5-Bar Gait

Gingerly climbing the decrepit gate

it creaks then shudders, and

I bark my shin

before tumbling

into sun-baked tractor ruts.

Revealed,

the angry crimson slice

smarts keenly below my knee,

so I dab copious globules of spittle

onto the glistening wound.

Glancing through the hedge,

a similar shoe to mine

mouth agape, smiles back,

then and only then

do I see the funny side of this

ungainly fiasco.

© Graham Sherwood 08/2016

Summer's Lease

We were warned yesterday,
tomorrow will be the hottest of the year
and as docile supplicants,
we peel off our clothes
easily, like overripe fruit
sticky, vulgar,
already on the turn
and in this torpor, our satiety
flits briefly by,
shorter than a punch-line
leaving sweaty arses
pits and brows
to smoulder, leaking
passion by the pint.

© Graham Sherwood 07/2016

The Power and the Glorious

(the seamless movement of governmental responsibility).

Thus it shifts, unseen,
a gentle breathing out
warm words leave on a draught
a hum no more than that.

From man to woman
no sign given or expected, just
cold passion and bitter handshakes,
it is expected, nought else will do.

Fine intentions arrive muscles tensed,
disappointment mops its perspiring brow,
those nearest think hardest, to dance
and hotch closer to the fire.

Furrowed eyes around the world look on,
dice are tossed, cards are lain
influence masquerades as grains of sand
to spill through pocket holes.

The deck is scrubbed,
the rudder firm.

© Graham Sherwood 07/2016

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