Submission

(Just a particularly disturbing thought and its consequence).

News of your death will hasten my demise.
We always thought that stress would be the problem
and tried to keep our feelings on an even plane,
each helping the other until contention came knocking,
knowing when to back down to let the ripples quietly disperse,
sharing our triumphs like a chocolate biscuit
and facing the challenges like mountaineers,
one each end of the fraying rope, trusting the other.
But now I’m told that you have gone,
swiftly, with no warning
leaving but your fading whispered echo
“I’m sorry”.
Yes, news of your death brings such desolation
and it will kill me.

© Graham Sherwood 1/2013

No Echo

(Commentary on fallen idols and discraced heroes).

I can no longer recognize my gods from demons,
and heroes too, now sadly hang askew
their bowing heads from dusty peeling frames,
like sepia outlaws of the wildest west
glare passively over my confusion.
Memories depart like broken friendships,
fractured and unrecognisable, vague as strangers
who cannot look me in the eye,
or offer simple kindnesses unbidden
but steer wide passage by my perplexed stare.


© Graham Sherwood 1/2013

The Man and the Willow

(Fine thoughts whilst coppicing a willow).

The boy climbed warily amongst the branches of the tree
She, his mother asked him what he was doing
I must cut a stick, for all boys need a stick
And what will you do with it, she enquired
I will slay the bears that live in the forest.

The young man climbed swiftly, ape-like into the tree
She, his wife asked him why he was up the tree
I must cut two sticks, for my son and I
Why do you each need a stick, she laughed
We are going to hunt the bears that live in the forest

The man perched the ladder carefully between the branches of the tree
His wife shouted, be careful, you’re not as young as you were
I must cut five sticks for my grandsons and me
Why do you need so many sticks, she frowned
There are many bears in the forest to hunt

The old man sat in the chair and watched his small boys scale the tree
He shouted to cut only the strongest straightest sticks
You must cut four, one for each of you
What about a stick for you too Grandfather, they called
We still need you to show us where the bears hide in the forest.

The four young men sat in the tree, motionless as crows,
Each with a freshly cut, strong, straight, stick
The eldest holding an extra stave
None looked out toward the forest and its bears
All stared glumly at the empty garden chair

© Graham Sherwood 01/2013

iSight

(Observations in the January Sales).

I knew that you would be there,
somewhere
amongst the throbbing music
and glittering lights,
but at first I couldn’t find you.
There were old people, wearied
and many beautiful young creatures too
each flirting with their kind
but you weren’t amongst them
in their camouflage.
Then, as often in a dream
your apparition emerged,
no longer vague, formless
but bright, vibrant, intoxicating,
wearing all your Christmas gifts
at the same time.

© Graham Sherwood 12/2012

And Trio

Fate called whilst I was sleeping,
and took your hand
and tried to pay me with warm memories
and future fiction
in exchange for your company.

You were powerless to resist,
and looked to leave
and mouthed a feeble parting kiss
and held my trembling temple
with cold and lifeless fingers

Fate threw me a satisfied smile,
and hid you from my view
and mesmerized my thoughts
and lifted you to its breast
to sever the chord between us.

In the silence of the night,
and when two minds are better than one
and crackling leaves need kicking
and my wrinkled hand searches
I miss you.

© Graham Sherwood 12/2012

Mixed Blessings

He watches starlings darkening the sky in a flocking balletic curve
and with two fingers to his lips sends them his gentle benison.
She seated naked at her cello sends chords across the room
that brush his shoulders and shake the somnolence of his stance.
Without a sound the black cloud plummets to its roost, like death
there is no premonition only voids to fill and tears to shed.
As curtains draw, her notes too will sink to low esteem in melancholy
pale thighs embrace spruce shoulders and the languorous bow moans.

© Graham Sherwood 12/2012

Our proverbial sins

Your stitch is late
and I am lost,
the seam of my avarice
spills to the floor
with my heart.

And from my lifeless palm
the dove of wrath,
set free for further mayhem,
plots from the box
unblinking callously.

You, your milky tears
and useless pride,
are left behind to weep and sweep
the litter of my errors
like life’s janitor.

So where are those riches
that were promised you?
Sowed in the earth
with undue lusty haste,
and no sign of dividend.

Now richly sated, you
once the glutton for my love,
come timely late
to light my pyre aflame
with your licking tongue.

Blind foolish envy
is new currency for your loss,
I wait, to calculate my debt
to eternity’s account
abacus in hand.

My demonic choir is laughter,
performed with barren sloth,
cynical, thin, enduring,
to hex my empty torso
on each step to paradise.

© Graham Sherwood 11/2012