'when the words come'
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
darkness outside, black and blue,
a watercolour wash
separated by the jagged horizon
of a nearby roofscape, angular,
stark, an origami fold,
pierced by four brilliant rectangles
the only light
stencilled onto the night,
a bedroom light
a brazen beacon
a rampant plant
filling the centre pane,
curtains are never drawn
a trap pulling in the eye
tense, no sign of life,
I am a moth to your flame
*
© Graham Sherwood 07/2020
saying good morning was your mistake,
before your latest blood-letting
a nod to your whiskey glass
our reality check,
not to be fooled
by your tidy appearance
trim beard, new shirt, haircut
the real you, still there
never happier than when wallowing
in the fox shit of your past
like a naughty dog
that will eventually come to heel
for a redemptive bath in our sympathy
you, oblivious to the fresh gashes
we bandage after each sermon
*
© Graham Sherwood 07/2020
there’s nothing to see
isn’t that the real problem,
avoiding the unseen, the invisible
not knowing where to look,
everything feels dangerous
worth a second glance
a wider berth,
we become isolated
insular untrusting,
donning masks
we appear furtive, uncomfortable
spurned amateur bandits
speaking only with our eyes
wary
cursing the reckless,
the young the fearless
who sense it is now their time
their war
where nobody fights but
many will die,
their bloodless coup
*
© Graham Sherwood 07/2020
black hearts with white faces
I rage to witness the
privileged protestants
who rinse their devious hands
in that cold-blooded cauldron
the ‘bame blame’ cul-de-sac
littering ten-pin effigies
in no-one’s name.
*
© Graham Sherwood 07/2020
‘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
