Michael Shepherd Poems

When did you cease to love, then hate, yourself?
What terrible event? How long ago?
What slight misunderstanding, view of self,
that led to fading love, then bitter hate?
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Heaven is not a place; it is a state;
not in the clouds, nor here on earth beneath;
heaven's not in front, behind, nor left nor right -
and yet, in love it comprehends all these.
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Let’s suppose
you’ve bought or blagged
an invite to a buzzy West End party
after the football game, where
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Saints.
Like swans, gliding untroubled so it seems
to us, lazing on the river bank
of a Seurat summer Sunday afternoon,
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In the stillness of the dawn,
in the stillness of the dusk,
then, my heart is most alive,
there, my soul is most at peace.
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I was born poor uneducated trailer trash;
worked myself up by my own efforts;
now I'm rich; but still inside, feel poor...
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Their apartment was ballroom-huge,
just off Park Avenue; they were
generous with their invitations;
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I've got a cuddly teddy bear,
Jesus is his name.
I wondered what to call him;
and then the answer came:
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We knew the history of the area, of course;
reckoning that with a Heritage Site
just over the hill
planning permits would be hard to get
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How ardently, now, I wish for others
what I –alas too late – wish -
would have wished - for my own self,
and maybe, for my parents too:
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