Anastasya Shepherd

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Category: Poetry

  • Abandoned

    Forgotten rooms, abandoned spaces, full of rubbish. Rubbish that drives you mad. Leave it there in the dark. Leave it there to rot – ugly feelings, broken relationships, things you had to forget in order to forgive… Lock the door and throw away the key. Phew… Isnt’t it better? You can start with a clean slate, clear conscience, honest gaze. Aren’t you nice? You can be happy now. You can be whole and pure. You can flower, a beautiful snow-drop, untouched by the rotting rubbish. Oh, but it gets in through the roots, it fills your fruit with poison of all that festered there, in the dark, in the abandoned spaces. You try desperately: keeping your thoughts pure and your living clean… but the poison coursing through your veins makes you into a deadly nightshade. All that you touch withers and dies, it turns into rubbish. Rubbish that drives you mad. You build them up, layer upon layer, abandoned spaces, forgotten rooms. How many layers now? How many more can you build, before you realise that you can never start over, never be clean, never become a snow-drop… before you scream, shrill and ugly, through tears and despair, bending over the withered remains of another broken relationship. And there is no way back, no way to clean out the spaces that feed your roots, for they are the forgotten rooms, the rooms that you locked and threw away the key.

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in

  • Ode to Spring

    Forming a watercolour from a sketch –
    new blooms and leaves are springing up on trees.
    At five o’clock the pigeons squall and kvetch –
    one wants to grab them by the neck and squeeze.

    Deciduous adults drop woolly socks,
    teenagers sprout knees and belly-buttons,
    their clothes bloom into heterodox;
    the streets are full of lambs that dress as muttons.

    The warming sun incites the happy shirkers
    as winds are loosing their winter punch.
    The lawns fill with blooming office workers
    and rubbish left from their picnic lunch.

    The fuel-poor stop heating and start eating,
    with fuller stomachs hearts begin to sing.
    As life begins anew, the sheep are bleating.
    The spring has come. Hooray for blooming spring.

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in

  • Spring Nonsense

    The life on Mars
    is rather sparse.
    It’s very hot
    and dry on Mars.

    They grow mushrooms
    in the dark
    and walk their ogies
    in the park.

    They walk, so couth,
    with gravitas,
    for gravity
    is big on Mars.

    There is a festival
    of spring
    to bounce wildly,
    scream and sing.

    They light the lanterns
    by the stream
    and eat their mushroom-root
    ice cream.

    The ogies frolic
    off the lead,
    they quack and squeak
    and pay no heed.

    The spring is full
    of mirth and girth,
    it’s worth on Mars
    its worth on Earth.

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in

  • Tartan fish swimming through the bones of time

    Time is full of voids,
    empty spaces devoid of substance or meaning.
    You think,
    – Where has the time gone?
    and there is no answer.
    There is evidence:
    worn out shoes, wrinkles, bigger digits on the calendar and your pay slips…
    But the time collapsed, like an empty balloon, and there is nothing there but a thin film of facts.

    Time is supported by a skeleton.
    Big, public ribs – wars and discoveries:
    a burning child running down a dusty street,
    tears in the eyes of a woman who can see again,
    a man stepping in front of a tank,
    another – stepping out of a shuttle into the void,
    facing overpowering odds with the same grim determination.
    Small, private bones:
    sitting on a curb, waiting to be picked up when everyone else is gone,
    feeling your hand on my back while making love – so big and warm,
    holding my child, crying in pain and joy,
    screaming in fear and frustration at the sight of love slipping away,
    laughing helplessly at a silly joke repeated again and again.
    Moments of loss and gain,
    kindness and thoughtlessness,
    Moments that stretch time and give it shape.

    Time has bones,
    bones that keep you up,
    bones that stick in your throat
    and make you choke.

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in

  • Not Fitting In

    A human experience most universally shared is that of not fitting in.

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in

  • Let’s Talk About Love…

    And once again – let’s talk about love.
    The spring had sent our hearts and lips aflutter.
    Wild pigeons coo, cats scream, girls preen, men mutter,
    while cupids in the clouds up above
    adjust their nappies and pick up their bows,
    with whoops of joy they go hell-for-leather.
    It’s their season as all heaven knows:
    they hunt in summer, they are dressed for weather.
    The cupids bet who’ll bag the biggest number,
    intent on their prey they push and shove.
    They rush to live before their winter slumber.
    But I digress… Let’s talk about love.

    Let’s talk about sharing what’s dear
    and feeling awkward when the other’s gone.
    The dread of loss replacing loss of fear
    and sense of joy replacing fleeting fun.
    About warmth amidst the deepest cold,
    being a distance runner, not a sprinter,
    your stamina replaces speed of old.
    You know joy in spring and love – in winter.

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in

  • Tunnel

    Every tunnel can be like a birth –
    think of it – every tunnel!
    You emerge in a different place
    in alternative light.
    Just avoid going back to your berth,
    running down your runnel.
    Catch the wind and escape into space;
    take delight in your flight.

    Every entrance inside can entrance –
    inner spaces are vast –
    While a path to yourself is a mere aside,
    it can feel like an end.
    Every exit can give you a chance
    to escape from the past.
    Through a tunnel you pass outside,
    to expand and extend.

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in

  • Lights In The Dark

    A sudden smile amidst the hurried crowd,
    in dull routine – imagination’s spark,
    in place of fear – laughing out loud…
    small lights are so precious in the dark!

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in

  • There is always a choice

    …and the final choice of all:
    you can always stay behind
    in the place you can control,
    in the prison of your mind…

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in
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