Waking up


 
1.
In summer, the green comes fast –
an eruption of colour,

– a bit like the heat,
which moves from 20 to 30
in a matter of days.

2.
Slowly, I adapt…
releasing, shedding and purging;

letting go of long-held emotions,
metaphorical handcuffs,
and sharp-edged things.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Step by step


 
Self love is a life long journey,
and some days
I’m not very good at it.

by Rebecca L. Atherton


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After a couple of days of torrential rain…


 
Jan made a trip down to Coffs Harbour
yesterday to see her accountant.

So we caught up for a coffee and dog walk
where the ocean and the creek meet.

by Rebecca L. Atherton


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Muddied Water


 
Judgement and muddied water: things that rise up – upsetting foundations, waking sleeping elements. Roots plucked, cut, grabbed and twisted: no wonder inside is a mess – upturned and broken; a heart rapidly beating, a breast leaning left, a throat sore for want of speech.

There’s a belly that’s empty and a stomach that’s hollow and a place that should be full. There’s a daughter without a mother and a father without a child. There’s upset and anger and misunderstanding. There’s the bridge that’s broken and the road that’s blocked, paths that don’t lead anywhere. There’s me and you and you and me: in the middle: stuck. It is impossible to navigate the minefield. At 9am, already I have lost a foot.

Limping backwards; attempting to make a hasty retreat; no longer worried about politeness and etiquette, no longer giving a shit about the shit that’s flying everywhere: I exit onto the street. The day is sunny but the heat doesn’t permeate. Instead, only pain; which is cold, persistent and impossible to suppress. There are things: people, places… that should not be entertained. I know this lesson. It is my fault. I am to blame.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Amateurs


 
Dinner last night
was full of dramatics:

my dog wouldn’t eat
because of her leg,

my partner passed out
because of his head

and my sister
got a lap full of soup.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Last Night…

Last night,
the moon was back outside my window
after a week away –
body bloated and milk-white.

Tonight,
the clouds are thick and heavy
and I cannot see her face.

I imagine her perfectly round
and pregnant,
like a splash of batter
or a drop of cream.

By Rebecca L. Atherton

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Comfortable & @ Peace


 
 
Clean and unpolluted,
white is without pressure:
it does not exert
or seek to detract.

Rather,
it simply sits:
comfortable
and at peace.

by Rebecca L. Atherton
 


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Prayer Work


 
Sometimes…

writing a poem
in your head

and then releasing
it unremembered

is the bravest thing you can do.

By Rebecca L. Atherton

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Rapunzel


 
From my vantage point
I survey the landscape.

A dog goads a child
and a man takes out the rubbish.

The sun dips
and the air bites.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Cold, dead and dark.

I sew with limited visibility, trusting that my thread will be led the old-fashioned way by the abundance of natural flame dancing before me in an old jar, long shadows flickering across the table’s surface like spiders legs and winter branches or ageing crone feet.

Icy; cold: it makes for poor physical company, channelling chills into my palms and fingers, up my arms and into my head and neck each time I let my limbs connect. Like my mother with her carefully painted face and colour-coded outfits: it’s all for show. Behind the veil, inside, it’s a different story: cold, dead and dark.

by Rebecca L. Atherton


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