Anastasya Shepherd

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Tag: poetry

  • Socrates

    What kills us is certainty,
    unwavering conviction that we are doing the right thing.
    The ends have to be unquestioned to justify the means,
    questions leave room for empathy and doubt.

    Socrates – the man who said that the only certainty is the lack thereof –
    died because of his stubborn conviction that he knew the right thing to do.
    Because eventually even the bravest of us give in
    to the comfort of certain death
    after a lifetime in the quicksand of uncertain truths.

    The only solution is love
    because it makes truth less important than life.

    If Socrates had children,
    he would have lived longer
    and died without leaving a legend.

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in

  • Morning song

    The sun is low
    the moon is high
    the sky’s aglow
    and I get by
    on coffee
    and hope
    and light.

    The heady air
    is in my lungs.
    My head is bare.
    I speak in tongues
    of futures
    and hope
    that’s bright.

    The night is waiting
    but day is long –
    time for creating
    another song
    with nonsense
    and hope
    and rhyme.

    While sun is shining
    there’s time for fun;
    there’s no divining
    when day is done –
    depleted
    of hope
    and time.

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in

  • This is what democracy looks like:

    A lot of people making the same decision they always did – or no decision at all.
    Making new decisions is difficult.
    It carries a risk of making a mistake and offers no certain reward.
    It’s fundamentally unsafe.
    Better not.

    Quite a few people working hard for no gratitude, no acclaim and not much money.
    For the sake of decency.

    A lot of people working hard for no reason – only money and thinking they are better than the rest.
    They always fail.
    There’s always someone richer.

    A few people yelling as loud as they can – their grievances, their ambitions, their theirness –
    Anything to be seen, for they only feel real when reflected in the eyes of others.
    The eyes turn away and they have to raise the volume.

    Crowds marching, covered in the mantle of righteousness, in the warmth of the herd.
    Belonging.

    Dozens of people thinking, writing, quoting.
    Trying hard for new decisions – and never mind the cost.

    A lone man standing in front of a tank in Tianamen square.
    The first person to climb over the Berlin wall.
    A woman dumping green ink into the voting box in Moscow.

    This is what democracy looks like:
    Each of us alone with his choice.

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in

  • Berlin

    My mind is sloshing in an empty brain,
    Forgotten jokes rising to the surface.
    Unbidden tears rising in my eyes,
    Unbound, unconnected and unclear,
    There is no sadness – maybe loss and mourning
    But then for whom or what?
    I am confused.
    I wade through rain and waters of Berlin,
    My mind precedes the tower of Babel –
    It grasps the meaning, but discards the form.
    The language spoken is of no importance
    And does not register or muddy
    The waters – deep and murky as they are,
    With lurking Moray eels and tiny spiders
    Who build a home from the air bubbles,
    All light and sparkle, lightness and the beauty
    Supported by a web of finest silk,
    A bubble dance distorting space and vision,
    Concealing occupant, revealing truth…
    I wander through a half-imagined city
    Of memories and loss and expectations
    With long-forgotten, longed for sense of lightness.
    This, too, shall pass.
    It’s time to gather stones.

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in

  • Lavender Roses

    Symbolizing enchantment and splendor, these blooms are meant for royalty. One of the rarest colors, lavender roses are often a sign of love at first sight and carry an air of regality. It’s truly the perfect rose for a budding romance. [Sarah Dimarco, Veranda – poshness-aspiring magazine – March 22, 2021]

    When I was young and trusting I was told to seek and I’ll find
    My lavender roses would wait just ’round the bend.
    Around the bend I went all out in body and mind
    But roads bent and twisted and would always end in dead-end.

    I went for unaffordable and always got it for free.
    I stood on words and principles in unsustainable poses.
    They gave me what I wanted and I screamed that I disagree.
    And all that I had left to me were pure lavender roses.

    My road to salvation went south while heading North.
    A thousand bipasses appear when the straight path closes.
    While finding my direction I only tied up in knots,
    My body cut and bleeding from the thorns on lavender roses.

    I made my own way into the middle of the deep dark wood.
    I found a crystal coffin where the perfect place of repose is.
    My peace is on my terms and I have now done what I could
    But all that I have left to give are broken lavender roses.

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in

  • Circus

    It fascinates us by taking life to bizzare extremes,
    by emphasizing the kinship between nightmares and dreams.
    Beauty and ugliness morphing and dancing, figure and ground,
    like in the faces and vase illusion, flipping around.

    Fear and joy swing and sway, push and jam,
    knock us and jerk us.
    Life only sometimes is a cabaret, old chum –
    sometimes it’s circus.

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in

  • Observation

    Nothing makes us worse than pathetic attempts to prove that we are intrinsically better than someone else.

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in

  • London

    The difference between art and ornamentation is provocation. If it provokes thoughts, feelings, actions, opposition – anything but indifference – it is art. (Me, personal communication)

    London is art.

    I wander around the city,
    from pillar to post,
    from juxtaposition to juxtaposition.

    It has a lot of pillars and posts –
    old and contemporary,
    pretentions and utilitarian,
    faux Greek and real concrete.

    I peel it layer by layer:
    Shiny facades concealing ruins,
    ruins prepared to be reorganised,
    rebuilt, repurposed,
    reabsorbed into nostalgia for the past
    or hope for the future.

    Only dead cities are immutable –
    monuments to past hopes of individual success
    and current delusions of national grandeur.
    Gravestones.

    Living cities have to consist of ruins,
    it is a process of recreation,
    flux and flow of people and things,
    moving between loss and hope,
    provoking innovation and outrage.

    London is art.

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in

  • Teenrager Years

    Curiouser and curiouser,
    down the rabbit hole
    furiouser and furiouser,
    losing your mind and soul,
    filling your lungs with panic,
    nameless, lost in the wood,
    swapping depressed for manic,
    hoody for riding hood.
    Barely understood
    tears form bleeding tears.
    Fight through the turgid wood
    of your teenrager years.

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in
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