~

it makes me choke

and want to wretch and spit,

hearing people banging on

about the past and those who

profited out of it,

as if their own lives gleam

are untouched by the grime,

and filthy stench of

human beings cheaply traded in 

another place, another time,

I’ve never owned a slave

killed a man or made a war,

I’m been nothing but a loyal

worker, husband, father, so 

what should I feel guilty for?

it strikes me that those who

scratch the scabs of the past,

are woke sixth-form politicos 

spilling forth in-vogue mantras

to a £3 Starbucks made to last

all afternoon, whilst bunking school

to google essays and copy factual shit,

whilst talking down those who

helped shape their world of privilege

with ipads, iphones, designer kit,

the past is for learning from

for shaping better things to come,

so, roll your sleeves up, do a shift

bang your own, not 

some other person’s drum

*

© Graham R Sherwood 01/24

~

watching the world pass

we two, sometimes regard 

the angst of young lovers,

willingly entangled in a

tender ballet of sorts,

a sweet drama played out 

centre stage to an

empty auditorium, 

reminiscent of the many

tribulations of our own,

now of course after a lifetime

like an itch and a scratch

we rub along together

tending to each other’s needs,

as two grades of sandpaper

used to produce a smooth finish,

the embers of passion that we

blow on from time to time

still glow stoically, whilst knowing

they will never again make

a roaring fire, nonetheless we

keep each other warm, safe

in the knowledge we are one

and always shall be

*

© Graham R Sherwood 01/24

~

in that brief second 

when a leaf flutters

from twig to soil,

or a coin is tossed and 

chance holds its breath,

when a mind is made up

and a new course set,

or an opinion shifts

from black to white,

a new-born cries out

with its first breath,

in that infinitesimal 

blink of one’s eye

time stands still and is

quintessentially perfect,

*

© Graham R Sherwood 01/24

~

a good friend rang for a bed

he’s coming back home

to bury his mother, he’ll need 

my shoulder, a patient ear

and a bottle of wine or two

to exorcize his guilt,

the truth is, 

he lost her years ago to the 

ruthless grip of memory fog 

making her a young girl again,

from sheltered accommodation

father quietly watches events unfold

behind his ninety-four summers

seventy-five a doting husband, 

with the calm satisfaction of 

having seen out a promise,

to never let her down

and the irony of knowing 

that all eyes now turn on him

*

© Graham R Sherwood 01/24

~

the vibrant colours

and paraphernalia of the 

dying season are now muted

taken down and packed away, 

the pared-back raw bone chill

of a callous adolescent winter

rushes in catch our throats,

peering forwards and back

the cost of our generosity is

weighed out, its value judged

discarded skeletal trees, 

once adorned are shredded

friends’ tidings too,

feasting must cease

tight belts tightened 

routine returned,

life goes on, impatiently 

time barrels onward

cautious primroses risk a 

peek above the frosted sod

*

© Graham R Sherwood 01/24

~

diaphanous symmetry

poise, balance, form, 

a creation of water

or perhaps the air,

perfect fragility shielding 

submissive strength,

unnamed, half-shadowed

held cruciform, vulnerable

a dream nymph at play

ephemeral, alone

*

© Graham R Sherwood 01/24

~

we are force-fed 

passive jeopardy,

storms are named

strange given names 

sequenced alphabetically

to amplify their frequency 

henceforth

we become afraid,

*

© Graham R Sherwood 01/24

~

we weary at the barrage

there’s no let up, 

bad news travels fast, 

but

what are we supposed to do?

indignation never stopped wars

we all know that, stupid,

hands have to get dirty

blood spilt, things broken

headlines become chip paper

fading memory litter, tumbling 

swirling around the world,

so

we re-write poignant words

berating the bad, shaming evil

offering open arms to the brave

wear their threadbare 

blue and yellow colours, 

and

as the year turns, the thin veneer 

of optimism is repainted, 

re-fortified

rhetoric is polished into blades

prayers are crafted into bullets

children moulded into heroes

to man the barricades

as once again the night sky flashes

~

browsing old photographs 

of my birthplace 

everything in black and white 

my grandparents’ time,

cameras still a new thing, 

street urchins and working folk 

pose inquisitively, nonchalantly

in weekday clothing, 

that would look smart today,

in the distance perspective 

pales to a ghostly grey,

I recognise no-one but

it is comforting to know

a century or more later that people 

with the same surnames

as the passive mannequins

staring back at me  

still walk the same streets,

*

© Graham R Sherwood 12/23

~

waking up

in a strange room,

only half-dark, the

blackout blinds once again

losing the nightly battle 

with the inconvenient 

street lamp just outside,

coming to, I focus on

an upright ovoid mirror

that’s straddling the slim tallboy

a scarf left casually draped

across its curved shoulders,

it glances stoically, passively

across the dull room to me

like a calm pallid Madonna,

serene but expressionless,

I blink repeatedly to focus 

face upturned in supplication,

and I think of family

waking up in different places

from this strange room

in the half dark

*

© Graham R Sherwood 12/23