Ghostwriting

A new day, bright, promising
I’m not yet out of the bedclothes
but our battle has begun.

 conflagration

You spin my legs awkwardly
and push my head into my hands

elbows on knees, submissive.

domination

I dare to look toward the ceiling
pleading, begging, asking the question

that prefaces each day.

supplication

Today we’re not in love
it will be atrocious, unclean, brutal

as you recoil, unforgiving, blank.

confrontation

I have told you many times,
it doesn’t have to be this way,

just help me, feed me, stroke me.

felicitation

I want to tell your story,
show the world your beauty, so

at least meet me half-way.

mediation

It’s useless, I’m already damaged

my wounds are too great,

your canon too overwhelming.

capitulation

© Graham Sherwood 11/2017

2041

Oh for the opportunity,

to let her look into my

nonagenarian eyes,

to hold my hand

and to hear me say,

“Well Bea, how’s your life going so far?”

And she’ll kneel close,

close enough for me

to feel her breath,

as she whispers the words,

“It’s going well Papa, really well”.

© Graham Sherwood 11/2017

id.

Upon death,

we become in spirit form

entities,

curated by the actions of our prior existence,

unseen, unheard, unnoticed, unknown.

Be vigilant, amongst

the bristling leaves of

a majestic tree,

the vengeful wrath of a turbulent storm

the comfortable roll of an ebbing tide,

the mesmeric crackle of a licking flame.

Be aware that

your spirit will mark you early

and tirelessly bide its time

for you to pass the mortal rubicon,

when it comes to claim

its rightful prize

quintessence.

© Graham Sherwood 11/2017

Octothorpes

justwriteproperlyffs

wheredidthisshitcomefrom

Imalreadypissedoffwithit

amItheonlyone?

nometoo

© Graham Sherwood 10/2017

Cranford Redux

Cowardly, I set off in the drizzle,
brief glimpses of the grey horizon
bleed onto the tarmac via the car's wipers
as I come to say my goodbyes.

Your charming cottage is now a hospital
a temporary bedsit
the clinical paraphernalia out of place.

Fate has cruelly sought to bring
a new grandson into this world
as you are about to leave it, but
with your typical farmer's daughter grit
almost spent, you endure, without
the nauseating medicines.

Comes the news and a newborn 
a beautiful wrinkled lad
a Caesarian  selfie
which we toast with weak tea and digestives
badly made by a good neighbour
which I notice you barely nibble.

Then the big surprise
you have been granted the honour
of selecting his name,
now carefully secreted 
in a golden envelope, Oscar-style,
one final loving gift from Ma.

For some barren levity 
I make humorous guesses
before all too soon
it's time to leave.

I kiss you one final time
bury my face in your pillows
brush your ear and whisper
my farewell.

I turn away
as from a beauty spot
to which I'll never return,
and phone a friend
to advise a visit
sooner than he had planned,
later I hear your secret choice,
one last memory of you

it's Leo

© Graham Sherwood  10/2017

Cranford

Unexpectedly, shockingly
the news that you were dying
came to me cold as mutton
whilst I was still in France
waiting for a ferry home.

The early morning’s sky blue sky
still blotched
with the blue/black inky clouds
of night, billowing
from a full nib dipped into water.

Then the sickness came,
the awful gut-gripped nausea
at the unjustness of it all,
then the anger, the spiteful anger
useless to an atheist like me,
left unable to beseech the heavens
with oaths and obscenities
fired towards a callous god.

So, I am left here
as the calm waves roll towards me,
edging ever closer, heaving
then meekly consumed,
beautifully composed clouds loom,
I sense I too am on a journey
steering your craft towards Valhalla,
but instead I am left here
with the rest of your sorry friends
cheated and bereft.

© Graham Sherwood  10/2017