~

on what rancid flawed meat

does my anger feed?

my rising tumult of bilious 

stomach-churning outrage,

my futile sense of disbelief 

at what I see, what I hear, 

what I read, my benign disgust 

at heinous world events, tales

of death, of war of poverty 

of hunger of famine, all stoked

by idiotic trumped-up crass 

circus-clown diplomacy, 

sour egotistical, spent old men

gambling with the others’ hand,

this is where my anger feeds

every night, 10pm, BBC

*

© Graham R Sherwood 03/26

~

almost March and a

first real foray outside,

there are ironstone rocks

and gravel to shift, new

canes to buy and raised 

beds to dig over,

his old spade leans there 

like a spectator, it’s ancient,

unfit for use, I sometimes 

talk to it, ask it questions

seek its approval, lean

on it for support when taking 

a breather but when I curl 

my soiled fingers around

the old ash handle, its 

smooth patina feels like

his handshake and I’ll

hear him say ‘come on boy

we’re nearly done’.

*

© Graham R Sherwood 02/26

~

it’s hard to keep my feet, 

on the treacherous 

wet planks, as I peer 

over the rail into the 

turbulent spate, 

it’s coloured a dull green 

like Vaseline and races 

angrily beneath me, 

today, it’s hard to believe 

we sometimes paddle knee

deep under this bridge,

even the beautiful egret 

is out of her depth today,

her yellow boots just visible 

in the lower branches 

of the willow, soon it will be 

the close season again and 

the birds will have the lake 

back for themselves, giving

nature a chance to breathe

and we, an opportunity to 

marvel at its resilience

*

© Graham R Sherwood 02/26

~

seen from above, they

look not far from ants

and use a mutual system

upward and down, albeit

regularly abused, it’s orderly 

with an element of chaos

if seen through the eyes 

of those watching the traffic,

curiously there are few 

serious collisions, mostly 

those manoeuvring 

unexpectedly, usually

to the right, having been

distracted by bright lights,

when food is added to the

equation, etiquette suffers

a rapid breakdown with

multiple instances of late

contre-courant reckless

behaviours, furthermore

site selection of comestibles

purchased is random and

regularly the cause of 

congestion in the primary

channels and best avoided

as the day wains, so does the

voracity and vivacity of 

movement in the mall due

to tiredness and satiety

*

© Graham R Sherwood 02/26

~

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