we will be changed,

at the end, when this is over

we will be different, 

in an altered state, where

damascene emotions will be sewn

onto our skins like worn patches,

like pert worry buttons 

mindlessly fondled

in subconscious conversation,

we will be different, for

our recognition of space,

our own personal spatial awareness

will expand with the universe

and its myriad microbes, as

the defunct and broken rhythms 

of our comfortable lives

having changed, 

will compose strange new chords 

to massage our redundant reflexes,

we will be changed, 

re-birthed

to look, to hear, to smell, to feel

to breathe a brave new life.

*

© Graham Sherwood 02/2021

in the clock patience game of my life

I finally turned up a king

a year ago, to the day

in the afternoon, the fourth card clockwise 

on a Friday, breathless as a summer evening

a mitral valve malfunction, game-changing

now an unwanted anniversary, me

a sour-faced celebrant medicating

each day playing out, a nervous game of chance

I have made my peace with King Charles

Alexandre, Cesar and David

are yet to visit the table

long may it be so

*

© Graham Sherwood 01/2021

23/1/21 [Messenger Video]

Papa, there’s a sixty-percent chance tomorrow

a sixty-percent chance of what?

A sixty-percent chance of snow, tomorrow

that’s great to know! Let’s hope so

but don’t be disappointed if it doesn’t turn up

I won’t but I hope it does 

24/1/21 [Messenger Video]

Papa, Papa, it’s snowing in my garden!

that’s great, it’s snowing in mine too

(we live only one hundred metres apart)

can I come over?

what would you like to do?

have a snowball fight, build a snowman

of course, I’ll see you soon

in one shake of a mouse’s tail

*

© Graham Sherwood  01/2021

once more the order changes

newly dealt cards are played

half the world breathes easier

others feel dismayed

the futility of anger

fuels prejudice of race

vengeance reconfigures

to reveal a different face

the citadel stands fractured

a hairline crack appears

now flags wave instead of people

cold snap instead of cheers

get ready for redemption

make ready the battle drum

a skirmish wasn’t all out war

revolt must surely come

gold plates heaped full feel warmer

fast-food boxes cool

your father must have warned you

never underestimate the fool

once more the order changes

the new cards take a crease

assassins circle boldly

to eye the golden fleece

the populace must decide their fate

sing the anthem dream the dream

re-learn the message of the past

and let the eagle scream.

*

© Graham Sherwood 01/2021

it’s best to skirt around the lake

on a Sunday

too many nuclear families

lockdown captives

who can’t shop

need to get out the house

before they kill each other

I veer off quickly 

make a shortcut 

through the silent trade estate

 eerie as an old film set

litter an unwanted surprise

but no need for Time Team

to research its provenance

top prize goes to the 

deftly captured Eastern European

lorry driver’s piss

neatly deposited in a plastic bottle

though poorly secreted under

an ornamental hedge

energy drink cans 

pancaked in a line 

along the kerbside gutter

glint like cat’s eyes

all spaced a car’s length apart

hoorah! there’s a new kid on the block

new detritus set to shock, 

abandoned medical masks

littered like blue and white 

bikini briefs,

filthy g’string slingshots 

matting the pavement

akin a stripper’s dressing room

stay safe, always wear a mask

they say

better still stay indoors!

*

© Graham Sherwood 01/2021

we are different, 

you and I,

not the colour of our skins

deeper than that,

our needs differ, our wants too

the hopes, wishes, dreams fandango

our secret searches, our Eldorados

so don’t feel guilty 

I don’t see why you should

me neither, it’s not my fault

you haven’t reached your destination

I don’t blame you for my lack of achievement

we just tread a different path 

along the same road

you see different scenery

I hear different birdsong, 

you feel different rhythms

so let’s agree on one thing

there’s little we can do

we are different 

you and I

*

© Graham Sherwood 01/2021

over breakfast

we sat and discussed poets

for the first time,

somehow, we got tangled up

in a strange conversation

about Hyperion and laudanum,

I told you I wasn’t keen

on poetry that rhymed

you didn’t seem surprised

and asked if many people were

these days,

on occasions I heard myself talking

but didn’t recognise the words

and wondered surreptitiously

if you had ever read anything

that I had written,

then I thought, if you had 

did you recognise

me amongst the words

*

© Graham Sherwood 01/2021 

on these wintry Saturdays

when the Telegraph ‘cryptic’

is inpenetrable,

capricious weather

thumbs its nose, should I merely 

don my hat or scarf

the new season’s seed catalogues

tease the colourful bounty of spring 

and summer sunrises, are

many dark mornings hence

there’s little to be done

but drink good claret, 

cut freshly baked sourdough bread, 

munch strong cheese

and read poetry that doesn’t rhyme

*

© Graham Sherwood 01/2021

it’s a beautiful random gift,

completely unexpected unprepared for,

instead of the day’s epilogue

an overture a single spotlight 

a Midas moment

burnishing such ordinary trees

from drab to brilliance

stopping me in my tracks

eyes transfixed

for fear I might miss a second

of this amber blaze,

beneath, the willows forget to bow

stretching up like waking children

tricked and confused

as man and nature both rejoice

to witness this spectacular 

fleeting cinder spark

that blinks and slowly exhales

as finally the solar curtain falls

*

© Graham Sherwood 01/2021

not that I am a believer, but

I was asked recently by a child

if God was dead

sod and bugger

they never ask anything easy

do they?

then I got to thinking

about the man Jesus,

most of us of an age

have lost their father

some earlier than others

what about Jesus?

his old man is eternal

as he indeed is himself

so how does that work?

Jesus is knocking on now, but

he can’t exactly take over the reins

to all creation, can he?

not while God is still at work

or has God hung up his halo

doused off the thunderbolts

and is letting the lad have a go

so I said no, God isn’t dead

he’s still on the lookout

but Jesus is in training

and is probably running the show

which might explain why

some little things go wrong now and again

the child seemed happy with that

*

© Graham Sherwood 01/2021