Amused Medusa

(A study on youthful beauty)

It’s the way she turns

that paralyzes me,

such subtle movement

subconsciously

mercury sleek, languid,

torturing me

for straying too close

to her hypnotic

shimmering curves.

With a near imperceptible

breath of a tremble,

slim balletic muscles form

to ripple lithely, trilling

through those perpetual lines,

long

body perfect

sand dunes,

elongated,

lightly swept

no sculptor’s hand

could fashion finer,

eyes granite

lips porcelain

breasts marble

sex chalk,

each curve and fissure

set fair,

secrets kept.

© Graham Sherwood 03/2016

Koan on nature

(Just look up)

Compare the beauty
of the oceans, mountains
and the clouds.
Each cast their spell
to fix our eyes, slow our breath
and weigh our jaws,
but does either have a master?




© Graham Sherwood 03/2016

Plane

(Common senses)

We are constant beings
most of us,
steady of eye
of heart of custom
so we fear.
Memories gild
our lack of bravery,
those important
recollections
that keep us warm,
safely constant
and afraid.
We become friends
with fear,
clasp hands with death
itself, go quietly
resolved
but ever constant.


© Graham Sherwood 03/2015

Crem Trio

I’ll lead you in
with Miserere
soaring trebles
to bend your heads
tingling hairs
you are supposed
to be sad to see me go.

In reverie
the cello and the harp
thistle and the rose,
here’s where you cry,
not for me
the music you fool,
blink quickly
curse me slowly.

As you shuffle out
glad its over,
just the awkward
shake of hands to go,
I’ll hang back
alone
to catch the strumming
chords on
Hergest Ridge.


Graham Sherwood 03/2015

Boxed Ears

This room is full of ears
unseen hidden but
their aural white noise hiss
strokes my face in anticipation
begging me for a word
I speak
Friend
the offering is rolled
into corduroy rhythms
pitching and yawing
for all its worth, tossed
through a silent maelstrom
drowned within a counterfeit buzz
a further contact
velvet now
and the room breathes
Enter



© Graham Sherwood 02/2016

Pro Bellus

Me,
easily a misanthrope
ugly masculinity
stinks,
paints its skin
and spits venom
through gritted teeth.
No
give me beauty, where
I will immerse in
form and curves,
softly accented voices,
graceful limbs
and lithe fingers,
skilled, manipulative
sure.
In this bliss
my gnawing treatise
will splash out
onto the page,
a helpless ejaculation
rubicon of joyous ink
embellished with nothing
more than nubile juice
to watermark its authenticity.





© Graham Sherwood 02/2016

Paper Cuts

You hold my attention
with both hands
as if cradling a cup
brimful,
careful
not to let my eye contact spill.
but the drone of your magpiety
begins to seep into my sense,
mentally I begin to fold,
an origami defence
fashioned quickly to
a blank prayer book.
Our beliefs are enemies
who have never met,
despised images never seen,
dogma unheard.
but my paper creases
become sword cuts
to your fumbling fingers,
my angular points
spears for stabbing your
feverish eyes
thus as paper folded tight
I am defended
albeit blank,
speechless.


© Graham Sherwood 02/2016