Anastasya Shepherd

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Tag: self

  • 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

  • The waters of eternal youth

    My well is deep and almost full of sadness,
    its waters dark, its syrupy contents
    attracting ants and flies and other creatures:
    some birds and mice that sunk under the surface,
    preserved in sugar – feathers, fur and bones,
    like little gods, demanding adoration.
    The lure so sweet: abandon hope,
    abandon disappointment, strife and effort,
    become an angel, paragon of virtue,
    of feathers so smooth, and white, and silky,
    forever undisturbed, forever perfect,
    forever still.
    Intoxicating poison
    of sugar, death and mystery fermented –
    the nectar of the gods,
    the well of legend
    containing waters of eternal youth.

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in

  • Tsuren’s Sonnet

    Like wilted leaf it falls upon my soul –
    this day that wearied me before its start:
    interminably slow as a whole,
    unmemorably fast in every part…

    This day is full of empty conversations,
    of actions I repeat without thought,
    of petty, unimportant irritations
    that cause no pain, of deeds that come to nought.

    But in the evening burning leaves begin
    to raise the flames to empty skies, like prayers.
    I smell the acrid smoke through my skin
    with clarity and sharpness of nightmares.
    Contorted, twisted, dry, as black as coal,
    the burning autumn leaves subsume my soul.

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in

  • Some thoughts on self-improvement

    Dedicated, with gratitude, to Yana Kane, who inspired this poem

    You set off on a difficult journey –
    the journey of self-improvement.
    You read books and attend lectures.
    You meditate and practice.
    You work on your self,
    but it stubbornly refuses to improve.
    It remains self-same,
    immutable safe-same,
    for if it changed –
    how would you feel yourself?
    With no you and no self –
    tricky!

    … but you do,
    of course you do,
    moment by moment,
    experience by experience,
    creation by creation,
    with or without a journey,
    you fashion your self
    out of current patterns
    and imagine that it was
    and that it will be.

    You cannot improve
    on something that never existed,
    but you can always change a story
    you just made up.

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in

  • Solitude

    Without answer smiles become pathetic,
    they lose all meaning, fade into a grimace.
    The sound of a broken dripping faucet
    co-mingles with the rain and disappears.
    Like clammy shivers of persistent fever
    it permeates my body and takes over –
    my solitude.

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in

  • Time

    Time flows through me like water through a sponge.
    It oozes away, leaving a murky sediment
    of half-forgotten feelings
    and half-imagined events.
    And endless waiting.
    Sometimes it seems that I have been waiting ever since I was born.
    Waiting
    for something to happen
    and for everything to change.
    How?
    If I knew, the wait would be over.

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in

  • Spiral

    You make choices.
    Those choices make you.
    Then you makes choices.
    Always a spiral – upwards or downwards – it’s your choice.

    —

    by

    ashepherd
    in

  • 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

  • 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
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