Tiny pleasures, snatched

Posted on November 28, 2014 by Lemon Rose Petals

Your coat, my scarf, thermal underwear. A hot bath, central heating, a down duvet. Blankets, socks, water bottles – worn in bed, never shed. A stranger’s shoulders, a child’s hand, a dog’s torso: tiny pleasures, snatched.

A cup of tea, a park bench, afternoon sunshine. Mulled wine, an open fire, pine logs. Shops, galleries, theatres, cafés. Museums, markets, buskers, bands. People, places. Arms, legs. Bags, umbrellas. Taxis, cars. Constant motion: the lo-comotion – only without Jason and Kyle.

You, me; us, them. Up, down; right, wrong. Left bereft: heart aching. Confused. Bruised.

Try hard: fail heavy. Fight for: come up against. Never-ending; constant bending: always. Bitten. Shy.

World: oyster. House: cave. Some day…

Returning backwards; landing sideways: upside down.

Your face: Billy. Mine: Peep. Lost… sheep without a shepherd, people without a God, a leader without a clan.

Stoop, whisper, tiptoe. Fold into, close off, shut down. Attempting invisible: achieving sunshine, only hostile and hot.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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A skirt for a kitten

Posted on November 14, 2014 by Lemon Rose Petals

A skirt for a kitten.
A scarf for a cat.
A cardigan for a guinea pig.
A coat for a rat.

A jumper for a hamster.
A jacket for a dog.
A sock for a chinchilla.
A stocking for a frog.

A sheep in the garden.
A cow in the shed.
A horse in the kitchen.
A goat in the bed.

A mind in the gutter.
A mouth in the sink.
A finger in the cookie jar.
A toe in the drink.

An eye on the future.
An ear on the floor.
A foot on the ladder.
A hand on the door.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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A sandpaper tongue

Posted on November 14, 2014 by Lemon Rose Petals

The darkness sit on the horizon like a hungry cat,
green-eyed and menacing,
a flock of birds for whiskers and clouds for a tail.

A plane flies overhead
and two ears appear,
shortly followed by four paws.

My arm extends and silken skin
rises up to greet my fingertips.
It purrs, billowing steam.

A tongue lashes out,
tiptoeing closer and closer
and even from far away, I am scared.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Under the Bed

Posted on November 13, 2014 by Lemon Rose Petals

Last year, there were lights
dancing in the sky
that looked like alien spaceships.

This year, there were moths
coveting a lamp.

In winter, gekkos
hide behind the mirror
and spiders crawl under the bed.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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A flower in winter

Posted on November 8, 2014 by Lemon Rose Petals

Behind the wheel,
he’s a man with small feet.
At home,
his fists are made of iron.

As for me,
I’m a flower in winter,
a bird
without wings.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Morning has broken

Posted on October 27, 2014 by Lemon Rose Petals

Last night’s dinner covered in ants.
The metal contraption that cooks in various shades of black.
Dirty plates, empty cups.
A girl with broken eggshells in her lap.