I threw you sweet words
as if feeding crumbs to wild birds,
from broad, square hands
their beautiful biographies etched and hewn.
Now your cackling howls of sarcasm
swirl around my ears,
like ravenous crows
dive-bombing my ego
intent on devastation.
I cower on one bloodied knee
rifling each pocket
for the mirror that will repel you,
if this is your love, you should see it,
in reflection
my passion, ripped carrion
under your fierce talons
© Graham Sherwood 2/2014
Friday, February 14, 2014
Sunday, February 09, 2014
Harrowden Lane
Local russet coloured stone tops our bridge
It crumbles freely as we poke the aging mortar
with the lethal jagged spears
of our chewed biros,
the blue/grey patina on the capstones
smudged with generations of penknife graffiti,
set out like family trees.
I’d forgotten the boredom between trains,
although I’m sure it never ever rained then
and how often we’d stare back along the lines
the perfect perspective
to the other bridge,
the village station
where our innocent mischief
would not be ignored,
“what you buggers up to”?
hence, we, all four,
preferred our bridge a mile away.
Those long hot, sticky summer days
We’d ring our eyes with cupped fingers
like curled leaf
binoculars, and stare like Jack Hawkins
into the distant shimmering heat haze
that we imagined to be fog,
sure as shit the Bismark would come
rolling spectre-like beneath our feet.
Bang on time,
if we’d had a clock we’d have known
a distant grey shadow filling the down arch of the station bridge.
Train, yes! train, bloody train
Steam? Yes bloody steam!
action stations!
Who’s turn?
take mine as well
and four pennies lying flat
like chocolate buttons,
tremble on the bristling line.
Up, and our heads dangle over the rough-hewn parapet,
first one to move is chicken.
A Brit, 70012
And John of Gaunt thunders through.
Derek is the chicken,
says he slipped
whilst our hot faces stink of steam and grease.
Sod it,
already got it,
underlined here in ink.
There’s no squash left
and only crusts with the faintest blush of jam.
“I’m off after the next one”.
And we three secretly conspire
to hold Derek above the parapet
a cruel forfeit to repay his dare.
© Graham Sherwood 2/2014
It crumbles freely as we poke the aging mortar
with the lethal jagged spears
of our chewed biros,
the blue/grey patina on the capstones
smudged with generations of penknife graffiti,
set out like family trees.
I’d forgotten the boredom between trains,
although I’m sure it never ever rained then
and how often we’d stare back along the lines
the perfect perspective
to the other bridge,
the village station
where our innocent mischief
would not be ignored,
“what you buggers up to”?
hence, we, all four,
preferred our bridge a mile away.
Those long hot, sticky summer days
We’d ring our eyes with cupped fingers
like curled leaf
binoculars, and stare like Jack Hawkins
into the distant shimmering heat haze
that we imagined to be fog,
sure as shit the Bismark would come
rolling spectre-like beneath our feet.
Bang on time,
if we’d had a clock we’d have known
a distant grey shadow filling the down arch of the station bridge.
Train, yes! train, bloody train
Steam? Yes bloody steam!
action stations!
Who’s turn?
take mine as well
and four pennies lying flat
like chocolate buttons,
tremble on the bristling line.
Up, and our heads dangle over the rough-hewn parapet,
first one to move is chicken.
A Brit, 70012
And John of Gaunt thunders through.
Derek is the chicken,
says he slipped
whilst our hot faces stink of steam and grease.
Sod it,
already got it,
underlined here in ink.
There’s no squash left
and only crusts with the faintest blush of jam.
“I’m off after the next one”.
And we three secretly conspire
to hold Derek above the parapet
a cruel forfeit to repay his dare.
© Graham Sherwood 2/2014
Friday, January 03, 2014
Precipice
With the slightest flicker of cold eyes
my seppuku is complete, and I fall,
honour restored, my salvation intact.
But what really kills me
really twists the knife
are the wet slate tears
that you allow to come, witness
for my prosecution.
We eagerly devoured ourselves,
gorged,
any ration being useless
until our bowl of desire, once brimming,
was left only with pallid dregs
flecked in the cracked shallows.
Our pathetic disbelief
that this banquet could endure,
is scorned upon by our jurors
and I am the one to notice first.
My love has staled,
yours still blooms
and I can no longer satisfy,
this tragic appetite.
© Graham Sherwood 01/2014
my seppuku is complete, and I fall,
honour restored, my salvation intact.
