~

an expression 

writers know,

a frenzy of creation

when words drip

freely from the nib,

like falling coins

and must be quickly 

gathered up and 

spent swiftly, lest

they tumble down

the drain, 

forever lost.

*

© Graham R Sherwood 04/26

~

we were young

the music played

each of us

had a choice,

love or war

flowers or fear

so young but we  

had to choose,

they sang of surf

and sunshine

fear of the bomb 

and nothing left after,

free love or folklore

anthems or heroes

we were young 

the music played

and we chose

being too young 

to care

*

© Graham R Sherwood 04/26

~

occasionally you can taste it in the air

a distant unpleasant tang of smoke, metal 

dirt and flesh, a sure sign a war lies just

over the horizon,

were we to be honest life has been good 

for so long and it is easy to forget one’s 

table manners

now the peaceful hum of life

we have enjoyed has begun to growl, rumbling 

like a hungry complaining stomach demanding food,

few still alive remember the last feeding frenzy,

the violence to decide those that were to be fed 

and those left for dead, no doubt war will come

and with it a famine of tolerance,

an empty tomb of common sense

and the immoral debris of man’s polluted avarice

* 

© Graham R Sherwood 04/26

~

nought but a lad

there came that crucial 

age when I was expected

to pick my team, 

little knowing that for good 

or bad it was for life, 

a marriage with no chance 

of divorce,

those eleven men, names 

carved on my heart forever,

pictures pasted on my 

bedroom wall, schoolbooks, 

desks and pencil cases all 

defiled with shields and logos

of that forever team,

sixty-five years have long gone

all those brave men too, 

still remembered like long

lost lovers with a heavy heart 

from that golden year, 1961,

the year my world turned 

upside-down, a year that could 

still be read whichever way up

*

© Graham R Sherwood 04/26

~

first there needs to be belief

that somewhere hidden

under the rust,

beneath the stealth

and ravages of time

lies a treasure, dormant,

the weakest pulse,

a signal desire for new life

a second chance to shine

to taste new air

*

© Graham R Sherwood 04/26

~

we wake the stolen hour long behind/

to a bright but brittle sun/that oddly hides its polished shine,

seeking the kilter of this amputated day/ we change ancient 

clocks/ the old-fashioned tried and tested way/

as breakfast yawns/ through to early noon/

lunch becomes brunch/ arriving like uninvited guests far too soon/

anon I retreat with book and crossword puzzle/ to a favourite chair,

to see if the lost hour I seek/ is hiding there/

success! I doze around the stroke of three/ and wake at four o’clock/

to fresh baked scones and a piping hot cup of tea.

© Graham R Sherwood 03/26

~

cold weather gathers in the west, 

and will surely catch us out, 

us thinking that warmer days 

had arrived and taken root,

an early Easter will not help, 

at least the chocolate will not 

be prone to run,

gaudy daffodils quietly suffer 

their own calvary and hang 

battered heads in dull remorse, 

for some folk a sombre devout 

weekend of passion looms, 

whilst others in celebration 

baptize their avaricious eyes 

with 25% off any six bottles!

*

© Graham R Sherwood 03/26

~

we have harnessed time

and having done so

tethered ourselves to it,

to its limits, its agendas

and its boundaries,

unfettered, time was

a dependable ally, a friend,

alas, measured, it became 

a restless enemy,

days without time 

seemed longer, richer

easier to breathe in,

we must give time a rest

better still set it free and 

make room for life

*

© Graham R Sherwood 3/26

~

I have come to like 

smaller things with

rounded corners,  

that fit the hand

and carry with ease, 

I like smooth surfaces,

not too heavy and

pebble cool, with

curves that please

the thumb and make

me smile,

I like a cello’s hum,

a poem with few words,

the smell and taste

of fruit on my fingers,

I have come to like

the simpler things

*

© Graham R Sherwood 03/26

~

an inconsistent wind

wantonly rakes across 

my shivering bedraggled 

garden, brusquely scrubbing

the pathways with its erratic 

billowing gusts, that belch 

wildly as if a corpulent ogre 

has burst into uncontrollable 

raucous booming laughter, 

spitting morsels of his dinner 

across all and sundry as he roars,

this windbag ogre circles

the house like a burglar

looking for the way in, rattling

the letter box as misdirection

whilst rattling the windowpanes,

I feel surrounded and feel

the need to hunker down

as one nervous lull follows

yet another before his next

violent outburst shouts obscene

threats down the chimney

*

© Graham R Sherwood 03/26