~

I wake at seven and give

thanks for another day,

after emptying my bladder

I make tea, it’s not a ritual

just a daily happening,

my aches and pains report

for duty and I curse them

whilst I regard the weather,

which gives the day shape

and also curates my mood,

after tea I take a shower

or a quick soldier’s wash

if I need to be punctual,

on a good day I can tackle

muesli and fruit, most days

its toast and marmite

no butter,

I drink one coffee a day

so it needs to be good,

fresh beans half ground

poured through an old

tea strainer into a mug,

I greet my pills with a

‘good morning chaps’ doing

all five in one swallow,

as I say, no rituals, just

daily happenings

*

© Graham R Sherwood 11/25

~

provoke a sleeping beast

at your peril, it won’t 

let you do it twice,

stealing its food may go

unnoticed only once,

when careless audacity

impersonates bravery

usually blood gets spilt,

some governments

misinterpret enthusiasm 

for actual capability,

this miscalculation is 

the preface to bloodshed 

on a cataclysmic scale

*

© Graham R Sherwood 11/25

~

they all arrived 

delivered as hoped

boy girl boy girl, with

me guessing wrong 

four times,

we gave them sensible 

biblical names that we

knew they would thank

us for later in life,

how different they are 

from the same stock,

it’s fascinating 

how mother nature has 

her own way of moulding

shapes and sizes and how

one’s love for a child

easily expands to serve

four without any change

in its depth or potency,

now fully grown and with

broods of their own, the

perpetually infinite wheel 

revolves once more,

new names, shapes and 

sizes and best of all, new

sources of love, created

from who knows where?

*

© Graham R Sherwood 11/25

~

may I call on you again 

come the springtime, 

when you are reborn

in fresh cloth, bright eyes 

shimmering

like an emerald sea,

will you see me amongst

 your many suitors, each 

eager to hold your tiny hand,

I’ll keep steadfast watch 

from my lonely window 

for your deft arrival, 

subtle clues and covert signs, 

hoping you’ll take me back 

once more come April or come May,

if I promise not to keep you long 

from your beautiful path

*

© Graham R Sherwood 11/25

~

wild poppies feign weakness

appearing frail, content to thrive 

in splendid isolation, 

tentatively, they bow and wave 

as if to timidly hail a stranger,

from a distance en-masse

their colours bleed across the

dark earth, a blurred image of

blood red crimson cloth, 

faux fragility belying an 

earnest resilience,

a man might give his true love 

the gift of a rose,

I would give a poppy

to my one true heart.

*

© Graham R Sherwood 11/25

~

even now, there’s still 

some gold to be found 

in the nearby trees,

a few scant leaves

cling desperately to the 

flailing wind-stripped 

branches and glimmer like 

jewellery on skeletal fingers 

all lit by weak November 

sunshine,

the bony branches seem

to grasp desperately at the 

chilly air as if clutching for

some measure of salvation,

this brief frisson of light

amongst the fading

seasonal palette, will

all too soon be quenched 

by the icy monochrome

grip of winter.

*

© Graham R Sherwood 11/25

~

it’s how I manage

one day to the next,

days become weeks 

become months,

making almost five

years of trepidation

in all up to now,

others won’t believe I   

think about it every day,

they tell me how lucky 

I am, how well I look

lies cloud their eyes, 

their  invalid sympathy is 

the last thing I need, 

but then again I’m forced 

to consider whether 

I also use it too,

honesty usually arrives 

in the middle of the night

like a prodigal that you 

never thought would 

ever come to stay, so we 

always argue and fight, 

the result being that 

any semblance of truth 

doesn’t hang around long,

leaving me to gather up

the shards of blame that

have been thrown around

during our all too brief but 

recurring scraps, 

my stipend for all this is

five pieces of medication 

that I stare at cradled in my 

palm as another day begins.

*

© Graham R Sherwood 11/25

~

when a child falls down

we pick it up,

not just our own child

any child,

damage is damage

after all, 

we dust clothes

dab cut knees

wipe bloody noses,

when a child grows

to adulthood the damage 

is not as easy to see,

self-pride having

bandaged the wounds 

and threadbare humour 

used to mask the pain,

our children will 

always be our children, 

no matter what, keep 

them close, watch them,

damage is damage

after all

*

© Graham R Sherwood 10/25

~

shocked by news, yet

another name is called, 

a musician this time

an actor the last 

thus, we shuffle one more 

step closer to the edge,

the bright stars and heroes

from an age before our own

have passed and faded from 

the whimsy of our memory,

now our own heroes and icons

are falling fast, we in turn 

shuffle closer to oblivion,

we feel its tender palm

brush our heavy cheeks,

its friendly arms curl around 

our bent shoulders,

in the tontine of life another

dice is shaken, now’s not 

the time to throw a six

*

© Graham R Sherwood 10/25

~

within the weird geometry

of insomnia,

skewed door frames

are lit by street lamps

that knife through slatted 

window blinds,

harsh corners form

snagged in the mellow

glow of a bedside clock

and flicker on each turn, 

angular numerals gleam

in recurring palindromes

at 323 and 414 and 505,

spikes slits cracks and

arrowheads are thrown

together like the cover of

a cheap crime fiction 

paperback,

all these shapes one seen 

cannot be unseen within the 

weird geometry of insomnia

*

© Graham R Sherwood 10/25