~

Ordinary lives may be bent and folded

into shapes that become exotic origami,

each starting the same, with a plan

to become a fragrant flower, a fantastic beast

or intriguingly, a complex polygon.

Something remains however,

corners, sharp lines

no matter how shaped 

or convoluted corners might be fashioned, 

edges remain to anchor lives indelibly

to their former ordinariness,

sharp reminders of provenance,

voices, mannerisms, preferences, 

cruel Judases sabotage our pretension

and we rapidly and surely come undone.

~

© Graham Sherwood 05/2019

*

Our gods and ghosts both thinly disguised 

walk among us daily,

with assured familiarity, 

in plain sight they move unnoticed, 

unrecognized as immortals.

Were they lauded,

what laurels would we accord?

which sagas recite, 

libations pour, favours ask, 

audiences seek, with

these super-human beings.

We should never know our gods

or ever meet our ghosts, for

we will be ruined

and in turn ruin them.

*

© Graham Sherwood 05/2019

.

Once you’ve met an alien

people treat you differently

they regard you more seriously 

sit closer to the door.

It’s not that they don’t trust you

they just pay attention

especially to your eyes

and of course the fingertips.

They think little green men

well that’s the cliché isn’t it

but my Alien is a 1967 Ford Transit

it’s been here all that time.

Contrary to conventional wisdom

it means no harm,

no world domination, even though

there are millions of them (Transits) out there.

It’s a strange relationship

you couldn’t exactly call us friends

just an unspoken understanding

a therapy for both of us.

Having met an alien 

it’s a double-edged sword

of course I’ve lost some friends

but I’ve learnt so much, seriously.

.

© Graham Sherwood 05/2019 

.

sitting quietly, intent, 

listening for the late evening’s breeze-song,

it sighs and I’m minded to think

of an Japanese girl, whose beautiful lips

rest gently on the mouthpiece

of an ancient wooden flute,

a breathy resonance, 

strokes my throat as I swallow in 

a taste of an approaching shower,

when rain finally crashes through

the final apple blossom flees

to seek asylum on a slatted fence

there, caught quivering in webs

it pirouettes in frantic craze,

heavy splashes stamp the earth

like errant schoolboys 

unsupervised, currying chaos 

on a vicarage lawn

daffodils are skittled all askew,

it is done, the dark cloak withdraws

and I tentatively venture out

amongst the floral devastation

but the perfume, the heady fresh perfume

in the dampened sod, 

spins me like a top, 

I have to sit, drunk, sedated

as the breeze timidly returns, 

the flautist wets her lips

.

.© Graham Sherwood 04/2019

.

To describe the taste of an egg, is

impossible

in a thousand words,

milk and water, similarly 

undefinable

as I scramble for an answer.

.

© Graham Sherwood 04/2019

.

In hordes they teem this eager flock,

to bring libations un-thought all,

some adorned in hard won wealth,

others come in cheaper cloth

to hear sweet music, retailed hymns,

the bright lit windows hypnotized,

they break warm bread that’s offered there

and drip their faith in litter bins 

Elsewhere some cathedrals lie bereft

cold stone ancient edifices,

warmed by witless grey broken men,

garbed heavily in rich uniform,

to dole out gifts of hot cross buns,

beseeching all to take their path,

believing corrupted fallen myths.

One Messiah is early risen

on this commercial Calvary,

his true disciples tend us well,

offering the meat we seek, so come 

to worship, come to spend,

celebrate your god lives on, 

celebrate the long weekend.

.

© Graham Sherwood 04/2019

.

Hair thinning or completely gone

on our faces, now sixty years older

are writ personal scriptures

lines, crevices, 

etched and eroded into mottled skin.

We were all last here in 1958

for Sunday School, us

parceled off each weekend

two hours peace for mum and dad,

time to get the washing-up done,

then lay the table again for tea.

Those vivid pictures are what we remember most

the vague dimmed screen,

 that was never dark enough 

in the Mission Room,

windows too tall to be blanked out.

Fierce Goliath felled by scrawny David’s slingshot

Samson, angrily bringing down the temple

Daniel passive amongst three sullen lions

and the Jericho trumpets 

lauding an earthquake zone.

Captivated, singing two hymns

one each side of a bible story 

a message to take home and recount.

Today, it’s merely memory lane,

one or two of our number

still bothering God, the rest of us

lost to damnation.

But we all came back again, 

Didn’t we? Curious

in this ancient place,

aromas of Mr Sheen and Glade

not old books and cobwebs,

and in several ways

we feel cheated.

.

.

© Graham Sherwood 04/2019

As you run into trouble

I run out of valid reasons

for you to stay,

we’re opposites you see.

Then I heard you’d checked into re-hab

as I was checking out at Lidl

horses for courses,

what could be more opposite?

Now it seems you’ve turned into a princess

and I’ve turned out to be the pantomime villain

as I expose your vanity

as they say,

opposites do not always attract.

.

.

© Graham Sherwood 04/2019

Stop to think

about the identity of ideas,

where they come from, exactly what they are?

They are children, born to you

that cannot die, unless you, yourself

decide to end their lives.

You brought them into this world

proud of their perfect appearance,

beguiled by their reckless spontaneity 

and spirited optimism

a love that others may not share.

Your ideas are invisible, except to you

enjoying no sense of time nor space,

dormant in their lands if shunned

returning freshly restored

as if on a whim.

Ideas possess no resolutions

and offer only possibilities

that may contort, writhe and strangle

like a serpent if attacked.

Beware of killing an idea, better

shape it to your will, feed it, 

broaden its shoulders, 

polish its ego

await its metamorphosis.

*

© Graham Sherwood 04/2019

In the sweetly oaked shadows 

beneath the silvered wooden lych,

a fool awaits his sweetheart, solemnly

he holds a daisy chain 

but with eyes closed tight 

thinks only of the sweet pea flower.

As next year’s ghosts, scurry past

to say their prayers this St Mark’s Eve,

plump raindrops black the gravel schist,

they play a hapless sombre tune

to mourn an absent bride, while

impassive waits the fool.

*

© Graham Sherwood 2008 rev 2019