Poems
For
Friendly
Strangers
This collection of short poems formed an experiment in writing a relevant piece of poetry for people whom I didn’t know personally, other than by their presence on a social networking blogsite that I posted work onto. I issued a general offer to write for anyone who wanted a bespoke poem for themselves. Here are the results; it may be interesting for the reader to attempt to form his/her own perspective of my subject matter.
Juliet young and beautiful, plays.
Her music sweetened by her words so clear.
But love and anger, those hateful siblings
bound, belonging to this tortured family,
wrestle to a grisly death.
So running, fettered from the fray,
in search of finer minstrels, someone calls.
And childhood’s angst and innocence,
are coolly rinsed away,
in soft approaching velvet rain.
For Amaya
For Celestria
Lying, crying, longing for her other kingdom,
The lonely praying Janus bride,
Is separated by a cold, stone, heartless chasm
A flimsy blanket wide.
Fears lie shallow hidden, as unnoticed tears, dilute
In stinging seas of callous rain,
Her soul bleeds slowly, yearning for a longer road
A chance to flower once again
Silent subjects loyal to her complex, secret way
A sombre, wise, mentorial Dane,
and stamping steed both wait the fearless, shining knight,
to bear the starlet off far again.
For Centurion
His distant, weary legion slumbers,
their doubtful duty done.
Close to home, the so‐called men of honour,
shuffle through the dog‐eared cards of destiny.
A smitten hand lies bleeding on the porch,
the other’s failed philosophy,
tugs down the country’s proud, embattled flag.
Thus with armour ripped and wounds agape,
the general must pass on his torch,
to younger men’s’ integrity.
For Cindy Lou Who and America
There’s dreams of glory over there,
Alas, amongst the sand, no clover.
The braided caps shield furrowed brows,
but can’t dare to say it’s over.
I’ve pondered long these fools of men,
their thoughts so honour‐kissed.
Who lose our children to the sword,
that swirls in foreign mist.
For Hannah
An inch or two is all that’s left,
a smokey, pink, grey sunset handkerchief.
Fat‐bellied planes hang motionless,
and frightened wombles scurry down,
to the safety of their littered burrow home.
Hannah dreams for just one quiet moment,
Her lonely, secret garden never seen.
Reflecting in the mirrored walls,
no‐one close at all, none ford the bridge
I’ll make some tea she thinks.
Francis
I’m looking straight at Francis,
and unblinking he looks back to me.
I’m not one of the many souls
that he’s become accustomed to see.
He’ll never look me in the eye
but prefers to glance past me,
to a distant place where two blues meet,
as if he’s looking out to sea.
He speaks his love in strange languages,
with knowing signs from lips and eyes,
that’s strange to so‐called clever men
but he’s just different, special, wise.
He’s in a box with four glass walls,
unable, unwilling to come out,
inside he’s safe and sound there
no matter what he thinks about.
So I don’t prod or poke him
or make a thousand tests,
content to look into his eyes
whilst he looks at my chest.
Somehow, I know he loves me
and the fact that I don’t judge,
this unspoken love between us
has always been enough.
We live in different worlds you see
and share the air we breathe,
but in that place ‘twixt sea and sky
we’ll somehow always meet.
For Gabriella
Cool Latin rhythms call her,
from the warm soft southern rain.
The distant drumming lullaby,
she will not hear again
But who is Gabriella?
A friend to bright, young angels,
who cannot hear her songs.
An urge born deep from motherhood,
to right their many wrongs
But who is Gabriella?
She holds dear love for many souls,
She meets throughout her days.
But hid amongst the stars somewhere.
Her special music plays
But who is Gabriella?
Jon getting to it
Last night’s Amarone dregs stain a glass,
and from the tacky stem a perfect cherry ring,
franks a watermark on the barren page.
Unsure fingers fumble for a smoke, distracted
by what, when, how, the form this opus takes,
perhaps a coffee first and time to think this through.
Week old pencil shavings random curled and scattered,
abstract pubic clippings on fresh clean sheets,
drag thoughts and avenues to memory lane.
Then the phone will ring, perhaps the mail,
the pad is shaken clear for words to come,
later, later is good, time to think this through
.
.
.
Rievaulx
A prancing, panting equus, is straddled lean, by painted flanks, two souls unsatisfied. Taut, naked muscles damply daubed, by dappled autumn’s splattered riven sods. Amongst those ancient misty ruined stones, pursued by hounds and books and men, both striving, fraught to find their reason.
Lucky Star
Silver Blue fractured electricity, hangs, and is gone
to leave the cutting stroboscopic pelting rain, awash.
Cringing trees bow, the vague stars forced down low,
Alight their canopy.
Two brave, just, eyes steal a fleeting peek,
And chance to save one lucky star.
© All work remains the copyright of Graham Sherwood 2009