Michael Shepherd Poems

Myne mynde to me a tumbledryere ysse,
where muste I watche my scrumpled, worn-oute thoughtes
seeke their redemptione in Hys watere’s grace;
thynkes-bubbles that do forme and burste in ayre,
...

We are like salmon, swimming back upstream:
leaping against waterfalls that thwart,
cut and bruised; but strong; our only dream
return to source; no thought save source of thought;
...

and there’s this guy,
hits my poems every day
devotedly
that’s a lot of poems
...

'Naff' comes back as 'cutting-edge'...
though dogs may have their day,
...

roses are red
(well, some are white) :
Saint Valentine says
he needs poets to write...
...

Old poets, torturing their thoughts to rhyme,
their lovely English verse to end-words tied,
oft found just cause to moan of 'envious Time',
and seek immortal fame in 'Time defied';
...

At last I’m old enough

old enough not to be
embarrassed when
...

Two days after,
when they'd cleared away the mangled
meaningless twist of metal,
familiar red paint smeared with oily black,
...

I wish I’d known him better.
But our respect for him was such
that you only spoke to him
when you needed to.
...

I'm miss-spelling this message to try to shove
it past that spamblock that bans risky words like vole;

and to tell you, my darling, my angel, my beaut
...