Tag Archives: poetry

Broken Things

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There’s a hole in my stomach
that’s miles deep,
and a pain in my chest that feels like
something precious is unravelling.

I pull at the layers of flesh and skin
to reveal their true nature,
discovering a pit of molten fire
devouring a mound of wool.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Traffic

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In the old town, it’s too busy to walk
and I have to concentrate to avoid tripping.
Shopping takes me an extra hour
and when I’m done, my back is tight.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Stuck

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Sometimes, spoken things have more potency than one desires;
said “spoken” things hurting, cutting, impaling,
creating wounds and drawing blood.

Sometimes was today,
and yesterday and the day before that,
and the wounds are still bleeding red.

Unresolved, open-ended,
party to a conversation part-done:
there is no moving on or away from.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Bikini Bottoms

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Below, a pair of fluorescent pants
lie discarded on the pavement –

swept by an errant breeze
that seeks to make an impact
on a city distracted by the heat.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Tree Monkey

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In summer, the tax nomads come to town,
rich from their time at sea.

I watch as they fill my favourite places
swapping one form of confinement for another.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Frogging 

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Gut raw.
Bleeding emotions.
Avoiding interaction, just in case.

Feeling the aftermath of a night spent
spinning and dancing,
twisting to avoid colliding

with unpleasant things
like heat and rage
and a body invested in self-destruction,

unpicking and undoing
everything
that time and love hath made.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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House of the double-headed ax

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The peace of an outdoor cafe
is like the medicine of a cool breeze to my mind,
blowing away monsters and cobwebs,
breathing life through month-shut windows,
opening closed wide.

Outstretched and uncurled,
my legs relax –
releasing my body,
leading my limbs…

away from the tight dark centre,
the labyrinth eye –

so that they might return to whence they came
way back in the beginning,
when day was day
and night was night.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Timeout

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Morning sunlight squeezing through shade.
A gentle breeze crisscrossing the table.
You and me sat ever so slightly apart

dissecting each other’s lives
over sleeping phones,
motionless keys
and the whisper of today’s paper.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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The Glass House

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Living in a house full of mirrors,
I am forced to confront myself
on a much deeper level,

and, while uncomfortable,
it is leading me to uncover new things.

by Rebecca L. Atherton
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Promise to Self

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This year, I have a list of things I intend to do
instead of avoid –
like going to the beach and swimming in the sea
and using a public swimming pool when there are other people around.

Designed to stretch me in multiple ways,
I expect to experience a plethora of days.

by Rebecca L. Atherton
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