Michael Shepherd Poems

What is it, when we mourn and grieve and cry
for those we loved - and love - now passed away,
that gives our pain such brute totality?
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I’m not too proud to say
please write a new poem through me
and I promise not to claim that
I wrote it myself…
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Reader, if it’s the first time that you hit
this site, stretching out like a landscape
as far as the mind may reach – just, we ask,
remember –
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You bought the kit,
couldn’t wait for Mum to clear the table
to spread its bits and pieces out
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Bonding, but not binding…
now, there’s true love, for you…
fondly done by finding
what joins you for true…
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‘I love him – that’s why we’re together…’

‘I love her too – but sometimes
we drive each other up the wall…’
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A clerke there was, one Tomas Elyot hight;
‘Stearns’ wasse hys middel name; I think him so;
His gowne a cutte severe, sterne, clericale.
Hie werkéd in a banke; but lyked it not;
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The boy walks past the window;
you can see he's
got something clearly in his mind;
walks firmly on both feet as if
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Death
could be full of surprises.
I'm not Irish; but if you were to do
the full Irish thing - take my corpse out of the coffin,
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Into this quiet room; with sweet relief
the sense of oneness with oneself returns;
the glorious, restless world no longer thief
through thought, of all that for that oneness yearns;
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