Frown

(A quick observation from a TV programme).

eyes etched with regret

overpainted, suspicious

work face of the whore


© Graham Sherwood 07/ 2016

Scar

(written after listening to a WW1 survivor recorded in 1980).

Of course we were bloody afraid
squatting for what seemed like hours,
and hours, the worst bit
waiting on a bloody policeman’s whistle
to squeal out our advance,
one last thought of home
mum, dad, Doris and Bill
and there it is!
at last, we’re Up!
I hope it’s quick, whichever way it goes
and doesn’t hurt too much.
Our young captain called us heroes
but he was the first to go down
like a sack of spuds,
tripped me over, cut my lip
on his shattered helmet
poor bugger.
Don’t listen to them
if they tell you we ran,
we trudged, slowly,
stumbling through a bastard scream
waiting to be caught
by the buzz and ping
and the searing pain.
I’m ashamed to say I was lucky,
my knee’s fucked but  I got back
unlike Frank and Harry and Shiner!
All I brought home was a memory,
of that Captain’s helmet
and the scar on my mouth.
I see his face not mine
every day
when I shave.

© Graham Sherwood 07/2016

Plebiscite

(The devious job of currying favour).

These are clever, clever men

and we must choose, between

those who pour a cat’s saucer

of coddled threats

dressed up as promises

that we might naively lap

or others, who

offer fellatio with a shark,

slithering between our lips

leprous barbed poison

to sting our lips,

harpoons that reel us in,

to riddle our guts

through a colander of lies.

© Graham Sherwood 06/2016

Curtain Call

Once delivered
like unexpected gifts
it's easy to read your lies, they,
transparent as your vanity
ripple like shallow puddles,
a cynical fathomless mirage
as you cry profusely.

So I melt, alarmingly
butter not ice,
ready and too willing to mop tears,
massage your fragile ego
with searching finger-sized platitudes
and pledge allegiance
for just one more day.

© Graham Sherwood 06/2016

Guardian

(An observation on youth and beauty and the need to protect it).

Guiltily I watch you

peeling off your clothes

like a chrysalis,

pale bone china skin

newly curved and shaped,

taut as if shading itself

from this ruined world,

so I swear to protect you

to guide your words

and keep watch on the pathways

where you tread,

I’ll take the arrows

bullets even

all for the reward

of bathing your alabaster skin

with these old eyes

© Graham Sherwood 06/2016

Darts

(Despite my clumsy efforts, the blue tits manage to thrive).

Now fully occupied

the tit box on the garage wall

is visited every minute,

blue and yellow darts

in and out

a bullseye every time

all launched from an oche

the old contortia

only thirty feet away.

They pause only for the camouflage

of the Russian vine to

peel back in the lazy breeze,

its leafy sun hat brim

their moderating traffic light,

opening and closing

in perfect rhythm.

Here they come again.

© graham Sherwood 05/2016

Koan on Aqua

Spring pool stream river sea ocean

why is man’s endless fascination

with their many shimmering faces

surpassed only by his wonderment

at their secret hidden depths?

© Graham Sherwood 05/2016