Stop to think

about the identity of ideas,

where they come from, exactly what they are?

They are children, born to you

that cannot die, unless you, yourself

decide to end their lives.

You brought them into this world

proud of their perfect appearance,

beguiled by their reckless spontaneity 

and spirited optimism

a love that others may not share.

Your ideas are invisible, except to you

enjoying no sense of time nor space,

dormant in their lands if shunned

returning freshly restored

as if on a whim.

Ideas possess no resolutions

and offer only possibilities

that may contort, writhe and strangle

like a serpent if attacked.

Beware of killing an idea, better

shape it to your will, feed it, 

broaden its shoulders, 

polish its ego

await its metamorphosis.

*

© Graham Sherwood 04/2019

In the sweetly oaked shadows 

beneath the silvered wooden lych,

a fool awaits his sweetheart, solemnly

he holds a daisy chain 

but with eyes closed tight 

thinks only of the sweet pea flower.

As next year’s ghosts, scurry past

to say their prayers this St Mark’s Eve,

plump raindrops black the gravel schist,

they play a hapless sombre tune

to mourn an absent bride, while

impassive waits the fool.

*

© Graham Sherwood 2008 rev 2019

It has a dull serene rose glow

where it fits the hand,

old beech 

sports a timid smile, and 

knows its own worth,

in the right hands, of course. 

There’s damage, some,

here and there a nick or two

some wrought through error, some

by angry malice,

a good workman never blames etc.

But once in the palm, balance felt

it whispers like a sage,

measure twice, cut once boy

is it true lad? 

trust your eye.

don’t fight the grain.

*

© Graham Sherwood 04/2019

I watch you bathe and

wondering if any man could be so gentle,

could anticipate the lines, the shapes, the form,

allow for the textured blush of your curves.

The water spills so freely from your cupped hands

tumbling naturally as if from stone to stone

rinsing folds, leaving no trace.

Then you stand to face me,

rivulets disperse with erratic errand

and you are wondrously dry,

warmly perfumed.

*

© Graham Sherwood 03/2019

I’m holding a taut cord,

on the other end of which,

held in a galvanized bucket

half full of ink, is a camera

that I retrieve and let fall again

as if dunking a biscuit.

I have an appointment

with the daughter of a friend

at 2.48pm

but do not know the present time,

then I see her

dressed informally and facing away from me

so, I have to touch her sleeve

to attract attention.

She turns and looks surprised

regarding a wristwatch

on the sleeve that I touched,

indicating I might be early.

Where is the camera? She asks.

I walk back to the shiny bucket

noticing the cord and the ink 

have disappeared,

leaving only the camera inside the pail

boxed as new.

Opening the box I see

the camera requires assembly,

and when I turn, look up

the girl is walking away in the distance

with four dogs, each on a lead

I still do not know the time.

*

© Graham Sherwood 03/2019

I bend stretch and curl

in serene tai chi stances

through fading seasons

my form’s metamorphosis

sculpted by the elements

*

*

© Graham Sherwood 03/2019

Each weekend you settle down, 

a chair, a drink, a bag of words

drawn blindly out

one by one

and used to scratch a scab.

The more the rasp, the more the hurt

insidious pleasure 

penance pain

blunt-edged consonants sharpish vowels

bullied flesh left to bleed.

On Monday the wound is glazed

by Wednesday thin-skinned and sore

Friday’s taut frail carapace

battens down for what’s in store.

Each weekend you settle down.

© Graham Sherwood 03/2019

Even the sound is insincere, such a

poor low-register word that is easy to drop

onto a mess, a betrayal,

with the lightest, dullest timbre

but the swift absorbency of an arse-wipe,

the quickest way to tidy up and go on one’s way,

the most catholic of words, free gift of the confessional

to clean one’s slate.

What is sorry? 

only you know, until the next time, 

and there will be a next time

that’s for sure.

© Graham Sherwood 03/2019

Everything is shivering and cringes in this wind,

these hooligan gusts charge wantonly 

snapping heels, callously clipping ears, stinging noses.

Invisible save for the humbled detritus 

littering our paths,

this threatening prankster, a bully-boy unchastened

safe to come and go, to bide its time, 

then strike with cowardly force, is

sometime an eager friend,

a dryer of clothes, a flyer of kites

then a flippant turncoat Judas 

that scorns and steals our warmth.

We shiver and cringe in this fickle

uncaring wind.

© Graham Sherwood 03/2019

I watch you like a hawk

day by day delivering speeches 

that only you want to hear,

somehow managing to keep and even keel

precariously immersed in word baths,

that let you float, buoyant,

in a paper boat of threadbare emotions.

Then you drink, you drink

from that fetid sea

and suddenly you are drowning,

thrashing and lashing

fraught to grip anything, desperate

to survive just one more time,

casting out beleaguered apologies

to the fading shoreline

that can be reused

time and time again

after each rescue,

your cynical bravado polished

with the tears of your sycophantic

frightened disciples

who really hoped you’d drowned

© Graham Sherwood 03/2019