Dusty Jars

/ mellowbeachpoet
Fog on the water at sunrise Photo © 2015 DM Shepherd

Fog on the water at sunrise Photo © 2015 DM Shepherd

Every moment of the past is there, inside a dusty jar on a dark shelf,
sitting in line with the others, each a day, a week, a year.

All those jars waiting; to pull down, open, take a whiff, a little taste,
and live again in that surreal fog that is memory.

All of those dusty jars, when put together,
make up the stuff that is your life.

Writing 201: Poetry Assignment 5
Prompt: Fog, Form: Elegy, Device: Metaphor

© 2015 DM Shepherd

10 thoughts on “Dusty Jars”

  1. Pingback: Best of Writing 201: Poetry (according to no one important) | I'd rather sit on the couch

  2. This reminds me of a short story I once read in a magazine, it was about a couple who wrote down their memories and stuffed them into a mason jar every year, and at the end of the year they would sit and open the jar and relieve their favourite moments of the last twelve months. They had shelves full of their years together, it was a lovely thought. I know this is a rather direct translation of the poem, but I love that it can work on that level as well as a more abstract one. 😀

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  5. I’m glad you haven’t replaced ‘stuff’ with ‘dream’. I like the solidity of ‘stuff’ and it goes with your materialisation of memories. This lovely poem will probably strike a chord with most people.
    Who has not pondered over the strange nature of memories? Of the dusty jar that somehow disappears only to reappear when you are no longer searching for it?
    Thanks for sharing..

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  9. Your poem reminds me of watching my parents canning vegetables from the garden. There was a shelf (and still is) in the basement filled with tomatoes, green beans, pear preserves and much more. My father has since passed away, but my mother continues to plant and can every season. Thank you for writing this.

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    • The image I had in mind as I wrote this was a shelf full of home-canned Mason jars in the basement of my home when I was a child. The shelf, the jars, the home, and my childhood are all gone, but that mental image is still sharp in every detail. I’m glad you enjoyed the poem.

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