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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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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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,
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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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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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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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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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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If I wasn’t afraid, I would run home now, pack a modest bag, grab my passport and head for the airport. Scanning the boards, I would pick a hemisphere, a climate, a culture, then confidently stride up to the information desk and push across my savings, knowing, as I did, I was making a commitment and honouring a contract.
But I am afraid: so my desire to travel is suppressed, along with my yearning for learning and adventure.
Playing it safe, my life curls into a ball: minimum challenge, limited contact. And while it doesn’t alarm me overly much, it doesn’t really excite me either.
Waking from a nightmare last night, I am full of agitation. Abandoned by my friends, left alone in a strange location which they, when they were here, trashed, my day is haunted by flashbacks. I feel nervous and scared too, too scared even to dig for the message my inner me wishes me to know.
All around me there are signs. Every day I am presented with options and choices of things I might do if I were brave enough and every day I shy away, fearing the consequences of standing up. And while I speak my truth and honour my feelings, never withholding even when speaking out might, at times, appear unkind: it is not enough.
I was born with an inner yearning to not be here. On earth I have never felt at home and I long for the peace that I know I used to have. In meditation and sleep I find it but like a drug the effects are short-lived. So I hang out with people who will leave me, seeking others who will let me down, knowing that because this is a repeating pattern, they will take everything I have.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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Uncanny
how a minor deviation
expands,
the desire to find a link
check a word
confirm a phrase
s t r e t c h i n g
until it becomes a map-less journey
of useless escapades.
by Rebeca L. Atherton
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Rebecca L. Atherton 