~

look Papa!

come and see this, 

it’s beautiful,

resignedly, 

I traipse upstairs, 

old knee injury creaking

in unison with the treads,

an emerging sunrise, 

ten years old

her perfect eyes

big as saucers watch

the silhouetted city skyline 

lit by a deep 

salmon curtain rising slowly

to breathe new life 

into yet another day,

shepherds’ warning, I mutter

eliciting a bemused look from

now quizzical, still perfect eyes

as I recite the rhyme,

and in it goes

another fragment of me in her

filed away for future use

perhaps one day recalled

for her own child

*

© Graham R Sherwood 11/23

~

first to the party, 

in fact any celebration,

arriving incognito, 

as few know you 

by your real name,

all the same you would

be sorely missed if

you failed to show,

a ‘poor girl done good’

transcending humble

beginnings, now at home

from Mayfair to Manhatten

a globetrotting superstar,

the original and best

twenty-first century

working-class socialite

*

© Graham R Sherwood 11/23

~

bard, 

too short a word

to fill such genius shoes,

one syllable that 

birthed soliloquys

all too meagre recompense for

comedies or tragedies alike,

we know the work

no so the man,

such perfect words

beauty too rich for use

polish our tongue

adding rich sauce to

poor mans’ meat

*

© Graham R Sherwood 11/23

~

(Shin-Bet-Tav, meaning to cease, to end, or to rest).

we have had our time,

and on

beauty will always fade

how could it not?

blooms perish, spent,

the once radiant golden rays

that struck unlikely planes

under the vigour of a

searching summer sun

pale to deeply burnished

dulling copper and bronze,

the year tires 

and makes ready, one final 

chagrined gentle shrug

and her multicoloured coat

dripping with sorrow 

slides to carpet our feet,

and we rest

*

© Graham R Sherwood 11/23

~

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