~

this house has aged with us,

a lifetime of faded memories

seep into its awkward creases,

hidden half-forgotten secrets

bide their time in cracks and crevices 

tightly clothed in cobwebs and dust,

we sit we eat and sleep among 

the invisible swirling foment of

past events that watermark three

decades and more,

there is love here given and received

a patina of unspoken affection

spread throughout a space

that we all call home

*

© Graham R Sherwood 04/23

~

it’s usually a man, 

who’s hails from 

God knows where,

there have been a few

Vlad Adolf Saddam 

Kim Joe Pol and more,

on a low light, 

insidiously simmering

before violence, guile, 

repression or just 

right place right time,

they bubble over to form

a toxic slime-scum

a gaseous livid stench

to blight the lives

of myriad lemming souls

who choke beneath a 

deadly nauseous filthy film

thus, fed on shite 

they mouth-to-mouth kiss

their pariah messiah

as we shake heads and 

squint between our fingers

at such a sinful shame

this evolution of evil

the tombola of tyranny

spreads across the land

deja-vu we whisper,

deja-vu

*

© Graham R Sherwood 04/23

~

I kneel down gingerly 

to become her height

her small comfortable hand 

cupping my shoulder, 

I feel her surprising strength 

a gentle pressing against my hip, 

not so much leaning on me

than propping me up

which I know is important to her 

since my troubles,

too soon my knees complain 

but I easily ignore the ache

to prolong this magic moment 

looking out to a silvery sea

that appears to be motionless but 

perpetually changing,

we watch a distant grey silhouette

perhaps a container ship 

drop over the horizon like a stone

I ask her if she will ever sail the sea, 

her answer although immediate

is clumsily qualified by proposing 

a future time when she has grown

notionally she lists the souvenirs she’ll

bring me, that I know I’ll never live to see

then previews the stories that she’ll write 

when she’s a famous author,

I send her indoors on a spurious errand

so she doesn’t see the mess I make

of trying to stand with numbed legs

as I know it secretly worries her

that I may fall again

*

© Graham R Sherwood 04/23

~

I knew my father

the father, not the man

so, I write 

that they will know me,

not me the father 

me the man, 

the man I am, 

somewhere 

amongst the words

the words I can never 

say out loud, albeit 

wish I could, 

there I am 

word for word

letter by letter, 

a man waiting

to be assembled

piece by piece

*

Graham R Sherwood 04/23

~

buried in the small print

that few will ever read, is

every possible scenario

that taking this pill may cause

as well as the one intended

conveniently leaving death

to the very end, reassuring,

for me it’s a form of tinnitus, 

not unpleasant, 

like rubbing cloth

then it begins

its imminent arrival, 

starts at my nose, a stinging chill

swiftly moving down my arms

goose bumps appear, then

a shudder through my body

lasting only a second or two,

my mother would have said 

someone’s just walked over my grave

and then as quickly as it came

it’s gone, strange!

all this hidden, buried

somewhere in the small print

*

© Graham R Sherwood 04/23

~

there’s every shade of green here

pale limes through to darker sages

a watercolour wash panorama

painted across a lean paper-fold horizon,

it’s still cold for early April, 

a chill vainly grips our breath 

unwilling to give way

to the catkins and blossom that 

have started to colour-in the gaps,

a good friend of mine paints 

whilst I fumble with sketching pencils 

but I’m better with words

and impatiently abandon my

crude drawing effort to go to verse 

scribbling pell-mell in the margins,

we never try to look at each other’s work, 

with neither claiming prowess

there’s no need of that

it’s enough to steal away and enjoy

the quiet, the silent company

the knowing and the pleasure

of just spending time

*

© Graham R Sherwood 04/23

~

the farthing bird

minute feathered ball, 

a staccato dart 

freeze-framed with  

taut-tail cocked, 

a fleet of foot falsetto 

churr-chatterer and

riddler of reveries, 

the tiniest talisman

*

© Graham R Sherwood 04/23

~

those poor people

must be desperate,

forced to flee

home and family,

they have so little and

have been through

so much already,  

they deserve a break

it must have been

a nightmare 

risking life and limb

alone just to get here,

but one thing is sure

this isn’t the right place 

for them, it wouldn’t be

a good idea to let them 

live around here!

*

© Graham R Sherwood 03/23

~

It’s said when men sleep

they often adopt a foetal pose

cradling the body part 

they hold most dear,

when I can’t sleep

my index-finger

circles the bony knot, 

where my ribcage was 

bolted back together

nothing else left to show,

resting on this smooth 

protrusive mound

as Rodin’s sculpture

I am set to thought

In quiet I  

feel my heart beat

a rhythmic bump

akin to an errant 

juggling ‘thud’ falling

to a hard floor, or 

a tramp steamer’s 

mechanical piston

dour chug on a calm ocean,

somewhat reassuring,

and mindful of the

overwhelming fragility 

of my existence

the perpetual reminder 

that none of us know 

the duration of this game 

we all play

I count my blessings

tempus fugit

*

© Graham R Sherwood 03/23

~

at La Boheme

Friday night

in a provincial town

Royal Opera House

it’s definitely not,

 our fateful young lovers

a little long in the tooth

but we understand why

the singing is superb, 

passion oozing from pores,

 arias exquisite

a tragic denouement plays out

the final curtain falls

generous applause follows,

then something strange

catching everyone off-guard

blue-gold flags unfurl

a foreign anthem sung

 a new aria for the age,

 hair bristles, goose bumps

an inexplicable shiver,

we dab at our tears

applause thrice greater

louder, longer than for 

Puccini’s star-crossed tale,

Humbly, we are thanked 

for our support at this 

most difficult of times,

the ensemble’s words

superfluous

*

© Graham R Sherwood 03/23