0364 Poetry Reads; Poetry Speaks Poem by Michael Shepherd

It’s like an adult version of a parlour game, isn’t it?
a sorta cross between a single-handed game of patience
and a crossword puzzle where the guy who set the puzzle
is always a step at least ahead of you dammit
and knows there’s a perfect solution
only known to him, or Him

so here I am, shuffling these black-and-white
(well, kinda browny-maroon on this site)
soundless things which are supposed to be
sounds in my ear and mind which
by mad optimism forever proved somewhat
or totally wrong in experience
are supposed to come out the other end
into your ear and mind in a vaguely
similar manner – allowing for the fact
that if you’re of a critical cast then
you’ll have a superior ear and mind
to mine anyway so that’s a mess for a start
and I suppose the same applies if
you have an inferior - oh forget it

so forget for the moment
this creeping disorder of rather dumb
black and white caterpillars making their humpy
busy-legged but corporately slow
progress across the page in a
disorderly snaky line, arguing among themselves
trying to remember (ah yes, Plato,
trying to remember) like
a Spanish bus-queue, whom they’re
behind and whom they’re in front of
if and when the bus comes, while they
chatter in little groups among themselves –

where was I, ah yes, forget
the black-and-white on paper, and rhyme
or not, and all that technical stuff
which you’re not suppose to notice anyway
and know that what
I really want to do is

take your two hands gently in mine and
smiling, look you straight in the eye
and say
when all’s said and done
and that may take a little time,
and to coin a cliché which
I’m not apologising for, but
forget it’s supposed to be poetry and
listen to my sincere voice saying

isn’t it a wonderful world?