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

the footpath heaves crazed and cracked

I see a river course, tributaries, deltas

deep fissures, dark crevasses, having 

sliced through stone are fed by rain,

colonised by weeds

that might be wadis or oases

in this minute world that co-exists,

I cannot step upon these cracks

something bad will happen

a cataclysmic event, throwing me

pell-mell into the abyss,

I tread carefully here

*

© Graham Sherwood 08/2020

out early walking Mabel,

heatwave coming to an end

still an oppressive half-dark 

well after dawn, close,

thunderstorms are set to arrive

one obese jogger, two fishermen

already set up, otherwise it’s deserted,

hoping for a chance rendezvous

from my previous encounters

she appears to be a creature of habit

always dressed the same

white coat, black tights, bright yellow boots,

painfully shy

often cleverly avoids me

without it appearing obvious,

but this morning, 

perhaps pre-occupied

I got close enough to speak

but what to say?

a compliment perhaps

no too forward

comment on the weather

pleeease!

just good morning then

we’ll see how it goes, 

wish me luck

*

© Graham Sherwood 08/2020

I have a right

it’s said time over, but

who confers that right, 

so eagerly professed, 

lauded freely, loud

foreign boat people

people of colour

l.b.g.t.q.i.a.p

the imprisoned

homeless, our children

dogs and cats 

are rights bought

sold or earned

does someone’s right

wrong another’s right

who’s right?

surely I have right to know

*

© Graham Sherwood 08/2020

last night I slept with the curtains open 

the lower boughs of the nearby copse

framed by my small window

anticipating early sun to stream through

it took a few minutes to register that

it was still murky at the first crow-caw

4.47am, the morning’s footlights 

weren’t ready to herald the chorus-line

of gently quivering branches

as the backdrop colours rose

from stone blue grey to pallid salmon

black trunk silhouettes morphed to bottle green

an unexpected bold and breezy dawn

whistled through the cracked willow

embarrassed to disappoint me

*

© Graham Sherwood 08/2020

as a child

I saw you in that golden time

believed your stories, parables

sang your songs

I loved you unreservedly

whispered prayers

to save my family and friends

sought not to see your face

hold your robes, touch your hand

knowing was enough, faithful

then you let me go

amongst foreign tongues

the grey-bearded science

the seers the oracles

the sirens the warriors

teachers athletes lovers

armed with chisels, hammers

calloused hands

that shaped and cut and polished

that emerging man

now dimmed, frail, pensive

searching for forgotten paths

long buried by 

the chippings, shavings, dust

shed in a lifetime’s quest

for the meaning of it all.

*

© Graham Sherwood 07/2020

thieves steal hours from my days

each week another life-long hero dies,

wailing chords fade in the wind

the lash of minstrels’ tongues fall silent

painted canvases wear muslin thin

their creators now in caves,

the young have become my masters, 

but in turn have become

slaves to their machine,

no need or respect for mentors

questions, answers, decisions, options

arrive on a fingerstroke,

I am dislocated, impatient

guiltily bathing in a false calm

Zen texts held to my breast

like a saviours’ scripture

upon which I must now rely

*

© Graham Sherwood 07/2020