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Best Poems Written by Rebecca Huxley

Below are the all-time best Rebecca Huxley poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Rebecca Huxley Poem

Home Alone

Are you coming home?
Home to me, 
Home to where you said you would be. 
Are you coming home? 
Home to me, 
Home is the place where you left me. 
Are you coming home? 
Home to me, 
Home is the place where you said we’d both be free. 

Are you coming home? 
Home to me, 
Home to where you said you would be. 
Are you coming home? 
Home to me, 
Home is the place where you said we’d both be free. 
Are you coming home? 
Home to me, 
Home is the place where you left me.

Details | Rebecca Huxley Poem

What's Your Pleasure

Make me a wound, forever open and in pain
For you to take your pleasure, again and again...

Details | Rebecca Huxley Poem

The Ghost of a Girl In Me

In the mirror do I see, 
A slight form unfamiliar to me, 
Thoughts and feelings not my own, 
Selfish desires I do not condone or wish to be.  
Alone. 
Just my reflection and me.   

Through the swirling mist and fog I see, 
The ghost of a girl in me.  
Wailing and cawing to escape 
I would answer… If only I could wake.   

The condensation is a misty breeze, 
Through gaps I see a pair of green, wild eyes  
Startled, they glare, 
but I fail to recognise.   
The mist slips through, 
between my fingers into the ether, 
Forever to remain a mystery.  
I stare emptily at the dimming eyes now full of melancholy.    

I feel an urge to put my hand to hers. 
Her touch is cold, 
My hand leaves a print,  
Disrupting the unity of the condensation.  
Her smile is weak, 
But welcoming, nevertheless.  
I stare blankly, 
Unable to comprehend, 
This ghost of a girl in me.  
Her features are soft, 
Her eyes forgiving, 
Despite their timed look and rough edges.  
She sighs. She knows. 
Suddenly I’m not so alone.  
She understands, 
Though I’m not sure I understand what it is that she understands.   

She is knowledgeable with doubt,  
Foolhardy with caution,  
Brave with trepidation.  
And me?  
I am empty.  
I am what she begged me to be: 
Thoughtless and free.  

Though I know her tears and pain to be real
I stare now at her in envy
As I yearn only to feel.    
Oh, ghost of a girl in me despair,  
Oh how she wishes she were me,  
Thoughtless and free, 
And I,
Wholeheartedly. 
Wish that I were her.

Details | Rebecca Huxley Poem

Waiting For You To Die So That I Can Get a Cat

Sitting, I am graceful
Still,
And ever paceful. 
I am waiting.
Waiting for you to die. 
I let loose a slow soft purr
-I am content at the thought -
As I sit and stare,
At your body ageing,
And failing
No longer intimately engaging.
Even your once silvery-white shine
Has diminished to a dull grey. 

Young and lean your were the night owl
Lurching, taut and on the prowl,
Lean: you sported no spare ounce,
You pull but I pounce. 
Don't you know that cats eat birds, oh fair owl?

I look upon you now
Frail and infirm
An owl with broken wings 
that still insists on trying to fly
I'm still waiting
Still waiting for you to die. 

I swish from left to right
Impatient. 
Angry that you still choose to fight. 
You rasp for one last kiss
I paw
Trying to catch this final fleeting moment
The sound of our saliva – a discordant hiss
Your lips become still
Your hands limp
And just like that you pass. 

In death you are serene
Framed within your silvery-white hair
Long-since-lost longing re-emerges
As I look upon your face so fair
In shame I hold my breath
and weep as I feel a sense of freedom
upon your death.  

Now our home is different
Your painful moaning replaced by 
playful purring,
The cloying sense of death
In the air
Replaced by the feel of
Soft soft fur. 

His 'meow' wakes me
The sight of my tom-cat Teddy
Takes me.
True there were many of them – tiny tiny things
All big bright eyes
Pouncing with vivacity 
Unbridled
Prowling with ferocity
Unbound
But the failing, wobbly tomcat 
Making the hissing sound
Inexplicably took my breath away. 

I stroke his frail neck,
A barely audible purr responds,
He struggles to my lap
He no longer wants to play.
I stroke his once silvery-white fur
Now diminished to a dull grey. 

Rebecca.A.Huxley

Details | Rebecca Huxley Poem

The Thought Process

The marbles, dispersed, and unconstrained float carelessly,
 Magnetise, 
Mobilise, 
Into perfect linearity.   

As the magnetic force begins to falter, the marbles begin to fray, 
I find myself between realities,  
Of which neither I can appease, 
The delineation between chaos and order grow evermore astray.   

There are no gaps here in linearity,  
None through which for me to fall,  
Not a gap in between which I can crawl. 
Though in the safety of constraint I am, in fact, unfree.    

The marbles, in linearity, and constrained, they are perfunctory, 
De-magnetise, 
De-mobilise 
Imperfectly, into uncertain foray and insensible folly.

