Michael Shepherd Poems

Last night, a great lute-player
as full of enthusiasm for the power of music
and its history of the human heart
as far as history recedes, as I remember him
...

We used to call them 'the lovebirds':
you couldn't miss them -
they were like some miniature, but very human, sculpture;
in their sixties I'd say,
...

Mills and Boon, Mills and Boon,
ravish me - but not too soon...
Boon and Mills, Boon and Mills,
steam my specs with bedtime thrills...
...

A fine morning and the side-streets empty
then turning the corner,
in the middle of the road
a pigeon - grey-mauve, plump and feather-perfect,
...

Factions
lead to

fictions
...

What we see as nouns
are verbs to God…

see the water in this glass –
...

This poem is no more.
It has ceased to be.
It's expired and gone to meet its maker.
This is a late poem...
...

As your beloved, faithful dog
returns to his dear master's hearth
after burying deep some promising fine bone
as hostage to the future,
...

Silent, they speak
of the elemental:
clear as water, clear as air,
bright as fire, sparkling as sunlight,
...