La Lune se Lève

At first shyly, quietly
it lets slip a golden
sliver above the trees.

Seeing the sun retreat,
it continues to rise,
gracefully lifting itself aloft.

Reflecting the final rays of sunset,
it is a swollen pumpkin,
sporting a mottled jack-o-lantern face.

As the sky darkens, the vibrant
colors fade, replaced by a glowing orb,
climbing higher in the sky.

Now shining like a search light,
it casts a shimmering, silver path
across the water, leading lovers by the hand.

Photo and Poem © 2016 DM Shepherd

Saturdays with Pop

My Mother liked to go shopping,
my sister, delighted to go with,
to me it was pain worse than death,
so I spent Saturdays with Pop.

Sometimes we went fishing
in a rowboat on the lake.
It didn’t matter what we caught,
just being there was the gift.

There were bugs that danced
atop the water, dragonflies
flitting to and fro, tackle box
full of lures, worms looped onto hooks.

Sandwiches wrapped in paper
were what we had for lunch.
Sun dappled afternoons led to
naps in the bow of the boat.

If it rained we’d take cover
in a shack up onshore,
waited for the showers to stop,
then we’d fish some more.

I learned so much on those
Saturdays, far more than
I can tell. It was our time spent
together, that meant the most to me.


© 2016 DM Shepherd

Insomnia

Is it late at night
or early in the morning?
When sleep evades,
it's hard to tell.

Fog blankets the street,
a neon sign flickers,
blues and static from a cheap radio
leak through the door of an all night cafe.

The usual collection of phantoms
and specters line the counter,
nursing a cup of joe
or glass of flat ale.

It's always the same at this grey hour,
somewhere between gaiety and sorrow,
souls waiting to be saved
by dawn's first light.

The Concert

The old gang back together,
gathered at our stomping grounds,
outside the stage door,
where once an empty alley stood,
now a modern high-rise towers.

All those faces, still familiar,
yet worn, with years of laughter,
a few shed tears, 
and wisdom gained
from life lived, fullest.

Some are missing, to be sure,
their absence felt,
claimed by illness or misadventure,
when forty years have passed,
Fate takes its toll.

But when the lights go up,
the band begins to play,
like tonic, the rhythm pulses 
through our veins,
the years melt away.

This goes to show,
though time never slows,
and youth so slyly
slips away,
you're never too old
to Rock and Roll!

© 2016 D M Shepherd

Relativity of Time

Tick.

Tick.

Apart,

time

crawls.

TickTickTickTickTick.
Together,
it flies.

© 2016 DM Shepherd

Before and After

Oh, can you remember those days
Before?
In memory they glow.
Virtually purring withwarmth and harmony.
Before
the moment that
marked the point
when all the days
that followed,
became
After.






Copyright 2016 DM Shepherd

loop

I am the shadow
stretching long across the path
as the sun settles slowly
on its way to night

I am the silver path
flickering brightly on the water
as the moon rises up
to meet the stars

I am the waves
traveling one before the next
across the ocean
surrendering to the shore

here for a time
we each have a fleeting moment
then we're gone
only to return again

prepare to launch

yellow tulips

there's an app for that

Here are some photos from my archives, toyed with using a new photo editing app.

 

first flowers

dusty jars

the past
is still there
somewhere,
inside a dusty
jar on a dark
shelf.
it sits, in line
with all
the others,
each a moment,
a day,
a laugh,
a tear.
all those bits
there for you
to pull down
and open,
take a whiff,
a little taste,
and live again
in that unreal
space
that is memory.
all of those dusty jars,
that when put
together,
are your
life.

blanket of stars

i want to be
somewhere
that lays out
the night sky
in a carpet
of stars before
my eyes
and fall asleep
with the milky way
as my blanket

recently all of my poems have been pictures

© 2012 Dawn M. Shepherd

where

you wonder where

the poems have gone

and what you need to do

to being them back

you thought, a new lover

would fire up the spirit

and make the words flow

but the right one failed to appear

and apparently buying shoes

was not what was needed to

tempt the poetry muse

to return from her

extended vacation

so you think

just maybe

in Paris...

just a test

you've awakened in another
one of those moods,
feeling pain that is
somewhere off in
the distance.
ghosts of dreams
haunt your
bleary morning vision,
not remembered
but lapsing vaguely
over into reality.
was that plane about
to run out of fuel
two miles short
of the runway again,
or were there dark, malicious
men with hidden weapons
lurking in the doorway?
you feel disconnected
from both body and mind,
as if your life
is being swept into a corner
or under a convenient rug.
you are still breathing in and out,
taking up space,
grasping at something
that is just out of reach.

right here

seen enough of
the world now
to know
nothing's
there that
isn't here
everything i've
searched for
i already have
hiding right inside
just couldn't find it
until i stopped
looking

blue wonders

you wake in
a dreamland
where everything's
blue
a blue moon
sits high in
a midnight blue
sky
a sprinkling of
frost twinkles
blue underfoot
and although you
have no mirror to
confirm your
suspicion
you fear the tip
of your nose's
gone blue
from the cold
despite the oddity
of this world
turned blue
you feel quite at
home here
and decide to
remain
just then you
are jolted
awake once again
this time
in surroundings
where the
colors are right
lacking that
mystically magic
blue light

nod

you shake your
head
when you say
yes.
is that
some kind of
body language
dyslexia?
uncertainty, indecision,
a deep rooted desire
to avoid conformity?
just promise one thing.
when you finally
get around to saying
yes to me,
nod.

sprout

somewhere
wrapped deep below
many layers
of muck and mire
lies a kernel
that longs to sprout
and shoot up out
of the earth
reaching for the sun
bearing fruit
but so many
forces act to
hold it captive
the cold of winter
the lack of rain
being told, time and again
you can't, don't try
too small, too weak
too young, too old
and yet still
that small hidden
seed vibrates
with the desire
to germinate
to create something
that is more
than what it is
and then finally
it finds release
as it spills from
the tip of my
pen