Where sexy meets demure in a place called trim
In the seat opposite in the underground
in the off-peak afternoon,
neat shoes, nice legs, skirt just the exact right length
where demure meets sexy in a place called trim;
well-chosen outfit; wasn’t her face
vaguely familiar in some other context?
Had we met, in Tahiti, Cuba, Necker Island,
or on some other sandy shore?
Met, yet not spoken? She offered me no clue..
Ah yes – for several years,
come January grey but promise of a summer sun,
the TV infomercials fill our screens
with this year’s new holiday destinations
for the single girl who’s demure to sexy,
late thirties, but still trim.. writing her own script
but with all the real life edited out..
How often had we seen her on a sunny beach,
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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0003 Similes, Metaphors and stuff (2)
Isn’t it strange, this thing called
Poetry – and even stranger, these things
called similes and metaphors, which are
the very essence of what poetry
uses to try to get to us?
Look! Over there, in that field! Did you
see it?
No, what?
A hare! Never seen one before! It’s
hiding in the grass now – there! It’s jumped up again!
watch it bounce up and down as it runs,
must have strong hind legs,
isn’t it funny? So fast, too – our dog will never catch it…
No I still didn’t see it, I was watching that beautiful
perfect V-formation of wild geese against the blue sky
over there, I wonder where they came from,
where they’re going? And does
their leader know and lead them, or
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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0009 Medieval English Cathedral
Once I had this fanciful idea of recording
the silence in each great cathedral
and marketing these...
As you pull open the worn and squeaky door
there's a strange moment of apprehension as if
you're not sure what will greet you - a fullness
or an emptiness; a football-stadium roar
or a silence; an earfull of praise or
a mindfull of questions...
but the first step inside, and a silent gasp -
it's bigger inside than outside...
and the sound of your steps soars to the high
indescribably glorious roof like a
small bird looking for an escape.
so that you'd like to sing a note or two
to hear them repeated by those
invisible angels of the echo, waiting poised
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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0190 A novel fairy story for a poetic multi-faith Giftmas
‘Cinderella’ (I’m using this pseudonym
to protect her identity, now she’s
ex-hot, ex-famous) , while sweeping, dusting,
fire-lighting, all that deprived childhood stuff -
felt that she had more to offer;
had not realised her full potential; so
in a cheap exercise book, wrote her
fictionalised life-story, suitably worked up,
in her spare moments; even, when short of incident,
setting up some neat situation with
her ugly sisters etc.
thanks to her friend Buttons who
was computer-literate, hence
his name, ha, she
self-published and, with a wand-wave from
her Fairy Godmother
by ‘sheer chance’ when her sisters had a famous critic
and, unusually, discoverer of talent, to dine,
hit the headlines – Booker Prize
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No Cell-phones During Office Hours
‘The Rise and Function of the
Holy Man during Late Antiquity’
might sound as dry as desert sand,
or equally, excuse the pun, deserted…
but no, it holds a lively story:
the Christian world, gearing up
to tell the AD/CE world the bestest news;
the fervent, eager converts, wanting only
the time to cultivate their fledgling souls…
so where to retreat for this – the monasteries, of course..
wrong. The monasteries became compulsory
recruiting grounds for Church and for society:
a deacon needed for a distant land
to sort out heresies; an emissary
from this Christian nation’s court to that;
monks dragged out into the world
to rule unwieldy bishoprics…
administer, endlessly administer...
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0369 Prayer. To Mike, who asked.
Simplest prayer, soonest answered,
so it’s said; so let us be as little children
(themselves an answered prayer..?)
and ask the simplest questions -
how? whom to? for what? and will we get
what we are asking for? promise?
suppose He or She or It thinks, (if They think anyway..)
that’s it’s a silly thing to ask for,
or just a bit too ‘me’ and greedy,
will they say no? will they let us know
somehow, that’s it’s no?
or will our justice be
to get what we think we want
until the day we wish we hadn’t asked for it?
or is it like the tale of the three wishes,
everything turned to gold – including us! …
another wish, please cancel; then
the last and sensible small wish, which may even
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0266 This one's only for those who like it
Did Jesus, as a baby, cry?
For was there aught to cry for?
Or were His tears from God’s own holy font,
knowing, what He was here for?
The story speaks of one
who’s seldom seen in Christmas cribs –
one of the first of animals to make praise:
the inn’s pet tabby cat, who, woken strangely
by the faintest sound – yet, not a mouse who stirred –
yawned, stretched, strolled slowly down to check
that in the stable, all was peace…
and it was peace, as peace was ever known.
What could a tabby do but purr?
The Christ Child woke; his lips seemed almost
to form some first and holy word;
gazed at the tabby cat, strange creature
of this strange new world; saw it was good;
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To be the Veda
Who am I?
Who put me here?
Why am I here?
What should I do?
Who will tell me who I am?
Who will tell me, who put me here?
Who will tell me, why I'm here,
and tell me then, what I should do? ..
Sometimes, I am all thankfulness
for what keeps all of me alive;
is there a greater one whom I may thank?
And sometimes, I'm alive with praise;
Is there a greater one whom I may praise?
Sometimes, as thunder rolls and lightning strikes,
earth quakes; seas foam,
I am all fear; is there a one
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Three of my friends
Yes, it’s a photo of the three of them –
it’s not so often I can get them all together;
they’re so much in demand…
This one’s Rosa. She has something
quite unique: she’s no great beauty, yet
she has that something which
we’ve given up trying to define:
let’s say, it’s, inner beauty…
her girl friends are devoted to her;
men can’t keep away from her:
when you’re with her, you feel yourself
to… shine? As if you too, are beautiful?
(Her ‘girls’ admit it; men,
they do not like to put a name to it…though
sometimes contemplate themselves her husband;
glow with imagined, noble pride;
then sigh, at their unworthiness;
can’t wait to see her once again…)
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0348 Me, Royalty and Fame
I didn't wave anything at the Queen
when I saw her leaving an official reception
sitting bolt upright in the car,
still, pale, exhausted,
on her way to the next engagement
of the five or so that day.
I didn't say much to the Queen Mum
when presented to her -
some people chat with royalty when introduced
like old friends; others, even the most anti-monarchical
turn to idiot jelly. But
she sure was good in dealing with it.
A pro to her fingertips.
I didn't say anything to Prince Charles
when he opened an exhibition
that he and I had an interest in;
but I'm proud to say we pushed
the greatest man in the room
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