~

time is not constant, 

although many consider it to be, 

it has speed, mood, behaviour, 

and consequence,

of course we might bend, 

fashion, stretch or mould time 

to our will, but time 

moves warily through its 

promiscuous environment, 

cool at dawn, lazy when warm, 

erratic in rain, clumsy in fog,

its speed and passage varies 

in nights’ fleeting darkness or 

the drudgery of ambient day,

we may use it as our servant  

we must learn to master time,

harness it to our will,

use time for its natural purpose

to do our bidding

*

© Graham R Sherwood 04/24

~

fate has decreed

there’s to be a birth

but first a death,

a dark stain marker

on baptismal white

weighing the scale,

payment is required

before the joyous arrival,

paid up front, paid in full

an old life for new life,

festivities are subverted

as if a surprise,

like oil and water condolences 

and congratulations

can never mix, thus

two names are writ

one on cold stone, 

the other on paper,

dull eyes give way to bright

a long final weak sigh 

heralds a shrill welcome cry

two journeys begin

a mother departs 

a son arrives

account settled.

*

© Graham Sherwood 04/2018

(Winner of the MK Lit Fest 2024 Poetry Competition)

~

my 

city of glass lies 

secluded in plain sight,

hiding its avaricious persona 

camouflaged behind mirrored

refractions and reflections,

my 

cuckoo conurbation,

robber baron village devourer

slick consumer of consumers

pell-mell human spa, or

hypno-magnetic Shangri-La,

my 

casino of communities

entombed in mummified modernism

preserved under a fickle lens 

a confused composite DNA

more helter-skelter 

than helicoid

my 

grid mat arterial entity,

that bleeds to oil and polish its 

brilliant shimmering dermis

a courageously proud 

showpiece carapace 

by which I am blinded

*

© Graham R Sherwood 04/24

~

(Part of a series, this one D H Lawrence)

~

words spew freely, colouring the page

others see rainbows in monotone  

blood for passion, black for the dead                                              

coal flames burn in a miners’ hearts

cinders drawn into sexual verse as

words spew freely, colouring the page

sons’ lovers bear lovers’ sons

delivered harshly on rich dark earth

blood for passion, black for the dead

latin themes and voices cloud the air,

richly plumed exotic reptiles watch

words spew freely, colouring the page

two men wrestle naked as women sleep

scant impressions of love writ deep

blood for passion, black for the dead

feebly repressed angst-ridden genius

banished banned and burn out, still 

words spew freely colouring the page

blood for passion, black for the dead

*

© Graham R Sherwood 04/24

~

something was wrong

garden birds flit about incessantly, especially

tiny Blue Tits, they chatter non-stop

but not this one, still as a stone, peering

through the glass as if asking for directions,

what it was thinking as I gently cradled it

to the safety of my palm heaven only knows,

dazed not damaged was my cursory diagnosis

as Maggie and Beatrix beseech me for a rare

chance to hold the tiny weightless feathered ball,

next door’s cat being a prime concern I

gingerly placed the tiny scrap on a raised-bed 

wooden sleeper, the girls sprinkled seeds

for unwanted sustenance,

we marvel for five minutes at this close encounter, 

a special time, jeopardy still heavy in the air

as we discuss potential palliative nursing,

without warning a sudden flicker, 

swift as a conjuring trick and it was gone 

to the sanctuary of the walnut tree,

after lunch, idling on the patio 

the girls were adamant, pointing, claiming

the patient had returned to say thank you

from within the holly tree

how could I possibly disagree?

*

© Graham R Sherwood 04/24

~

my harassed mother called it 

a lick and a promise, at best it was a 

hurried spit wash around my mouth 

from a dampened corner of her apron, 

her usual rough rub made with love that 

still smarted three streets away 

as I cycled to meet my mates,

only now have I come to I realise that’s 

how people live on in one’s memory, 

in their sayings, habits, doings and actions,

how I wish I had kept her bleached 

white copper stick, that she used to lift

washing from the boiler and importantly

to dispense summary justice to me for 

having the temerity to answer her back, 

I often absentmindedly thumb the scar 

on my elbow, a much-prized defence wound

that still affords me a wry smile

*

© Graham R Sherwood 04/24

~

in hordes, teem this eager flock,

all bring unthought libations

some wear their hard won wealth

others come in cheaper cloth

to hear sweet music, retailed hymns

from bright lit windows hypnotized

they break warm bread on offer there

and drip their faith in litter bins, 

elsewhere some cathedrals stand 

bereft, cold ancient edifices

warmed by witless broken men

garbed heavy in rich uniform,

to dole out gifts of hot cross buns

beseeching all to take their path,

believing corrupt and fallen myths,

so celebrate the Messiah is risen

on this commercial Calvary

 come to worship, come to spend,

celebrate your god lives on, 

celebrate the long weekend.

*

© Graham Sherwood 04/2019

~

it is a falsity when said, those 

who stand closest to the flames 

better know the reason for the fire,

it is also said one’s experience 

has the use of a bald man’s comb, 

carried more for nostalgia than facility,

I tire of experts, eye-witnesses and those 

thought in the know, who urge us focus, 

a word so much maligned, 

that should bring a clear and sharper view 

but many speak to hone their truth,

I urge you look with innocent eyes

those of a child, and question,

what have I ever done

that really mattered more?

*

© Graham R Sherwood 03/24

~

the long shed, 

so long desolate 

stands embarrassed, the roof 

eating itself from within 

to curate a swifter demise,

late March morning sun 

gilds the proud brickwork 

aglow to a rose russet

bright self-deprecating hue 

dusted by girder rust from 

broken contorted beams,

now obsolete a death row 

sentence is being served 

in public view

the majestic hulk pilloried

in agonizing torpidity 

the dubious kindness 

of the wrecking ball awaits

*

© Graham R Sherwood 03/24

~

it’s finally time

to walk the estate

to see what has survived,

winter was mild after all

wet not cold

in essence rather cowardly,

already a hint of florescence

buffs the fruit trees

apple, greengage and damson

beautified by embryonic flowering,

elsewhere save for the reliable

daffodils, primrose and crocus

all looks sadly dour,

it’s finally time

to listen, inhale, exhale,

open one’s eyes and smile,

a new season,

a new year of growth

mother nature

throwing down a gauntlet

and opening her arms

*

© Graham R Sherwood 03/24