Koan on Space

Consider the humble ring doughnut.
Is the space in the centre 
a part of the doughnut,
or is it simply nothing at all?
Without it
the doughnut cannot be a ring,
so does the space really exist
and how does the space in the centre
affect the doughnut’s taste?

© Graham Sherwood 05/2018

Kings Cross

Steam no longer hisses here
save for the baristas churning latte milk,
no more crunching bogies grind
just the rasp of Javan beans,
no bouldering blue grey plumes
to avalanche the rib-arched span,
body odours, none of coal
save the chargrill smell of foreign grub
no crinolines nor travel trunks
no crisp-dressed porters doffing caps,
but ensconced within the parcel yard
a whistle blows, a thunderer, time to depart.

© Graham Sherwood 05/2018

Gullabaloo

Sinister gulls that have never yet tasted the sea
bicker and squabble in chaotic aerial combat
wheeling diving rising banking 
like wind-blown litter
scavenging the frozen peas, thrown for the ducks.
Their frenetic cacophony scratches the air
that retaliates with violent twists and lashes
blowing food scraps towards the reeds
and the grateful cowering waterfowl.
As the miscreants disperse unsatisfied
and the afternoon’s melancholy 
re-settles like a veil to pacify the lake
only the cartoon hoots and tentative trills 
of the water-born traffic
break the sultry humour.

© graham sherwood 04/2018 

Glocean X

A man pointed to the water, 
nodded sagely and said.
“Two oceans meet there
off Cape Leeuwin, 
there’s even a sign”.

How foolish.

For water has no boundary
cannot be marked by any man,
has no shape no form no line,
knows not of the ocean
nor sea, river, brook or spring.

But man must mark his maps
draw his imaginary lines
control what cannot be tamed,
he is content
to point out to the water
and call its name.

© Graham Sherwood 04/2018

Lines X

I can only draw them
listings, diagonal with dates beneath,
faceless names that tug my heart
William, James, Sarah, Charles
Mary, Ann.

No pictures, no weathered creases
searching eyes or family noses
indelible identifiable,
John, Harry, Annie, William, Elizabeth.

No memories recounted, visits made
habits mocked achievements scored,
names repeated, infant deaths, census scribble
Dorothy, Mary, William again, Margaret, Harry too.

The ones I met but didn’t ask,
didn’t make the time, unimportant then
no holiday postcards no box brownie snaps
Judith, Diana
and me!

Graham Sherwood 04/2018

ClashX

You stop talking
the conversation ends
with the finality of a guillotine’s drop,
a clean decisive silence
leaving no room for doubt
it’s done.

Like Pontius Pilate
our hand washing commences,
before either of us withdraws
a defiant embarrassed impasse 
heats our faces, and
with perfect synchronicity 
we fade.

As I gingerly rake through the embers
careful not to fan the flames,
I search for reasons, causes, fault
but it’s useless
everything has been consumed
including hope.

© Graham Sherwood 03/2018

In-transit X

The old van has a bilious rumble tick-over
and an curdling kerbside breath to match,
a week’s papers litter the dash
which sports its own grimy plum-skin bloom
a week’s pack-up wrappers complete the tableau.
Three grey hoodies sit abreast up front
a coffee, a fag, the Sun
looking and feeling like the day
has callously caught them unawares.
The clean-me cartoon is on its way
to being submerged once again
and only three scratched hub caps match,
the other is in the undergrowth
on the slip at J13.
A paint job, the colour of old snow
Polar White
is caked in that new sticky shit
they put on the roads
to stop them icing over.
It’ll be fully light soon
already the sticky shit burnishes
the radiator in weak sun
and two of the hoodies
shift and rasp a fart.

© Graham Sherwood 03/2018