amalgamation of data stubbed

linear-biased input routines

generate optional deviations

open-ended or conclusive viabilities

rewound into classical strategies

identify specific directive

task-orientated pathways

holding devices and calculative

manuscripted resources producing

single outcome definitions

*

© Graham Sherwood 10/2020

clever words curl from the tongue of my pencil

I am minded of a presence at my shoulder,

an entity I cannot identify, a strange sense

silently holding space there, out of sight

I do not fear it, am intrigued

but wonder if my words are being shaped,

are being crafted wittingly 

by this subliminal visitation,

eventually of course I crack

and push back my chair

expecting a resistance, 

there’s none but the spell is broken, 

the words liquify and reform

unrecognisably, they are not mine

they lock me out

and bid me publish or be damned

*

© Graham Sherwood 10/2020

Do you remember the pigeonnier

that sweltering July in the Dordogne sunshine,

the heady aroma of

overripe tomatoes and unctuous melons

painting the flavour of each day,

you swam naked and 

played tennis in your underclothes

I couldn’t look at you,

we took close-up photographs

of the drunken bowing sunflower heads

black seeds smearing your bare shoulders

treading barefoot like a ballerina,

Pecharment was our sedative, as

foolish newly-fledged owlets 

returned each night and

kept us awake in our separate rooms.

*

© Graham Sherwood 10/2020

it’s misfiring

the sequence isn’t right

surely you can hear it?

we’ve checked it over

and a valve needs replacing, otherwise

everything else is in good order

it’s best if we swap it now

put a new one in

while everything else is still working, and 

before that wears out too

but the choice is yours

what choice?

*

© Graham Sherwood 10/2020

please understand the concept

 that ‘now’ does not exist,

 and if you get that

 you’ll quickly realise

 neither does the future,

 so don’t look forward to it

 make plans for it

 tell each other that

 ‘one day’ you’ll do this or that,

 the only dead cert is the past

 and if it is written accurately

 recorded comprehensively

 unbiased and with honesty

 we can all sit back and relish

 what’s already been and gone

 without the worry, anticipation

 or false hope of what might be

*

© Graham Sherwood 09/2020

at last the tomato plants 

have begun to turn

it’s a good year albeit late

not so much chutney then after all,

the canopy of the willow

is already tinged orange-brown

parts of the understory hang lifeless too,

unthinking I feel the need to tidy

roll up hoses, tap out pots

bundle canes

gather early leaf fall, as if

I might sweep away this pitiful year,

a washing up bowlful of damsons 

and pricked sloes as big as grapes 

are already stored steeped in gin

keeping the claret company

in cellared darkness

something to look forward to

as thoughts of further incarceration

begin to trouble my early mornings

*

© Graham Sherwood 09/2020

so many ‘last times’ have long passed

slipping unnoticed surreptitiously

beneath my fogged horizon,

so many past experiences, emotions

that can never be repeated

with the same authenticity

the same vivacity of youth,

so here I stand a splintered husk

a man decrying his own vulgarity

denied the electrifying frissons

that surge when beauty presents itself

unable to feel its proximity

see the glow of its warm skin

the youthful melody of its songs

*

© Graham Sherwood 09/2020

it’s a pretty cul-de-sac only five houses, 

all different but sharing a central drive

each house peeling off it like banana skins

been here at number two for thirty years

never thought we’d stay this long

children all gone now like everyone else’s

a latter-day Hamelin without the piper

very quiet nice but we miss the noise

unless the grandchildren are round

we’ve seen a few dramas

Norma previously at number three

killed outright in a car crash

Derek literally falling through the front door

when he let us know, policeman in-tow

Jonathon at number five, locked up

for fucking a fourteen-year old

his son’s best friend

Barbara from number four

a big lady, collapsed in the porch

it took two of us to help paramedics

get her upright, dead two weeks later

and now Christine at number one

went in for a routine operation

never recovered from a massive

cardiac arrest, Peter bewildered

Joe still at number four, gets lonely

we take him treats

eighty-four really but only twenty-one

birthday on February 29^th

Japanese couple in number three,

Nice couple, a bit inept

very quiet, even their kids

and us in number two

we’ll soon be the oldest

feel a bit like an endangered species

*

© Graham Sherwood

Autumn has arrived early this year, reluctantly, 

for summer having seemingly given up the ghost

as have we

is now curled up, 

a foetal cadaver, leaving us 

with unripe fruits and war-torn blooms.

September stillborn in cooler metallic, 

gunflint breezes, 

has been caught unaware and 

as this sorry year expires,

looks askance for willing accomplices

to share its inherited shame.

We, are unfulfilled and wander aimlessly

amongst this fading detritus

the toil and promise of May and June

now callously jilted, 

leave maidens both, 

beleaguered spinsters on the wind.

*

© Graham Sherwood 09/2020

it was always about your beautiful mouth

what is it about mouths, is it a sexual thing?

I could never stop looking, transfixed

especially when you pressed your lips together, tightly

as if considering a difficult question

in the search for a knowledgeable answer,

a perfect mouth, a beautiful mouth

now you choose to wear a mask

to keep you safe, and I am 

forced to read your eyes,

your nakedness, ironically exposed

as you thrust your hurt into my hands

like hot pennies that I mustn’t drop

for fear of being discovered

for fear of severing the tender shred

of umbilical love,

for fear of never seeing your

beautiful mouth ever again

*

© Graham Sherwood 09/2020