Price of Love

(We are all trying to own something, no longer for sale).


You ask to come,
to talk to me
but have nothing to say
only something to sell.
There was a time, one brilliant year
forged with the intensity of desire
tempered only by fitful sleep
when we traded words,
special morsels, cherished by us both
each one a scent, a lacquer, saliva thin
licking each other until sated.
Now it’s a complicated alphabet
with garish prefixes,
suffixes that scratch,
each one priced with thinly disguised
labels of indifference.
How many you say?
How much I counter?


© Graham Sherwood 02/2015

Hippy in a Suit

(A reflection on the golden decade).


Such beautiful music and magical words,
1970 and I a pinstripe poet
living a three-piece life.
we weren’t afraid to show our bodies then,
peeling off our inhibitions with our clothes,
our emotions like the layers of an onion,
crying came easily, love easier still.


Our art, was more important than feelings,
being the broker of our relationships,
the chords and clever quips
twin sabres to slice our umbilical hearts,
but I never bled for long, cauterized
by the next Pied Piper, sweet of song
that bid me follow his tune.


So the beautiful entrancing babies
blossomed to become icons of the age,
I worshipped from a distance
and watched them butchered and drugged,
scarred by their greedy vicious muses,
lain stranded in a disappearing time,
they in Kaftans, me in a suit.



© Graham Sherwood 02/2015

OMG

(Know your own God).

We worship different prophets,
listen in earnest to their devout words
and marvel at the miracles,
that some say are smoke and mirrors.
So are we foolish to be fooled?
If there be gods, with real omnipotence,
then surely we would seek to bring them down
in favour of more friendly deities,
that sit with us, that feel our pain,
those gods that we can touch
in common dress, who whisper prayers
that all can hear, reason and embrace.
These gods are here, amongst us now
in plain apparel, soft of voice, rich
with love, ethereal.
So take the time, find the clues, search,
you may be closer to your god
but who would know?


© Graham Sherwood 01/2015

Tidings

(The senselessness of drowning at sea).

The sea, a vengeful bully
that we must fear, and
befriend at surest peril,
an evil pulsating heart
clawing, dragging on our shores
demanding libation,
at which we hide then curse in secret
later to pay foolishly
until, once sated
draped in brilliant slumber,
we dance amongst its cloak
a benign lace, wrinkled, in which
our angst is rinsed,
baptised, forgiven, delicately erased
from fickle memories
to further wait
the slavering hungry storm.



© Copyright Graham Sherwood 01/2015

Resolution

(the battle over good intentions).

The change to crisp chill air feels good,
before the damp malaise of January guilt
climbs onto my hunched shoulders
to whisper accusingly, repeatedly,
So what are you going to do?
How far can this go?
Only you can decide.
So is it ability or passion
diligence or desire, that
will garner a destination.
We’re all on a journey right?


© Graham Sherwood 01/2015

9th Age

(It is said that a man's life is measured in sevens).

It doesn't matter what I think
or how I choose to make my representations,
nobody notices that my clothes Ill-fit,
that my shoes are fastened with Velcro
and a few grey whiskers
stubbornly bristle on my throat.

I can stare at young pretty girls
without the fear of scowling reprisals
and face down youths
hell bent on mayhem,
the winces from my worn out limbs
go unnoticed and become tenable.

I have become a listener, not a debater
the slightest change In temperature or mood
draws me tortoise-like inside
this cringing geriatric carapace,
thus soon, I will be invisible
the insignificance my swan song.


© Graham Sherwood 01/2015

Rubicon Years

(New Year and shamefully morose).

From here my life's a comic strip
the future wrinkled, faded, a torn
final edition, an easy read, with
no surprises, none expected
the epilogue looming,
the good man wins
but dies trying.
My characters are now played out,
the hero, the villain, the lover, the fool
all back in wardrobe,
their destinies hang lifeless, hollow
as my ghosts foxed and burred,
hiding between my anniversaries,
I am soon to be a back number.


© Graham Sherwood 01/2015