But what really kills me
really twists the knife
are the wet slate tears
that you allow to come, witness
for my prosecution.
We eagerly devoured ourselves,
gorged,
any ration being useless
until our bowl of desire, once brimming,
was left only with pallid dregs
flecked in the cracked shallows.
Our pathetic disbelief
that this banquet could endure,
is scorned upon by our jurors
and I am the one to notice first.
My love has staled,
yours still blooms
and I can no longer satisfy,
this tragic appetite.
© Graham Sherwood 01/2014
Sunday, December 08, 2013
Lux
(An observation on the Mandela issue and collective grief)
Can a light be born?
It seems it merely becomes apparent
as we begin to notice, first its light (ness)
then its growth in power, illuminating
both ourselves and those around us.
Light can be dangerous too,
when we need a dark corner in which to hide
yet comforting when we need to shine.
Of course there are occluded days
when light is hidden from our view
and we feel that such a time must last forever,
then the clouds clear and once again it beams
a rainbow through the tears.
How old is light and can it shine for all time?
Perhaps it loses some intensity but gains a golden serenity
a face that makes us stand erect
and proud to feel its glow.
But light can die too
as all things born surely must
leaving us waiting for a new dawn.
© Graham Sherwood 12/2013
Can a light be born?
It seems it merely becomes apparent
as we begin to notice, first its light (ness)
then its growth in power, illuminating
both ourselves and those around us.
Light can be dangerous too,
when we need a dark corner in which to hide
yet comforting when we need to shine.
Of course there are occluded days
when light is hidden from our view
and we feel that such a time must last forever,
then the clouds clear and once again it beams
a rainbow through the tears.
How old is light and can it shine for all time?
Perhaps it loses some intensity but gains a golden serenity
a face that makes us stand erect
and proud to feel its glow.
But light can die too
as all things born surely must
leaving us waiting for a new dawn.
© Graham Sherwood 12/2013
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
Ballet du Jardin
I sit amongst the slow death of autumn,
mourner for the splendid season passed,
still warm, but draped with funereal shades
and the keen astringent tincture of musk.
Like the wily fox
a breeze steals between some broken slats
carefully, but slowly, circling the listless leaves
then with a single bark
stampedes the cackling henflakes into a panicked spin
rising up, now plunging, crashing
like skating claws that scar the garden fence.
Empty flowerpots tack and yaw
Like paper boats atop this maelstrom
Then spin noisily away to safe harbour.
Sated, the zephyr idly slinks away
to leave a magic morsel for my amusement.
Two brittle-slim willow leaves hang impossibly
in plain sight, an illusion, tumbling like gymnasts
or bronzed ballerinas held in time, performing
on the slightest line of spider’s web
puppets in a sallow requiem.
© Graham Sherwood 11/2013
mourner for the splendid season passed,
still warm, but draped with funereal shades
and the keen astringent tincture of musk.
Like the wily fox
a breeze steals between some broken slats
carefully, but slowly, circling the listless leaves
then with a single bark
stampedes the cackling henflakes into a panicked spin
rising up, now plunging, crashing
like skating claws that scar the garden fence.
Empty flowerpots tack and yaw
Like paper boats atop this maelstrom
Then spin noisily away to safe harbour.
Sated, the zephyr idly slinks away
to leave a magic morsel for my amusement.
Two brittle-slim willow leaves hang impossibly
in plain sight, an illusion, tumbling like gymnasts
or bronzed ballerinas held in time, performing
on the slightest line of spider’s web
puppets in a sallow requiem.
© Graham Sherwood 11/2013
Sunday, November 10, 2013
Event
The pain, a stiletto, a scalpel, a betrayal
The fall, an avalanche, a demolition, a house of cards
The cry, white noise, soundless, unheard
The visions, mother, father, family
The sound-scene, measured voices, sirens, wind
The sensations, massage, shock, wrestling limbs
The audience, eyes staring, bright lights, electronica
The wait, first hour crucial, lifeless, Houdini
The outcome?
© Graham Sherwood 11/2013
The fall, an avalanche, a demolition, a house of cards
The cry, white noise, soundless, unheard
The visions, mother, father, family
The sound-scene, measured voices, sirens, wind
The sensations, massage, shock, wrestling limbs
The audience, eyes staring, bright lights, electronica
The wait, first hour crucial, lifeless, Houdini
The outcome?
© Graham Sherwood 11/2013
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