Category: Poetry

“’Tis the Night of the Krampus”

Published in Soul Scream: Come All Ye Faithless from Seamus and Nunzio Productions

‘Tis the Night of the Krampus, and all through the land,

each core-rotted child knows their doom is at hand.

They’ve had twelve long months to improve reputations—

always choosing badness instead of salvation.

With playtime now over, and clocks striking twelve,

bad seeds face the facts: they cannot save themselves.

Nor can their sad parents, though why would they try?

So sick of their offspring who cheat, steal, and lie.

Moms leave back doors open, dads whisper his name,

they welcome the Krampus with his whips and chains.

…

For the rest of the story, pick up a copy of Come All Ye Faithless here.

0

“A Curse Thrown from the Hanging Tree”

Published in Stories To Take To Your Grave: Judicial Homicide by Undertaker Books

A fledgling town near an old craggy shore

is the setting of this woeful tale—

a story of need and of lies and of greed

and a hanging that more or less failed.

This town had a church that was led by a man

who on Sundays would preach against sin,

but by Tuesday nights with his breeches too tight

he would seek sweet relief at an inn.

…

For more, pick up a copy of Judicial Homicide here. Ebook also available.

0

“Not of Destruction”

Published in Exist Otherwise, September 2024

He claims he’s a dragon
but his scales are painted cardboard—
only for show

He claims he’s a nightmare
but I’ve seen him pick roadside wildflowers

He claims he’s a black knight
sent to battle forces of good and forces of nature and forces of armed forces
but in quiet moments I can tell he’s daydreaming

Not of death
Not of destruction

But of a cottage in the woods
no wars to wage
no villages to plunder or protect

Where swords can remain dull decorations hung over the hearth
where soup is always in the pot
where no one tells him to be a dragon or a nightmare or a man

Where he can sit quietly
and read books
and wait for his own ever after
and he doesn’t need it to be happy

only to be
quiet.

0

“Wanted”

Published in PSYTHUR by Raven’s Quoth Press

From the publisher: “PSYTHUR is a collection of works selected by the editors throughout the year. Poems that were misfits for our other collections, but nonetheless stirred our mind, heart, or soul.”

***

The young starlet was

flattered when they

wanted her likeness in the

seaside wax museum.

In a chilly studio

she stood for hours,

perfectly still

while the artist used a hair                 

dryer to soften the mass

of yielding paraffin.

…

To keep reading, pick up your copy of PSYTHUR here!

0

“Lake Erie Omen”

Published in Siren’s Call Ezine

***

You call me an omen, good or ill,

but I have a name and it’s not Bessie—

that tourist’s barb, that cheap

shot glass logo.

But how could you

land-locked brutes

understand?

You with your broken scavengers’

tongue; mine deep-

toned chantings from

nightmares long since

dreamt.

To keep reading, visit Siren’s Call here.

1

IN MEMORY OF EXOSKELETONS

Poetry Collection

Publisher: Alien Buddha Press

Cover art by Chad Lutzke

Poetry touching on “the dark fantastic within the domestic sphere,” ranging from feminist horror to lyrical memorials.

“Words are magic, and Rebecca Cuthbert is a sorcerer, conjuring beautiful, sometimes heartbreaking, images found in the quiet moments of women’s inner worlds. Her poetry captures life’s smallest moments and imbues them with immense meaning. A wonderful work.”

-Lisa Kröger, author, Monster She Wrote: The Women Who Pioneered Horror & Speculative Fiction and Toil & Trouble: A Women’s History of the Occult

“Cuthbert’s chapbook celebrates the domestic, seemingly delicate spheres of women’s lives. From house witches to cryptids to body horror, this collection probes the edges of the speculative poetry genre. Supple and lyrical, these poems are cunning, intelligent, and tender.”

-Holly Lyn Walrath, author, The Smallest of Bones

“IN MEMORY OF EXOSKELETONS is haunting and heartbreaking and joyous and terrifying all at once. Rebecca Cuthbert uses language here as both a knife and a feather, each word selected with immense care. Lyrical while still being legible, this is the kind of collection that will follow you long after you have put it down. Ever since I read this, I get unreasonably angry at ‘No dog walking’ signs in cemeteries.”

– Jolie Toomajan, editor, Aseptic and Faintly Sadistic: An Anthology of Hysteria Fiction 

“… Cuthbert’s poetry shows that she is the kind of writer who pays attention to life in all its ethereal glory, a poet quick enough and smart enough to snatch up those little moments that the rest of us miss, throw them on a page, and let them shine a little light onto our lives. This writer means business and she’s worth paying attention to.”

–Christopher Ryan, publisher, Seamus and Nunzio Productions; editor, Soul Scream Antholozine

Buy a copy here.

1

“Still Love”

Published in Nocturne Horror Literary Magazine, Issue 2, Fall 2022, and nominated for a Pushcart Prize

***

When my left hand turned to stone—
whorled gray marble smooth
as a promise, fingers fused in a cold clenched fist
too heavy for my husband to hold
he just switched sides, he loved me
still, we stayed connected
at the movies, the farmers market, shadows
melting into one wide shadow
stretching across the sun-dried pavement.

…

Visit Nocturne to keep reading!

0

“In Memory of Exoskeletons”

Published by Memoryhouse Magazine, “Albeit” issue.

And there it goes—another shingle chipped off,
chiseled away this time by the righteous cliché of a baby’s stunned
laughter, and
in Trump’s America, I’m lying naked on the banks of a mosquito-clogged swamp
and the hungry bastards are full of malaria,
pink eye and mad cow disease.

He’s not my first nephew,
I wasn’t a great big sister, but watching my baby brother’s baby
shriek joy and kick fat legs is somehow brand new,
a sneaky tectonic shift
that moves everything in my life two disorienting inches to the left.
Vertigo.

I watched a Facebook video featuring a Sulcata tortoise
whose shell had been damaged in a house fire. Chunks missing,
mottled flesh exposed
to cruel breezes and sunshine, but do-gooders made him a 3-D
printed shell
and it seemed to do the trick.

I’ll have to watch less news, drink more, but Darwinism
will eventually claim me, soft and angry
wrapped in layers of beige cardigan sweaters that aren’t helping, and
by then I’ll probably
go so quietly.

0

A WordPress.com Website.

Up ↑