~

a rage

a blade 

a moment

a madness

a cut

a second

a blink 

a flash 

a heartbeat

a life

a pain

a darkness

a sentence 

a statistic

a waste 

a rage

a blade

*

© Graham R Sherwood 09/23

~

a dour submissive day

the weather be it sloven or slattern

rules the roost with a diffidence

worthy of Pontius Pilate,

with no blink of light to brighten 

the grey on grey skies,

trees drape witches’ knickers

like tawdry carnival bunting,

flower heads droop across each other

as forlorn sodden lovers do

and birds dart to cover 

from the unexpected chill,

even the turbulence is mournful

rather a bored groan than defiant roar

a drunk yawning before 

taking yet another drink

books, music, crossword puzzles all seem

shallow facile distractions, although

Scrabble on a Wednesday seems to be

the only way today

to make my words speak out

*

© Graham R Sherwood 09/23

~

born a haefest child

an autu boy, watcher of change

patient unhurried curious,

attuned to subtle colours

plum, gold, marmalade, 

burnt lemon, lichen

connoisseur of aromas

truffle, musk, fungi, bark

smoke, rain

maestro of moods

melancholy, pensive, 

wistful

I am the autumn child

fader of light, closer of harvest

bringer of sleep and reverie

*

© Graham R Sherwood 09/23

~

wild fruit colours are on the turn

the last of the under-ripe berries

shining angrily as kicked shins, 

they trampoline sedately 

upon heavily laden boughs

spiders’ webs precariously under-spring

this miniature circus scene,

the dawn air changes too

briskly misting my face,

a sense of unease prevails

a cautious reticence blows 

a chilly breath around my collar

prompting me to half-turn,

 I feel as if a fragile summer

is bidding me an early farewell,

my heart slows, heavy with

a helpless sense of time passing,

time lost forever filed away

never to return,

so, I sit and listen to the dying noises

breathe in the sweet

musky decay of the passing season

and keep watch as summer

reluctantly curls around itself

folding away its rich bounty

*

© Graham R Sherwood 09/23

~

I found this poem, scattered 

in the ragbag dreary smithereens 

of yesterday’s torpor,

it was watching my every move

intent on surprising me, 

jumping up In front of my face

brazen, belligerent 

demanding my scant consideration 

irritably I asked its name, 

‘that’s your job’

grumbled a sullen retort 

lying there akimbo around my feet

trying to shock my sensitivities,

as my interest perked I saw

it needed work, licking into shape

but why me? 

one minute I’m basking in the 

mellow glow of creativity 

and next this disparate creature

this drops into my lap,

I can see there is beauty within

masquerading in gypsy clothes

a desire to be a princess or

dark-eyed sultry temptress

but at this moment neither is

closest to the fore,

so I strip her naked, bathe her

put her to bed, sit there patiently

watching the dreams play

across her mesmerizing face,

intrigued to see what or who will

awaken come the morning.

*

© Graham R Sherwood 09/23

~

compared to recent weather

that’s been capricious at best

today has been somewhat like

Goldilocks’s porridge, just right

warm, light wind and bright skies,

the ripening vegetable patch 

is feeling very bounteous, rewarding

our decision to holiday at home

this year with ample and delicious fare,

plentiful salads, beans, chard, spinach 

all stand erect and proudly display

their ripe and vibrant colours,

tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers and 

fat aubergines also vie for best in show,

but it is the sharing that gives most

satisfaction, the gleam in the eyes

of neighbours who gratefully receive

a box of fresh produce, freely given

or a secretive parcel left on the step

a good life feel good glow in these

straightened worrying times

is worth more than money could buy

*

© Graham R Sherwood 08/23

~

a hexagonal green gazebo 

with transparent gauze walls

neither tent nor fortress,

firmly tethered on the lawn 

a newly landed spacecraft

has captured my granddaughter, 

it has been decided, we are 

to sleep out under the stars

no rain forecast and little wind,

a sleepover with Papa 

in the wild, one night only, 

albeit on well-inflated mattresses,

a quiet clear night, occasionally 

thin clouds seem to skip past

my supine vision,

at 2am low in the east

Jupiter, resting on a neighbour’s roof, 

makes his escape 

climbing higher in the blue black,

I listen to her light breathing

we’d held hands as she drifted off

around midnight 

all her night fears conquered, 

 I would have liked to have 

followed Jupiter’s path for longer 

but a metal woodpecker 

fastened to the cherry

obscures my view,

 now and then

the lank gauze material 

billows feebly resembling

an apologetic farewell wave 

that briefly catches my attention

a little mysterious all the same

on such a still warm night

*

© Graham R Sherwood 08/23   

~

another player takes his final bow

and quietly leaves the stage to darkness

just one more star burnt out, cold

our skies dimmer for the passing

alumni, too, some long gone, 

line up beside as ghosts 

to bid adieu or offer welcome 

to their particular heaven

a firmament richly mused

in mirth, drama, saga, song, thus, 

we consider our shrinking world, 

those we’ve lifetime loved

now conferred to history’s page

we ourselves shuffle nearer

to our epilogues, one final line

our soliloquy done

*

© Graham R Sherwood 08/23

~

an eyes-wide immensity

humble manoeuvring

white shapeless continents 

drifting gracefully peacefully

high across the panorama,

here rush-hour growls

a raucous heartbeat 

of complex misguided humanity

there is blue, 

languorous, serene

here is grey earnest, 

mechanical harsh,

I want to be there, 

I want to a serene 

ghost-like vapour 

breathing gently down

upon the machinations of man

to breathe a whisper

a long exhale to slow 

to pause the pointless vigour

*

© Graham R Sherwood 08/23

~

everything is polar dark and cold

wherever my gaze settles, 

my brio is shredded, 

I am that lonely soul 

on the night bus, desperately

clutching return tickets 

from elation to despair, 

being wordless, like falling 

in and out of love, fearing

there’ll never be another,

emotionally tumbling

from pinnacle to cynical,

so, I peer into the black

where all life’s colour flashes 

past before turning monochrome, 

slowing to a trudge,

resignedly I feel all is lost

it’s no use, and then 

something catches my eye

*

© Graham R Sherwood 08/23