Today my friend, the multi-talented Rachel Thompson, shares with us some of her new poetry.
New poetry from Rachel Thompson, featured in the new Feminine Collective Love Notes From Humanity: The Lust, Love & Loss Collection on Amazon now.
The Day Is Worried
The day is worried about me.
Reaching out in fingered waves to hold me steady
But it’s no use
I’ll not be walking through her garden of green tendrils today
I don’t know the way.
Feet slipping on rust and golden leaves
My hand slow dances for purchase
Finding only air.
Enveloping me in her cloudy blanket
One I toss away
White wool too heavy today when
I can’t find my breath
Searching for the pull of his light
To bring me home.
The day is worried about me.
She can’t find me in my usual places
From myself today
Flashing green eyes hiding locked-door secrets
Even I can’t understand…
Maybe I’ll find my key
As the day morphs into night.
The night is worried about me.
He can’t hold me in his arms
I am transparent, slipping away in the quiet way I do
Further and further from his grasp
Until my night-man throws out his anchor
Catching this desolate girl, pulling her close;
Safe in his strong, capable arms.
Watching worries chase stars across the sky.
I’m not who you want me to be and that’s fine.
No, it’s not fine.
Fine is fucked. Fuck you, fine.
Fine means cool, copacetic, mellow.
You think that’s what it means to be me.
I am hot,
I am not in excellent order,
I am tired
Of you telling me what to do
How to feel
What to think
How to be.
I am not your mother’s daughter.
I am me.
I brazenly sashay my swinging hips
Up to your delicious mouth
Dripping with their coarse demands…
Chewing your thick, cherry lips,
Tearing your lost mumblings
As red drips from my gnashing teeth
Who owns your wants now?
This tough girl who used to quietly shrink at your words
My heart shoves hard at my chest, wanting out.
Tears form and fall as I wipe them away with a furious fist.
Hating to admit how much it hurts
When you shred me.
Why do you think what you say matters?
Stunning, how the breeze flows without your say
Pebbles may move in your wake,
But never trees.
This is my life and you have no access key.
I don’t want to be fine in your eyes, whatever that is.
Talk to yourself with your bloody mouth full of ire
Go be fine in your own life.
I want more.
I want free.
Rachel Thompson is represented by literary agent Lisa Hagan, and is published by ShadowTeamsNYC.
She is the author of the award-winning, bestselling Broken Places (one of IndieReader’s “Best of 2015” top books and 2015 Honorable Mention Winner in both the Los Angeles and the San Francisco Book Festivals), and the bestselling, multi award-winning Broken Pieces (as well as two additional humor books, A Walk In The Snark and Mancode: Exposed).
She owns BadRedhead Media, creating effective social media and book marketing campaigns for authors. Her articles appear regularly in The Huffington Post, The San Francisco Book Review (BadRedhead Says…), Feminine Collective, IndieReader.com, 12Most.com, bitrebels.com, BookPromotion.com, and Self-Publishers Monthly,
Not just an advocate for sexual abuse survivors, Rachel is the creator and founder of the hashtag phenomenon #MondayBlogs and the live weekly Twitter chats, #SexAbuseChat, co-hosted with certified therapist/survivor, Bobbi Parish (Tuesdays, 6pm PST/9pm EST), and #BookMarketingChat, co-hosted with author assistant Melissa Flickinger (Wednesdays, 6pm PST/9pm EST).
She hates walks in the rain, running out of coffee, and coconut. She lives in California with her family.
Author Contact Information:
Author Site: rachelintheoc.com
BadRedhead Media Site: badredheadmedia.com
Twitter (Business): @BadRedheadMedia
Facebook (Business): https://www.facebook.com/BadRedheadMedia
Author Newsletter: http://eepurl.com/j9oaH
BadRedhead Media Newsletter: http://eepurl.com/koN8r
Full-size Author Photo Link: http://i119.photobucket.com/albums/o158/Froze8/RachelThompson_
One response to “Guest Post: New Poetry from Rachel Thompson”
Grippingly, rebelliously vulnerable. These two poems moved me deeply, the first with its gentle tribute to self-imposed isolation, the second with its proud finger in the air at external constraints and expectations of normalcy.