Grrr… 

My boyfriend is like an angry dog.
Sometimes, this is useful…

by Rebeca L. Atherton

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Care Instructions


 
Store in a cool dry place
away from direct sunlight.

Once opened, keep refrigerated
and consume within two days.

by Rebeca L. Atherton


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He

Inhabiting the space
between the shade and the light,
he was never truly able
to move freely.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Afoot


There is a green plaster on my balcony
that wasn’t there before.

And last night there was a freak hailstorm
that earlier wasn’t predicted.

In my neighbourhood,
strange things are happening.

by Rebecca L. Atherton
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Rock and cement


 
Searching for home in a world full of motion –
shapes constantly shifting,
people and spaces milling, spilling, moving around;
loud,
noisy,
fast-paced –
my hands paw at the intangible,
looking for connection inside
solid structures like rock and cement.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Dilemma

image
 
At 40 degrees,
the temperature is oppressive.

Standing in the pool,
lengths requiring more
than I can willingly recall,

I wonder whether I ought to
sink or swim?

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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What it used to be like

image
 
First she saw the orange wheelbarrow
and was drawn towards that,
and then she noticed the orange scarecrow
and instead wanted that.

And when, on her birthday
she opened first the orange
and then the green,
it finally all made sense

because orange was the colour of sensuality
and a newfound enjoyment for life
and green was the colour of healing
necessary to awaken that.

So she placed them outside on either side
of her small but perfectly proportioned garden
to watch over her and encourage her
while she slowly remembered what it used to be like.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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What I would like 

image

A misunderstanding turns what should
have been special into something plain
and the associated pain hurts more
than I care to describe.

I stare at the window and will
what is real into something else,
replacing what is
with what I would like.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Baa Baa, Black Sheep

image
Things keep breaking inside my house
and I seem to spend every spare moment fixing them.

I seek comfort in a warm cup,
my bed, and the gentle rhythm
of two needles going clickety clack.

Slowly nothing becomes substance
until eventually a blanket appears.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Green and gold

I have nearly completed my Christmas tree and I’m so proud, waxing about her as if she were a newborn child. Given the brevity of time before me and the new terrain, the landscape of ‘different’ in which to source from, she’s a work of art. A patchwork of randomly sourced objects, lovingly put together with an attention to detail and adherence to certain rules – like each additional adornment must be serviceable all year, for life not just for December…, she presents a whole that even I with my obsessive need for perfection cannot readily unpick.

There is a velour cat with a bubblegum pink ribbon; a perspex diamond accommodating two mis-adventuring mice (one, with her purple jacket and hat, reminding me of my grandma) a child petting her pet, who just so happens to be a beautiful chocolate-brown spaniel; a hippo in a tutu attempting a pirouette; a moose holding a snow-clad tree – tiny in comparison to his rotund self; an eccentric giraffe displaying, in his outstretched hand, an umbrella (perhaps to remind me of England and all of the rain I incurred there); a felted tiger straight out of ‘Where the Wild Things are’, a similar felted fox and kangaroo, part of a matching collection; a terracotta angel painted Mallorcan style; a ceramic squirrel with a hollow centre and a rabbit carved from local wood. All that’s missing is the star.

Sitting at the very top, visible from every angle… the star cannot just ‘do’, she has to outshine. So while I’ve seen passable solutions and the occasional ‘blow me away with their beauty but also with their price’ attempts at twinkling joviality, I haven’t yet seen anything that works without breaking the budget (which is also one of the rules!) apart. But I believe… : in the solution, in the ‘right’ one, in the five-pointed declaration that is made specifically for me. When the Universe is ready (as like with everything else), she will extend her palm and yield. And if for some unforeseen reason she will not explain, she, the universe and all of the powers that accompany her… deem I am not to have a talisman, a gem to shine in the night, to ward off the darkness… then so be it. There are reasons greater than me.

And maybe it’s about being flexible in the face of restriction. Or happy amongst the uncompromising walls of limitation. Or about only seeing what you want to see.

Living from the one hastily-packed suitcase, a sitting room full of boxes it would be unwise to unpack; making do with another’s curious ornaments and furniture – a glass bowl full of plastic fruit, a black sofa with rose embellished cushions, threadbare rugs that house more beach than dust, a table and chairs with green velvet seats (seriously?), a kitchen that supports the making of tea but actively dissuades the creation of anything else, appliances that make their grievances known, usually throughout the night; bedsheets that itch and towels that scratch, tiles that bear the mark of generations and shift beneath passing feet: there is a lot of accepting and reimagining involved.

But like with boxes and randomly placed objects; unfolded clothes, decaying flowers and unwashed cups: all manner of unwanted but immovable things… After a while they cease to exist, the eye cleverly distorting what the mind lacks the conscious desire and active need to see.

imageSo really it’s just my tree that stands out, projecting beauty, colour, positive energy, fun, enchantment, love and pride. Greeting my return like a faithful friend, she adds a little warmth and welcome to an otherwise cold and inanimate space.