‘that’s bloody clever’

that’s what he said

holding my first pocket calculator

Texas Instruments,

‘give me some more numbers’

him more used to working out

his bookies winnings on the flap of

a woodbine packet,

how I’d love to snatch him back

just one day

him and the Iphone

he once saw on Star Trek

late 1969,

to look into those eyes and 

revel in his wonder

flicking through the apps,

YouTube horse racing,

searching for Sinatra

on iTunes,

speaking to his grandson

from the other side of the world

hearing her calling through

the serving hatch

with chicken fingers,

‘when did Adam get home then?’

because the reception was so clear.

*

© Graham Sherwood 07/2020

walk the dimmed aisle

find the dusty tome,

weigh its considerable corpulence

in both hands like Lady Justice

and as your blindfold falls away

let it drop heavily

onto the reckoning table.

Begin at the end

turn the pages in reverse,

some are brilliantly illuminated

others dull, of darker hue,

remove them cast them aside

to burn at leisure.

When it is done, 

with an oiled cloth

cleanse and invigorate

the cracked and tortured binding

replace this slimmer volume

to its place

look to the floor

strike a match

walk away smiling

you have done fine work.

*

© Graham Sherwood 07/2020

a strange land exists,

without borders

universal language spoken

peopled by faceless beings

or those with other’s faces,

all unknown all secluded,

there is trade here, a trade

in emotions distanced with

cyber sincerity,

the timid secure, contained

thrifty with contemplation,

the commerce of confidence

a currency won and lost

in anonymous gameplay,

beware the gamblers words

regard their eyes not hands

is the deal fair?

*

© Graham Sherwood 06/2020

birdsong still wakes me up

at 4.30am,

the tang of early morning air

still tastes the same

as does breakfast

muesli, fruit and yoghurt,

it’s been a might warmer

lately, no bad thing

but not so unusual,

the children still phone

more often of late perhaps

we even did a video thing

that was nice,

delivery drivers seem busier

in and out of our cul-de-sac

like white honeybees

several times a day,

I cleared out the garage at last, 

and some old magazines from 2005,

and dish-washed the Lego

found under the spare bed,

there’s fresh bread smells too

at least twice a week

I could get used to that,

and the raised veg beds

have never looked better,

I’m loving this ‘newmal’

*

© Graham Sherwood 06/2020

how to keep a sanguine heart

the question hangs limp

a vacant noose,

I don’t think I hate

or at least try hard

not to, but never show it,

it’s about rights

rights that we wave

like white flags,

like thin credentials

tissue paper testimonials

in search of an ear

they are plastered over icons

before they fall, but

rights are colourless

surely,

it’s indignation that hates

that wears a different skin,

aha!

now we’re getting somewhere

I must be prudent

as my legs climb the gallows

and my chin rests on the rope.

*

© Graham Sherwood 06/2020

the gap is only a yard wide

between house and garage,

more like a tunnel

a bloody wind tunnel,

decorative wall at one end

a handy dead-end

where we store old slabs

flower pots, 

the lawnmower bunker,

so, what in heaven’s name

possessed a pair of robins

to use this as a nest?

obvious

they can read can’t they! 

*

© Graham Sherwood 06/2020

grey fields should be green,

oversized exotic plants

in wrong locations,

cacti, equatorial ferns

banana trees crowd

a shopping mall,

but there’s food galore

shelter and plenty 

of air, warm air

and best of all 

no cats here,

the perfect habitat

save one aspect

one missing piece

of this avian idyll, 

the freedom to leave.

*

© Graham Sherwood 06/2020

nothing hurts so 

I know I’m not dying,

looking up to the vortex

my granddaughter’s crying,

legs buckling neatly

like a card table folding

luckily my wife

has grabbed a firm holding, and

wedges me awkwardly

holding me there

miraculously someone

appears with a chair, it

prevents me from plummeting

my dignity saved

as faculties return from

their excursion unscathed,

I ponder the episode, a

low blood pressure faint

a pole-axed bull

Olga Korbut I ain’t,

next time recline quickly

my nurse tersely chides

or else there’ll be blood

on your short back and sides,

*

© Graham Sherwood 06/2020

I sit in the dark 

salved by the quiet hum

of a 3am night, 

I feel no pain as

coarse spilt words 

pile up haphazardly 

at my feet but 

smoother sounds

cocoon the sharps

to somehow keep the peace,

under this dull timbre

I try to remember poets

writers, musicians, lovers

but can’t think of any, 

it’s as if I’m required

 to write a sentence 

that will save the world,

somewhere a child

is being born

elsewhere an old man dies

somewhere a murder

otherwhere a suicide fails,

I sit in the dark

bleeding fingers 

now holding the words

that will change the world

and I wonder who to tell

*

© Graham Sherwood 06/2020

I ask her for news, and she answers

‘there’s three lying dead in the village’

and I smile wryly

envisaging the handiwork

of a crazed local miscreant,

wondering which streets are littered with corpses

sharp as a tact she is ahead of me

with a sombre roll call,

Jim Amey never recovered from that stroke

and Betty Simpson was knocking-on anyway, 

they said it was pneumonia but

Connie Dixon was a shock though,

I only saw her last week in the post office

buying a birthday card for her daughter,

she’s in Canada,

evidently just dropped dead in the Co-op

this Saturday,

the vicar’s going to be busy,

they were saying in the café

that Jim’s kids have already got the ‘for sale’ sign up,

mind you that came from Mary Chapman,

christ! she’s laid the weight on, she’ll be next,

‘so what else is happening’, I ask,

‘oh! not a lot, nothing much happens round here’.

*

© Graham Sherwood 06/2020