BACK WHEN WE WERE TALKING


 
My mother once told me –
back when we were talking,
which we did in those days
but haven’t done for a while now –
never to poop in your own backyard.

Which I obviously then did; because, why not?
And, besides, I immediately then got
scooped up and placed in another garden,
greener, lusher and more verdant,
set free to roam as I pleased and it pleased me a lot –
so no hard ever came of it.

And as for the poop…
well the poop got left exactly where it was,
at the foot of a tree next to a wheelbarrow full of leaves
and a radiator ripe with rust,
where it shrank and withered over time
growing old benignly.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Puddles



 
Puddles shine, like enchanted mirrors,
delivering coded messages from God.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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All of a… (flutter)

There are gulls in the city
blown in from the sea,
where the boats leap and dance
like the inside of me.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Summer Insanity

In typical Mallorquin style
they’re tarmacking the streets,
shutting off the city in August,
causing traffic jams for miles…

by Rebecca L. Atherton


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Life Lessons

Yesterday, I learnt why
one always should wear gloves
when applying dye to one’s hair.

And this morning –
trying to remove the stains from the tips of my hands;
I was taught that, even diluted, oregano oil burns.

By Rebecca L. Atherton


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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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