~

It’s not often 

but when it happens

it always takes me by surprise

even when we’re far apart

I can feel your hand rest

on the back of mine,

a brief but very light touch

followed by a reassuring 

gentle rocking shake, 

as if a soft glove has fallen

across my knuckles

drawing my attention,

skeptics would explain it

as an involuntary spasm

or a debilitating tremor

but that’s not the case

there’s warmth, sensation

an unusual contact 

each time slightly different

one might infer praise

for a job well done 

another an alert of your

reassuring presence,

it’s not something I can share

for fear of ridicule

like admitting to the

presence of a ghost or

a stupefying apparition,

but I know it’s you 

all the same

*

© Graham R Sherwood 11/23

~

an impromptu Sunday walk

around our nearby lake,

the weather defying the wet forecast

developed into a cold bright

intermittently sunny morning,

there being plenty of strollers

we tried to keep up a decent pace, frequently

giving way to mountain bikes

prams and kamikaze electric scooters

that I would have gladly launched

into the water, with their riders too,

you made me laugh, mistaking a

favourite heron for a penguin,

to keep the levity alive, I claimed

that the hoof tracks made by the

police horses, set deep in the mud

following yesterday’s deluge

were really those of elephants,

both of us feeling guilty as we giggled

past the other walkers,

downstream, the sluices

had been opened, so the usually sedate stream

before us raced like grey quicksilver,

in uncharacteristically deep haste

unsuitable for both penguins and elephants

do penguins eat frozen fish?  you asked

I suppose they must, my reply,

after our loop around the village

you noticed the heron was still on station

motionless as a garden ornament,

asking innocently,

do you think he’s waiting for a fish to thaw?

*

© Graham R Sherwood 11/23

~

in those fledgling years

of my early adolescence

my mother’s words would

often ring in my ears

as clearly as the church clock,

a good soldier

always looks behind him

and keeps his rifle clean,

somewhat strangely these 

were her euphemisms 

to remind me to regularly 

polish around the heels of my shoes

and also, to routinely inspect 

myself, beneath my youthful foreskin,

for what hidden treasure there

I never really understood

or ever found,

*

© Graham R Sherwood 11/23

~

I want to win a poetry prize

get my name in lights

be promoted as Poet Laureate

to reach poetry’s giddy heights,

the problem’s subject matter

what’s in and what’s left out

knowing what the judges want

mild pathos with some clout,

there has to be some tragedy

large dollops of abuse

outrage, poverty, suffering

for my entry to be of use,

I need a heart-wrenching storyline

tales of dread from far-off lands

war, famine, earthquake

someone’s blood upon my hands,

but it’s proving rather troublesome

not as easy as I’d thought

my experiences somewhat lacking

my angst has come to nought

there’s precious little jeopardy

deadly danger next to none

my home life’s nice and peaceful

so, my quest has come undone,

no one wants a poem on

trees or flowers, peace and love

good friends and friendly neighbours

fresh air swirling round above

so, I’m thinking of giving up the ghost

take an emigration hiatus

I’ll wash up on the Isle of Wight

and claim my refugeeing status,

then at last I’ll feel fully justified

to write my Forward winner

about my voyage o’er the waves

and still be back for dinner

*

© Graham R Sherwood 10/23

~

Slowly, one by one,

day by day,

another fragment is lost

from the jigsaw of one’s lifetime,

a tiny hole, a crumpled box,

carefully taken down 

from time to time

and given a dusty shake,

another vital piece lost

the picture incomplete, 

thus, boyhood heroes pass

cinema beauties wither

music falls silently out of vogue,

life’s usual boundaries curl and fox

vision thins to vague

as the picture slowly fades

dust to dust.

*

© Graham R Sherwood 10/23

~

the weather gods 

Tialoc and Boreas

being dissatisfied, bugle threats

and consequences far and wide

sending their chilly breath

careering pell-mell in a 

turbulent messianic dance, 

that wantonly scatters 

virgin leaf-fall 

like casting pennies 

to a gutter urchin,

they flay and bully the 

weakened trees and hedgerows 

to bowed submission, thus

with their wrath assuaged 

we are left to shiver under a 

monotone slate-grey cowl

harsh bugled threats 

still ringing in our ears

*

© Graham R Sherwood 10/23

~

due to your impending journey

a doleful conversation ensued

over a joyous glass of claret,

where best to scatter one’s ashes?

I thought it strange and said so

that a loving husband and wife

having spent their lives together

would elect different places

for their funereal disposal,

in your case a favourite par three

and her birthplace beachhead

both picturesque true, but miles apart,

was it the wine talking? maybe,

but it gave me the perfect solution,

we could both be carefully decanted

into a copious Marie-Jeanne

corked and stopped with wax

then interred beneath Ausone’s vines

within reach of the Angelus chimes

two sleeping cellar rats

witnesses to future vintages

*

© Graham R Sherwood 16/10/23

~

when I’m in the mood

I edit old poems 

savagely 

I reconsider my thinking

from back in the day

cancelling past efforts

tidying up I call it, 

paring the meaningless

fillers, chaff, strings

until they feel like silk

between my lips

or vomit, bile, venom

spat through gritted teeth

I edit old poems 

savagely

when I’m in the mood 

*

© Graham R Sherwood 10/23

~

dormant memories 

silt lying shallow or deep

need to be stirred,

only then might lost treasures 

appear from the mirk,

it’s a delicate task but

merely swishing a hand

isn’t enough, 

both feet are needed

to carefully rake the dirt,

take care, the problem is 

memories are shared, 

never owned by one person 

no-one’s property, 

they have no title, 

like vulnerable orphans

cannot be owned 

just adopted,

old memories may not age

once beautiful they become 

haggard with an ugly façade 

weighed severely

by the scales of time,

beautiful memories shine

rare like fleeting silver fish

others reclusive hermits

to be left alone, that lash out

in anger at their awakening,

 tread carefully if you venture  

into the treacherous memory silt

all is not as it seems

*

© Graham R Sherwood 10/23

~

I used to look at him, 

fear for him, as

my new world flashed by his

astonished eyes, 

like black and white

fast-forward cine film,

leaving me wondering 

how could he possibly navigate 

the vivid colours of change

as man’s relentless advancements

spilled from the machine like

projectile techno-vomit,

he wore a curious limpid expression

a resigned realisation that quietly

whispered, ‘I’ve had my day,

it’s down to you now son’,

and in that one fragment 

of a second

that unspoken blink

I became him, the parent

and he became me, a child

unable to keep his balance

his self-assured equilibrium

on the oscillating, accelerating 

carousel called life,

cast-off, all uses spent,

responsibilities reversed,

these days I think carefully

before making eye-contact

with either of my sons, 

for fear, they too, will see 

that same look of my father 

reflected there in my eyes

*

© Graham R Sherwood 10/23