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Who are You?

I remember a friend telling me
of his trip to America,
parking in front of a diner
and being surrounded by
a gang of Hell’s Angels bikers.
Looking concerned
the waitress re-assured him,
don’t worry sir,
they’re all dentists
they come here every Wednesday.

I saw a chap at an open-mic
a right ‘erbert,
tattoos, big hat, multicolour waistcoat
bad language, 
spitting through his beard.
Off stage very popular,
obviously local, people offering drinks
signing his pamphlet,
hard to believe isn't it?
says my friend, you wouldn’t think
he’s the chairman of the bloody council.

So, who are you?
Really!

© Graham Sherwood 07/2018

Notes on a Big Sky

(Skies such as this are very rarely seen here in the UK).

Some of the thinner clouds drift like smoke,
slowly a macabre skeletal hand forms
and tries to grasp this smoke
but without success, 
the hand dissipates haphazardly
dispersing into the smoke.

From the south, a rumpled sheet gradually billows into view
a translucent titillating gossamer that settles briefly
to the contours of an ethereal recumbent lady
three miles in width, an unfathomable wraith.

To the north foaming breakers crash across the horizon trees
then become immense feathers of a large stately bird
which coasts across the clear blue
persistently worried by two white doves.

Criss-crossing the scene
frequent airplane bullet zips rake lean stripes
before bloating into corkscrew spirals
leaving white ink spots to pock and splash the blotting paper sky.

© Graham Sherwood 07/2018

Last Post

The night fires are flaming
and as if in homage to the day’s fight,
cackle and spit like the toothless elders
who gather close as the camp settles 
to hear the tales of battles past,
honours won, lives lost.
Tonight, there are heroes but no victors,
another skirmish soon will
re-draw the line once more,
there cannot ever be peace
all soldiers need a war,
all soldiers need a fight.

© Graham Sherwood 07/2018

Fucked

I cannot make that sort of love anymore
not the sort of love you seek, need,
the sort of love young bodies make
violent, all-in, reckless selfish love.
No those days have gone for good
your young smooth flesh
a peach’s bloom
down amongst your sex
hair to your waist lashing out
my face your face soaking wet.
Now it’s feels wrong 
to ponder such a scene
to remember a young girl’s form
so eager, earnest, care abandoned
love masked as sex
insane unpunctuated fucking
that only adolescence may enjoy
I cannot make that sort of love
anymore.

 © Graham Sherwood 06/2018

Loubès-Bernac

This village is silent and
yet to warm its stones,
our tiny restored chapelle
aches with an ancient torpidity
I feel I must be observant to,
The quietude, deafens
so I invent an imaginary tock
a slow pendulous clock
that drops coins
into a fountain of time.
As the dawn vapours take leave
a distant rooster bellows
and hounds shake night fleas
off in the dust
Sundays are for hunting.

© Graham Sherwood 06/2018

Parenthesis

A father is a redundant lover
seamlessly displaced by his progeny,
(a blinkered provider, worker, 
absent for many of life’s milestones,
a time-poor spectator to growing lives
a parallel source 
of endless and unconditional love)
a hunter a gatherer of resources
a hoarder of unused love
destined to be reserved
and poured on the heads
of his progeny’s progeny
finally to become once more
an unconditional lover
circle complete.

© Graham Sherwood 06/2018