peas, thrown for the ducks.
Their frenetic cacophony scratches the air
that retaliates with violent twists and lashes
blowing food scraps towards the reeds
and the grateful cowering waterfowl.
As the miscreants disperse unsatisfied
and the afternoon’s melancholy 
re-settles like a veil to pacify the lake
only the cartoon hoots and tentative trills 
of the water-born traffic
break the sultry humour.

© graham sherwood 04/2018 

Glocean X

A man pointed to the water, 
nodded sagely and said.
“Two oceans meet there
off Cape Leeuwin, 
there’s even a sign”.

How foolish.

For water has no boundary
cannot be marked by any man,
has no shape no form no line,
knows not of the ocean
nor sea, river, brook or spring.

But man must mark his maps
draw his imaginary lines
control what cannot be tamed,
he is content
to point out to the water
and call its name.

© Graham Sherwood 04/2018

Lines X

I can only draw them
listings, diagonal with dates beneath,
faceless names that tug my heart
William, James, Sarah, Charles
Mary, Ann.

No pictures, no weathered creases
searching eyes or family noses
indelible identifiable,
John, Harry, Annie, William, Elizabeth.

No memories recounted, visits made
habits mocked achievements scored,
names repeated, infant deaths, census scribble
Dorothy, Mary, William again, Margaret, Harry too.

The ones I met but didn’t ask,
didn’t make the time, unimportant then
no holiday postcards no box brownie snaps
Judith, Diana
and me!

Graham Sherwood 04/2018

ClashX

You stop talking
the conversation ends
with the finality of a guillotine’s drop,
a clean decisive silence
leaving no room for doubt
it’s done.

Like Pontius Pilate
our hand washing commences,
before either of us withdraws
a defiant embarrassed impasse 
heats our faces, and
with perfect synchronicity 
we fade.

As I gingerly rake through the embers
careful not to fan the flames,
I search for reasons, causes, fault
but it’s useless
everything has been consumed
including hope.

© Graham Sherwood 03/2018

In-transit X

The old van has a bilious rumble tick-over
and an curdling kerbside breath to match,
a week’s papers litter the dash
which sports its own grimy plum-skin bloom
a week’s pack-up wrappers complete the tableau.
Three grey hoodies sit abreast up front
a coffee, a fag, the Sun
looking and feeling like the day
has callously caught them unawares.
The clean-me cartoon is on its way
to being submerged once again
and only three scratched hub caps match,
the other is in the undergrowth
on the slip at J13.
A paint job, the colour of old snow
Polar White
is caked in that new sticky shit
they put on the roads
to stop them icing over.
It’ll be fully light soon
already the sticky shit burnishes
the radiator in weak sun
and two of the hoodies
shift and rasp a fart.

© Graham Sherwood 03/2018

Beauty-Form-Vision X

Each individual piece of a life, is
cut, shaped, coloured, placed
carefully into a beautiful ordered
syncopated pattern, in balance
to please the eye and salve the heart,
life glistens, is healthy, contented, calm.

With the slightest breath
something moves the lens
a merest quarter-turn, less
so the scene fractures, becomes bizarre
disrupted, we are bereft, lifeless.

Life will adjust, re-focus to the new,
angles tuck and fit, colours swirl to merge
form fresh hues, tapestries re-hang
warmth returns, pulses slow.

Hold life’s kaleidoscope carefully
keep it safe.

© Graham Sherwood 03/2018

Collateral Damage X

You have such a latent anger
a furnace of swirling bile,
simmering, expectant
an ugly potion disguised by the camouflage
of past injustices,
stoked by a splintering ladle
upon which forgotten battles are etched.
I am too old
and my generation
learned a different tongue,
I bathed in optimistic waters
embraced the ebb and flow of chance,
my scars healed,
yours did not,
but once again
await their chance to spew,
erupting in the fresh air of opinion
darkening the skies, with
charcoal breath and choking
our fresh green shoots with cynicism
and shallow pathos.

© Graham Sherwood 03/2018

Love 2059X

We’ll never touch
even if you wish it,
the signals are blurring
the outcomes vague
reality slips to mere perception 
better safe than sorry, we say.

I have become weak, unsure
so distance is my safety net
I have desire, a piercing ache
but safely and sadly quenched
so not to draw attention.

This will be our union
notional, disparate.

I love you.

© Graham Sherwood 03/2018

Thunderflies

In perfect aspect for the sun

the waist-high corn dry grass

crackles as we stealthily wade,

throwing up a firework display

of pale green grasshoppers

that pop into the air

in random arcs.

I’m bothered by thunderflies

drenching on my sweaty neck

and captivated by your lithe white legs

that carefully stalk, dressage fashion

through this wheaten sea,

the hem of your dress

skimming the feathered ears.

At the stream you are soon naked,

I sit next to your discarded clothes

now ignoring the thunderflies’ torture

intrigued by the curves arches and folds

your bathing body contorts into

stroked by the gentle ranunculus.

You bid me come, but

I must only spectate, to capture

this perfect moment that I realise is unique,

we will make love, for

this stream is indeed our rubicon

both realising things will have changed forever

by the time we journey home.

© Graham Sherwood 03/2018