Winter trees are lean

lit dimly in weak afternoon sun

brushed deftly by early frost

unclothed and beautiful, they

hold a frigid grace, a sanctity

amongst the searching abuses

of this savage season’s

rapacious tongue.

 

© Graham Sherwood 12/2018

mistletoe pearls await their hour

and warmly shiver above the yule log’s flame

green holly leaves

carefully placed yellow spears

hope for hapless flesh

in search of blood

the ivy swag

its tortuous path

waymarked by bundled cinnamon

and clove-pricked orange

a strange perfume

advent tallow smoulders

newly snuffed

impatient for tomorrow’s flame

all in all, a heady brew

 

 

© Graham Sherwood 12/2018

The cattle, hushed,

have burrowed low

all nestle there as one.

shine lonely light on this clear night,

for lantern’s oil is gone.

 

Far from the distance Magi ride,

on camel ships, in trio,

their urgent need

for compass speed,

so drawn, their hearts in brio.

 

Shivering shepherds meekly come,

with unknowing exploration.

to chance a peep,

like curious sheep,

in wondrous adoration.

 

Thus, one beauteous mother lies,

serene and calmly numb.

gently from her womb,

to light the room,

a cherub boy has come.

 

Quiet,

our naked alabaster prince,

in swaddled, loving bliss,

his hands unfurl,

to greet our world,

and sends us all a kiss.

 

 

© Graham Sherwood 12/2018

The headteacher looks tired

her hair could do with a brush

as she beseeches the parents

not to take pictures until the end

knowing full well they will.

 

Why have schools forsaken

the once mellow tones

of the plinky-plonk piano

for an electronic keyboard

that rattles like an old toffee tin.

 

The children file in

they’re excited and afraid

seeking out mums and dads

with surreptitious waves

wet-eyed grandmas sniff

 

Of course, we all cry

as the darlings recite

the comings and goings

of that Bethlehem night

 

but somehow we all manage

to ignore the homeless beggar

on the way out.

 

© Graham Sherwood 12/2018

Our ghosts eat well tonight

laying feast on old souls

forgotten memories, and

abandoned reminiscences

that have faded.

They gorge at old rendezvous

those secret intimate

deep-thinking places

we no longer visit,

licking their drooling lips

anticipating the next

sweet sorrow let slip,

imaginary friends forgot

graves left untended.

Starve your ghosts

lay siege to precious memories

times, places, customs

make the past your own.

 

© Graham Sherwood 12/2018

 

You’re young

and you meet someone

the right one, and beguiled

your nubile fleshy naïve heart

gets pulled and twisted, bruised and battered

but you survive, thrive and love grows

 

later perhaps children come

love becomes serious

life, work, house, home

and your muscular parental heart

tenses to carry the weight, holds firm

and your love widens, ripens, polishes.

 

Eventually the children will leave home

to live recklessly, fearless

to learn, travel, work, perhaps marriage

and your mature, experienced heart

develops a rind, a skin, catching their fallout,

love is strong, easy, trusting, solid, close.

 

Oh! But then a grandchild is delivered

a tiny scrap of skin and bone

that grows, investigates, absorbs

and with the tiniest fingers

gently scratches away at your heart

leaving it fleshy, nubile, and unprotected once again.

 

© Graham Sherwood 12/2018

He’s a black man

no, I mean very very black

his hat is black too

and his baggage

an overloaded supermarket trolley

lashed down with a black tarp.

He lives rough near Sainsbury’s

never seen without their trolley

which he pushes up and down the hill

like a Black Atlas holding up the sky

doomed to eternity, straining, straining!

Sometimes,

he’s bent over, asleep outside

other times

he’s inside near the photo booth

just getting a warm,

never begging,

just up and down, up and down

a Black Atlas

doomed to eternity

 

© Graham Sherwood 12/2018

dirt dust rubble blood

who do I trust?

money religion faith politics

who do you trust?

a lie a truth a spy a truce

who do they trust?

hunger anger murder remorse

who do we trust?

a head a hand a tongue a smile

who do they trust?

hunter corpse hunted innocence

who do you trust?

reporter observer spectator camera

who do I trust?

wolves rabbits hawks doves

who do I trust?

dirt dust rubble blood

nothing is real!

trust no-one

 

© Graham Sherwood 12/2018

This is the city of glass,

that cannot be recognised in plain sight

secluded behind its hidden persona,

refracting and reflecting, camouflaged,

avaricious cuckoo conurbation,

gluttonous consumer of consumers.

 

This hypno-magnetic shangri-la

a village robber baron casino,

devourer of communities

entombed, strangled and

embalmed in modernism

preserved under glass.

 

Its confused composite DNA

a helter-skelter not helicoid

a venal entity, an arterial CO2 grid mat

that bleeds its toxic spew

to polish the showpiece dermis

a brilliant carapace, with which

we are all blinded.

 

© Graham Sherwood 11/2018

This rendezvous, arranged the previous week

and after fifty years, here you are.

Offering the feintest of smiles, we remain face to face

just looking, studying each other’s wrinkles, creases, lines

searching for clues

why and when these features had been etched, wondering

how each other’s lives had become watermarked

with such ghostly timelines

chiselled on our brows, our cheeks, our mouths

and all our colours stolen

leaving only tarnished silver and aged grey

 

 

 

© Graham Sherwood 11/2018