The Topic of Cancer

(On the death of a friend).

Dark mahogany, tackiness,
the beguiling patina of old warm beer
lingers at our table like yesterday’s news,
it now appears we all heard simultaneously.
That ghoulish section, obituaries
we always head-to first, fearing the worst
sometimes relieved, more often saddened.
Fuck! John’s gone, fuck, fuck!
So now we’ve come together as we do
sat bowed like Trappists
in some badly rehearsed party game,
occasionally looking up
to throw unwanted questions with our eyes
before apologizing for the effort,
as they fall like John’s ashes to the floor.
Eventually our hooded eyes meet,
another one gone then,
with his japes and memories
still warm but filed away.
Those fucking manikins!

© Graham Sherwood 4/2013

Body Politic

(How power and position can destroy love).

This is miser’s meat, and
no banquet for a lusty soul,
when all along, with payment from a willing heart
better fare, shared
could have made a stronger love.
Once we both ate at Cupid’s table,
greedily pushing in the ruby berries
and seductive figs,
unashamed of our bloodied skins
writhing there, in such gluttonous ecstasy
we fell, sated, spent and gasping.
Now with fortunes changed
our insipid intellects intact,
breathing slowly, measured,
we crouch together face to face,
and watch our mutual grim-faced demise,
amongst the dwindling, starving rations of a love.

© Graham Sherwood 3/2013

Nuga

(A strange insomnia word)

The word nuga is offered to me
in exchange for sleep
and I rise to write it down,
only to be left mesmerized
by the cursor’s blink.
The word door being closed
I wait like a beggar, meek
foolish and goose-pimpled,
shivering,
asked out to play, but last to be picked
and still wondering,
Nuga?

© Graham Sherwood 2/2013

Pontification

(A papa resigns)

Aged opulence,
global recognition,
such crippling, aching tiredness of the soul,
life’s daily cilicio punctures every wavering prayer,
faith the burden of the addled mind
unfaithful to the faithful

© Graham Sherwood 02/2013

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