~

I seek tranquillity, I crave 

an inner calm, there must 

be the equilibrium of a restful

thoughtful balm, I will not

pirate troubled seas, or 

follow Icarus to the sun,  

a camomile lawn is perfect

to lay all my woes upon, 

I seek not crass celebrity

or reward for favours shared,

I’m best a sleeping partner

a mere auxiliary who cares,

behind this austere carapace

beneath this brittle shell,

sits a gentle heartbeat 

that none know very well,

if I qualify to be a friend

of those who bid me say

remember this, tranquillity

and equilibrium are

for me the surest way

*

Graham R Sherwood 02/26

~

yesterday, in the vague 

gloaming of the late afternoon

I noticed daylight had crept 

into the early evening calm, 

nibbling silently on the 

indolent dusk, a clear portent 

to the lengthening of days,

this gentle skirmish, fought

between light and dark 

traversing many days can

never ever be truly won

*

© Graham R Sherwood 2/26

~

you asked me once if 

anything still mattered,

if anything still rubbed

me up the wrong way,

true, there was a time

I still had one or two

sharp edges, a scab to

pick at now and then,

a running sore to worry,

strong opinions that bled

me dry and left me pale,

but somehow without 

knowing I was on a ride

I gently hit the buffers

and the first thing I see

is your serene face

that without a word says,

‘Well done, you got here 

in the end’

*

© GRS 02/26

~

man has a need

to make sense of things 

so, he gives them sentience,

he worships at ancient stones, 

fondly embraces venerable trees,

conquers foreboding mountains 

as if they were adversaries,

all such things derive a 

personality and an identity 

from man’s need to give them 

a sense of place,

he created the afterlife in

order to understand death

disbelieving there could

ever be an end to things,

man has constructed his

own microcosm of faith,

being fragile and needing

to create a durable carapace 

to make sense of things

*

© GRS 01/26

~

I wake to a black

then instantly

think of green,

as the black 

fades to grey

I think blue,

orange bursts over 

ochre that slowly

streaks into mocha,

I smell pink and 

taste damson, 

a yellow circle 

forms before me,

I am left holding

a red sphere

*

© GRS 01/26

~

bold robin and

a flitting wren 

both patrol this 

garden’s lease,

one guardian, 

one dynamo,

an odd symbiotic

alliance sharing 

their idea of Eden

*

© GRS 01/26

~

we share memories like old 

pocket money sweets,

devouring each flavour

with richly layered laughter,

 once we were young boys 

who didn’t share, 

our weekly choice from

Maggie Chapman’s

penny and tuppenny plates

the week’s hardest task,

fruit salads, blackjacks

aniseed balls, spaceships

acid drops, we were told 

they had to last the week 

but they never did,

childhood memories

now fill our hearts 

and will last as long 

as we all have left and 

care to share them

*

© GRS 01/26

~

none should call

themselves poet,

leave that name 

for others to confer,

write fine words

in rhyme or not,

set them free, let

the world concur

*

© GRS 01/26

~

bitter weather, is friend

to these tawdry fallow days

of bare dismal January, 

the red green and golden

glamour now neatly packed 

away, is replaced by dull 

pallid lean ambivalent greys,

with all anticipation spent

we paddle listlessly through

a month that promises

little to deliver even less,

it’s a time for finding lost 

things, mending damage

and taking stock, a time

for change, of intent, habit, 

discovery and preparation

for future growth.

*

© GRS 01/26

on winter mornings

between the hours 

of three and four, the

house moans with

a creak or two as if

to hunker down,

~

thirty-eight winters

have come and gone

and still it grumbles

albeit passively, almost 

apologetically, as the

overnight temperature

plummets outside,

~

this house has been a 

silent witness to three

generations of my kin,

stories have been writ 

on its walls, children

measured beneath door 

frames inch by inch, pets 

have lived and died here,

nervous future spouses 

brought for Sunday teas,

~

on winter mornings

between the coldest

hours of three and four,

I often wake to hear 

its voice and give a 

reassuring answer as 

a thank you in return

© GRS 01/26