what’s home

a house, a birthplace?

no, home is in your bones

your marrow and your blood

it’s safe and secure,

an unstoppable sigh

of the yearn to return,

a perceptible heart-tug

from the regret of leaving,

a final resting place

one’s never left

that’s home.

*

© Graham R Sherwood 10/21

I remember how

we mourned our parents as 

many before us had done,

we became strong, independent,

responsible, brave

became the new elders of our own tribes,

without warning we three

become two,bereft

forced to mourn once more,

we reminisce from the darkest place

failing to see the candle’s light,

the deathly wound gapes open

and will be slow to heel,

once more the familial tontine

is dusted down, scratched out and

re-written on this blue/black ink of a day

and draws closer to its end

*

Graham R Sherwood 10/21

the screen illuminates

I see who’s calling

and immediately know

something is wrong

he never phones, always her

so, something is definitely wrong

four words seep from the ether

and hang in the air, like Tantalus

others quickly expire

and meekly fade to white noise

sister, collapse, hospital, heart

something must be seriously wrong,

he is old and cannot handle this

his words babble and gurgle 

a bathtub emptying too quickly

shopping, pain, paramedics, aorta, urgent,

a succinct telegram of despair,

and like expectant fathers, we

rush to the waiting room, 

we sit and wait and wait and wait and wait

something surely must be wrong

*

© Graham R Sherwood 10/21

the cat leaps out the bag

as I am delivered like a parcel

to my secret family birthday lunch,

the car park gives the game away

the Volvo, the Jaguar, the Duster

and the rice-burner, whose name 

I can never pronounce correctly

I spot them huddled in the bar

all gathered before me

waiting in anticipation

as if for my hearse,

rarely do all one’s fiends meet, and

acquaintances are vigorously renewed,

this time is precious, so 

must not be squandered,

I lamely joke that we’re a board meeting

as seats are taken and food arrives,

then the stories begin and I listen

overhearing everybody’s chatter,

of ageing parents about to die

past holidays recollected and relished

marriages both past or anticipated

each cabal a buzzing hive of news

and I am swiftly, gladly replaced

as the centre of attention,

then I carefully scan the room

and dust-off my own stories

remembering past escapades

meetings milestones tragedies

of all this gathered throng

now immersed in infinite recall

leaving me feeling like an

contented ethereal presence

at my own memorial

*

© Graham R Sherwood 16/10/21

against the odds

I’ve made it to seventy, 

the proverbial three score-and-ten

it was old once, not anymore

it’s the new fifty I’m told

but why not thirty? only joking,

Anna says I’ve got to change

not give up on life like my mother

‘though she made it to eighty-four,

so I’ve bought a guitar

a left-handed Martin Dreadnought

all the way from Boise, Idaho

never had a proper ‘leftie’,

had to hold a ‘rightie’ upside down

I might grow a beard too

and buy a denim shirt

for old time sake

perhaps walk the Camino

try and find myself,

I don’t think I bother

chasing after younger women

surely after fifty years

she won’t get rid of me now,

a friend told me to 

‘embrace disgrace’

another advised me to

‘mind how you go

and go with your mind’

hopefully, I won’t embarrass 

the family too much

after all

I’ve lived the seventies once

how hard can it be 

a second time around?

*

© Graham R Sherwood 10/21

do not fear ghosts

they are the children of your psyche

you should nourish them, even if reluctantly

but never try to abandon them,

some remain young, childish, wilful

others are patient and will nurture you

like parents when you are troubled

angry ghosts cannot resist a fight

and will rise to challenge you

when you would gladly confront others

so do not fear ghosts

they are the children of your psyche

bid them welcome

to sit at your table

*

© Graham R Sherwood 10/21

the house is waking,

the final weeks of warmth

surrender to the chilly

early mornings of autumn,

the heating yawns noisily

reluctantly beginning to stretch

checking arteries are clear

before stirring,

six-fifteen, still dark

I notionally trace each room’s 

begrudged awakening

each curse and languorous creak

with ears keening 

I murmur the journey

bedroom, bathroom, kitchen

as the autumn life-force courses

like blood throughout each room,

outside as summer colours turn

sap retreats, like a beaten warrior

seeking sleep

inside a new season begins, a new life

the house is breathing again

*

© Graham Sherwood 10/21

the clever one, she’ll do well

she makes everything look easy

an old head on young shoulders

the glue that holds us together

there’s no need to worry about her,

these rich superlatives

now tumble freely like sixes

thrown from beyond the grave,

to the wounded bird that must

once again learn to how to fly,

when all the sympathies 

and condolences are spent

flowers dead, cards packed away

photographs perused

a calmness will descend

and healing will fracture the sorrow

new feathers, new wings, desire

to fly up once again

(written for a young woman who lost her father this week)

*

© Graham Sherwood 10/21

the group grows

now seven from three

a cat’s cradle of memories

shuttling to-and-fro, as

we pass old haunts, they slide by 

like weathered pantomime scenery,

there’s no leader, just 

whoever’s at the front

occasionally stopping hesitantly 

like lost children

waiting for direction,

decisions are made on the hoof

close to five hundred years

of collective reminiscences

tumbling chaotically from

wrinkled lips and dampened eyes,

old homes demolished 

gardens become car parks

small yards and alleys narrower than 

the space between our failing ears,

we randomly remember 

old friends and some villains too

now all asleep up Station Rd,

young boys, became men, then old men

innocently reaching back

looking for something

that’s no longer there.

*

© Graham Sherwood 10/21

the people have spoken

‘populus locutus est’

when does the grumbling stop?

‘cum enim murmurans subsisto’

what happened to losing graciously?

‘quid amittere digneris’

It’s time to stop and think

tempus est prohibere et cogitare

and work together without malice

‘et simul sine malitia’

for the good of everyone

‘nam bonum omnium’

*

Graham R Sherwood 09/21