~

thrust together at big school

we, an unusual pair, shared 

an over-polished beech desk

and splintered bench, etched 

with desperate hieroglyphs

of past pubescent love affairs,

your long hair, always a problem

called out at the weekly check,

mine, a smarter quiff that

wouldn’t go amiss today,

thus, we tumbled through our teens

you with sure breezy talent, 

me grinding out a pass at best,

it was obvious you’d be first to do it!

behind the sheds

wearing two condoms to be 

on the safe side, she was

only a second-year after all,

you a self-styled Paul Kossoff, with

a dash of Rory Gallagher thrown in,

whilst I’d become the sporty type

once famously getting a sore throat

from one of your marijuana roll-ups,

then two more years of madness, 

me Dylan, you Cream, 

me Donovan, you Captain Beefheart, 

an post A-Level scholarship 

and you were gone,

I heard much later 

you’d been married three times

as I approach my 50th anniversary, 

I somehow hoped we’d one day 

rub together again,

so, one idle insomnia-driven night

I tried to track you down, to muse

over a pint and a catch-up but

Google stopped me in my tracks,

a cold in-memorium 

from a warm Devon newspaper,

I read that you’d died 

eighteen months before,

I had to look up what had killed you,

fuck it!

you were always first 

for everything

*

© Graham R Sherwood 04/24

~

brittle slate storm clouds

batter chaotic sparring gulls

I crouch under a faded awning

of pink and yellow cornetto

fearing shit and showers,

ageing planks and Meccano

struts grumble and wheeze

as I shuffle precariously

between the fortune-tellers

the bandits and the tourist tat

I focus through the chained-up

Binoculars on Lord and Lady

Beach Hut who eat Waitrose

sandwiches off plastic plates

and drink Tesco teabags

from twee china cups,

Stan and Pam, Bill and Doris

have each bequeathed damp

benches from beyond the grave

lovingly etched to profess their

love of this dull monochrome

acquired view,

as my plastic mac bubbles

I become Bibendum,

chin on chest I bow to

repel the sneaky fret, now

trickling down my neck

dour anglers perform a

passive end of the pier show

a welly-to-welly hornpipe

which they conclude by

spitting phlegm to hit the

incessant squealing gulls,

in my blurry mind’s eye

I hear a silver band and

the chirp of a Wurlitzer,

is it a circus or freakshow

and worse still, 

am I starring in it?

*

© Graham R Sherwood 04/24

~

a stand of lithe poplars

arch and bend as if

idly applauding, lean

elegantly discreet feathers

send a solemn adieu

to the wisp of a breeze

high above,

freewheeling starlings

a balletic black peloton

frame the threatening grey,

resignedly, a long

abandoned scarecrow 

stoops peering intently down 

at wet licked ochre plough

burnt coffee grinds set

amongst the pearlescent

glint of scattered stones,

the poplar chorus hums

a distant pastorale, plucked

from the quickening windmore

rain is forecast

*

© Graham R Sherwood 04/24

~

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