Details | Rebecca Huxley Poem

The Black Dog

Hello hound from hell
Pretending to cower in the corner
Dripping, snarling fangs
Come to feast
On all I have. 

I scavenge what little remains
Making do with what’s left:
the debris
the refuse
the dregs
the waste
- the things the hound didn’t want 

Chewed up.
And spat back out. 

What’s left is tainted
Drenched in the same gloopy dew
The halitosis of hell 
Lingers on what’s left of me.

My love - its litter 
For all its leavings
Pungent, hot and steamy
- not at all what I had imagined passion to be. 

My strength - its chew toy
Tattered pieces
Litter the halls
Of my tooth-marked heart. 

My confidence - a forgotten memory
The hound’s indelible presence
Has me wet
With the mark of its territory

My hope - a hopeless game of tug of war
I pull and hold on
Until my hands and heart
are bloody raw. 

Rebecca .A. Huxley

Details | Rebecca Huxley Poem

Mother Returning Home

You heard my cry,
Too late. 
And now you’ve returned home,
To an empty house. 

The sound of pain and tears
Resonate. 
Where once laughter and joy echoed
But now there’s only hate.

The wind whistles its sorrowful tune, 
The ragged curtains whipping
Against your legs
Accusing, accusing you of this ruin. 

The carpets are red.
The wallpaper torn. 
Dust lingers and floorboards creep
As you step in the house that was once our own. 

Your hollow cries echo
Through the hallways.
They’re met only by the deafening silence. 
Tell me: what truly echoes in the hallways of your heart? 

In memories only, 
May joy be real. 

You cling to a stuffed toy’s severed head, 
hum the dirge of the dead. 
You sing the song of those cast aside,
Of those used and long forgotten, 
those broken pieces on the chess board
Gone because you did not cherish their value. 
While you live to laugh and cry
Others would laugh and cry just to live.
Quiet now. There’s no more begging
to those who will never forgive. 

You heard my cry, 
Too late. 
And now you’ve returned home, 
To an empty house.

Details | Rebecca Huxley Poem

Mothers Hands

My own hands unadorned,
Pale in comparison
to the embellishments of your own. 
The lines,  creases, crevices;
the salon-pampered nails and rings
All sing
The adventures and accomplishments
of your life - both tasteful and tasteless.

The lines on your hands
Like those on a map
Meandering they criss and they cross
- so many stories
and tales of trouble
of woe
It would seem that grief follows
Wherever you go.

Rough working hands
Tell of your true origins;
They belie the extravagance 
Which besits your fingers
The ring from husband number one,
The other: husband number two 
You threw away husband number three
And number four?
Too soon. Too raw. 
There instead sits a barely visible tan line
Of the companionship that was.
And that one elusive ring,
Whose origin you cannot place, 
Too many years, too many faces
but only eight fingers
to work the miracles of a mother
in one lifetime. 

You worked hard 
For all you have,
Turning scrap into silver,
A hole into a house,
Your body into money
To feed a thankless family.

Life sometimes takes me back, 
To moments in my past,
My fingers drumming on the car wheel
in impatience
Shouting curses
That I learnt from you.
Sitting.
Waiting.
Memories,
Slowly dissipating

Embellished hands with etched lines
and professionally-done nails and shiny rings
rest,
tapping rhythmically
on the car wheel. 

Rebecca .A. Huxley

Details | Rebecca Huxley Poem

Death Becomes Me

You’re within  me
Talking, stalking
In the guise of a false memory

Arbiter of what is and is not
A cloaked and shadowed form
Whom I had hoped to forget

Feebly I had prayed that I could live in peace
But your ghostly spectre is haunting
Taunting with no surcease

Virulently cawing ‘why?’
and ‘how could this be?’

I can’t answer

And then - again - I see you die
die, inside of me 

Like a fire lit too soon
In an inhospitable domain
Fate, it seems, had already declared your doom. 

Fate.
As though I were vindicated of agency
As though I were not driven by others’ fear and hate

Fear.
Of what could be
Of the relief if you were to just disappear

Alone.
I, the adjudicator 
Fear to leave my home 

False dawn
For home offers no such sanctuary from your
Memory I so privately mourn

Virulently cawing ‘why?’
and ‘how could this be’

You can’t answer

I can’t answer

And then -again - I see you die,
Die, inside of me. 

Rebecca .A. Huxley

Details | Rebecca Huxley Poem

The Ball of Yarn

A trail taut with torment
Fraught with threads afray 
Once fastidious, your intricacies so fervent
Now cease to self-fascinate and fade away. 

I washed away your beauty as I
drank all you had to give,
For I was poor and lonely,
While you were all-too-quick to forgive. 

A fool, in an all-you-can-eat fools buffet,
I was too quick
To take what you were freely
giving away.

Now unwound the truth unfolds,
To show the sew sawed and severed.
A final, swansong voice to those untolds.
My core torn, our souls entwined, your sanity...
Untethered.