perhaps we needed this,

no, deserved this

a twenty-first century reality check
return to what’s important,

unaware of our starring role
in a science-fiction apocalyptic 
consumerism daydream
meets Black Friday cyber finale 
dystopian nightmare,

hooked on a diet of prime-cut
next day deliveries, 
buy it now, now, return it free, tomorrow

a sale’s a sale for Christ’s sake
(does anyone remember him?)
what started as a novelty
is now a robotic zombie-style addiction

so play with your shiny new gizmo,
wear your new sweatshop clothes
enjoy your full fridges and fuller stomachs
get pissed
it’s keeping someone in a job right?

then cry your eyes out, as you sit at home
alone in splendid self-isolation,
hoping the batteries will last.

Merry Christmas to us all

*

© Graham Sherwood 12/20

yesterday’s handshake had little currency

today, gold ingots couldn’t buy me one,

my generation took fifty years

to hug and cheek-kiss friends

sadly, vanquished in but a year,

I’ve seen horizons shrink 

across this wondrous world 

my childhood books, quote 

the distance travelled in a day

a ‘journey’ now may span the globe,

but here come invisible boundaries

callous as barbed wire

that lock us in our homes,

domestic jails, familial prisons

where just the thought of travel

however seldom fancy takes, asks

what price freedom friend?

*

© Graham Sherwood 11/2020

(it’s beginning to feel a lot like Christmas)

~

Is it really as simple as that?

Putting the Christmas decorations up early

to cheer yourself up.

How does a string of twinkling lights

compensate for the warmth

of another’s cheek on yours?

That touch, imperceptible breath

the instant realisation of

sharing thoughts

before the bubble breaks.

As each day stretches to the next

we become further distanced,

we watch each other’s vessel

float closer to the horizon, and

narrowing our eyes, we

try to remember who’s on board.

*

© Graham Sherwood 11/2020

It happened yesterday

I stood up slowly, medication,

walked to the kitchen

to put the kettle on

and suddenly realised

I was singing ‘Day Tripper’

what the fuck! where did that come from?

I hadn’t heard it on the radio

haven’t heard it for donkey’s years

so why?

Again today,

washing-up and I suddenly start

digger-dagging the intro to

‘Layla’, I have no clue

do we all have an internal 

juke box that throws out these tunes,

now seriously spooked!

*

© Graham Sherwood 11/2020 

My recurring autumnal mantra

‘if I could only have a quid

for every one of these’.

Perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea

there’s only the lightest breeze

but the leaf fall swirls around my legs

like excited wilful children

hell bent on evading capture.

It’s the noise that I notice most

a clatter like plates, or else the

sporadic half-hearted clapping

of an unsure audience.

Mindless work

but they are beautiful

most obviously the vine leaves

which try to hide like refugees

beneath the plain-clothed willow spears.

Rain is forecast tomorrow so

there is no choice in the matter

as the vibrating rake hums like a guimbard

across the patchwork colours.

There is a bonfire somewhere

the feintest charred nuance

like a mug of Russian Caravan

as a suggestion begins to form

*

© Graham Sherwood 11/2020

I’ve just checked the doors

none appear to be locked

leading me out

straight into the street

I’m taking a walk

around our local lake

there’s hardly a soul it’s a treat

I’ve just swept up leaves

after yesterday’s wind

said hello to Joe

over the fence

he’s eighty-four now

quite often confused

since dementia took most of his sense

I fancy steak for my dinner

with a glass of Bordeaux

and a handful of chips

done golden brown

I’m really too busy

to switch on the tele

it’s just bofs explaining lockdown

I’ve gone back to sketching

wood turning and books

at the weekends

a cryptic crossword

stocked up on boxsets

from amazon prime

ordered yesterday it’s really absurd

Today’s young ‘uns, bored senseless

are ignoring the rules

close to midnight

still queue up for more booze

they laugh at the virus

thinking it’s only us oldies

who’ll catch it

they’ve nothing to lose

The conspiracy theorists

are hunting in packs

the creationists too

in full flight

all blaming God

or the Government

for filling our brains

with such shite

Remembrance Sunday

only yesterday

I took time 

to pause and reflect

to think of those young ‘uns

who gave everything

without ever seeking our respect

*

© Graham Sherwood 11/2020

it’s the first frost of the winter

the cemetery silent

carpeted in red orange brown and gold 

leaf fall that makes a magical rustle 

in this crisp chill sunshine

no-one to sweep them into neat piles,

my ear picks out a sound in the thin air

a metallic clink scrape scratching

and I see the diligent lone workman

re-pointing the russet stones

of the chapel of rest,

ashamedly it’s been eleven years

the sudden realisation dawns

I don’t know where you are

all I remember is a corner

and the path now hidden

under autumn’s demise,

all the headstones face away

from the chapel

the intention to face the sunrise

already throwing long shadows

behind four ancient yews,

I immerse myself in the names

a roll call of my childhood

a school register of familiarity

unhelpfully called in random fashion

mothers fathers grandparents like my own

asleep three decades or more

and on a corner, now familiar

with your back to me

finally there you are!

*

© Graham Sherwood 11/2020

morning, 

again we wake together

and silently

independently give thanks

with eyes still closed,

somehow my hand finds yours

and my thumb strokes a knuckle

and then your wrist

the lightest touch, 

your skin moving beneath my finger

life force pulsing 

rhythmically

in the quietude

*

© Graham Sherwood 11/2020

big wide eyes

storm grey

a frightened fawn running 

her arse sticking out

legs cart-wheeling,

what I remember most

apart from her beauty were

the heavily ink-stained fingers

that smelled of cold toast

and Marmite,

her sandals hardly touching the ground

as she galloped

across the quad,

I was entranced

without knowing why

as we boys gave chase

unsure who would be granted

the kiss.

*

© Graham Sherwood 10/2020

I kneel in graveside dirt

and drop a handful of dust

a mere six feet

whilst searching for a meaning

for this death,

elsewhere in other news

two-hundred and five million

fifty-two thousand

four hundred and ninety-three

miles away

a small machine falls

to the surface of a rock

just five-hundred metres wide

to grab a handful of dust

whilst searching for the origins of life

*

© Graham Sherwood 10/2020