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