Monthly Archives: October 2016

and we danced


like a giant
you filled my vision
eclipsing the milling mass
blue eyes bigging me to your size
arms unable to wait
and we danced
two giants
so intent on  passion
we didn’t see blurred mortals fall
or feel their bones smash
beneath our feet

The Daily Post #Giant

©Jane Paterson Basil

Open Letter to the Addict Haters

I could have reblogged this on my addiction site, but it would only have been read by those who already know the truth of JoAnn’s words, so I’ve chosen to post it onto this site.
JoAnn is a brave recovering addict, who puts a lot of energy and love into supporting those affected by addiction, and educating people on the subject. Without knowledge and empathy, we cannot fight this monster which is eating up our children.

Holy Addiction

Dear Addict Haters:

Hello, you don’t know me but I am an addict.  I am one of the “junkies” you love to bash whenever someone mentions addiction on Social Media or hear it in conversation.  I know it’s hard to forgive the things we sometimes do because of our addiction but I have a question for you.


Obviously, I won’t get an answer to this question but think about it.  The thing that you hate that you did.  You know, that one thing that not too many people even know about. Well, what if everyone knew about it.  What if for the rest of your life you were labeled by that one act that you would erase in a second if you had the chance?

That is what being an addict is like, kind of.  Now I don’t feel like…

View original post 592 more words




frozen between
two small tasks

unable to decide which to prioritize
weighing each, .judging them equal

then, for an instant, .figuring this one is more pressing
before changing my mind, thinking the other more fun

arranging, .switching, .rearranging
struggling .to come .to. a..decision

until finally
I do neither




The Daily Post #Rearrange

©Jane Paterson Basil

The lonely man


Having made the decision to dismiss all things related to jiggling passion and doe-eyed romance, she hypnotised her libido into an indifferent torpor.

Months stretched peacefully into years, before a lonely man with physical allure, but dull conversation, approached with an inviting smile, injecting a rippling frisson beneath dry skin;
a tiny itch like the tail of a sting.

The eyes of the lonely man dove deep into the core of her, and with a finger, tickled unwilling, damp fantasies.

His hand(as if by accident), brushed lightly against her thigh, pressing lascivious ideas into wakening flesh.

As weeks went by, each accidental meeting added heat to her unwanted, wanton desire for the relief which he was longing to give.

And he, hungry for love, pitching for her heart, her soul, continued in the only way he knew,
until she, weakened by the ache, gave him the treat of no more than her body.

It would not be true to say she had no heart, for in the moist heat before he undid her buttons and zips, her heart froze at the knowledge that the lonely man with physical allure but no conversation, was undone.

Later, in her melting tower she turned the lock, took a shower, cleansed herself in steam, all the while humming the closing strains of a bawdy song, her demeanor briefly shaken by his desolate scream.

Wrapped in fresh linen, her renewed flesh forever banned from thinking of him, she slept.

The Daily Post #Banned

©Jane Paterson Basil

You ask

You ask how much I need you, but I explained;
I wish you had more sense in your tiny bird brain.
You ask how much I love you; I told you before,
You irritate my senses, you foolish old bore.

Hold the train, I won’t be a mo.
Hold the train, can’t you see I want to go.

You ask that same old question, did you mis-hear;
I’d love you to syringe all the wax from your ear.
You ask how much I need you, I’ll tell you true,
Until the twelfth of never I’ll not be wanting you.

Hold the train, I will not be long.
Here’s the train, release my arm and I’ll be gone.

You ask that same old question, did you mis-hear;
I’d love you to syringe all the wax from your ear.
You ask how much I need you, I’ll tell you true,
Until the twelfth of never I’ll not be wanting you.

I offer my almost sincere apologies to Jerry Livingston and Paul Francis Webster, who wrote The Twelfth of Never.

Unfortunately, the following video only shows Johnny Mathis singing the original version, as I haven’t yet persuaded him to record my lyrics. However, it’s really rather good, and I hope you’ll enjoy it.

The Daily Post #Tiny

©Jane Paterson Basil

Bending my ear


What is wrong with you?
Curtain twitching before dawn;
peeking at sleepy stopouts,
tutting like it’s not decent,
were you never guilty of being young?

What is wrong with you?
Whining at the slightest ceiling creak –
if you weren’t pacing the boards,
and in turn, irritating the stalking grump beneath,
you would sleep through the tinkle of wizened bladders
being emptied with relief.

I despise your malicious cobble of gossip and lies;
Tell me no more of ‘er and that man cohabiting,
‘e with his filthy fingernails and smelly ‘air,
‘omeless people sleeping in corridors –
if you can’t say who saw them,
why insist the rumours are true?

Your vintage tales of stolen roses;
of immoral acts detected in a neighbour’s busy bed;
of sex uncovered in a public passage,
are blotted with the fingerprints of the dead
and coated with ancient dust, and yet
your words hint at today’s press.

Your fiction that this itchy place is a den of iniquity,
and the understanding that you consider it a disgrace
must be forever maintained.

How does your trick of buying stolen meat
fit in with the image you wish to portray?
Or is it your design to be judged a hypocrite?

You could fill your silly days with useful deeds,
instead of being a nuisance.

Stop complaining about  your smoke-tarred lungs, your diabetes,
do what you will with your aching bunions, sore back,  creaky knee,
but drop your bad attitude, and look for a solution.

Help reduce the plastic garbage that heaps;
feed the heartbreaking hunger that creeps;
staunch the thickening blood that seeps,
leaking crimson stains to rust our limping planet.

There are millions more needy than you,
and they could use your assistance.
Find an Oxfam shop and volunteer.

I apologise – that’s a crap idea.
I’d rather you go to the Hospice or an animal charity;
I work for Oxfam and I’m sick of you bending my ear

The Daily Post #Volunteer

©Jane Paterson Basil

A snail on shale



I emerged from the womb,
a solid product of genetic soup;
ladled out by lost generations of those
who dripped their natures onto my naked back
in hues which slipped and ran together,
digging deep beneath my skin;
a secret, unseen history.

My subcutanous tattoo;
my aid, my bane, my unique soup;
remains, unaffected by all influences,
letting me work within its broad-spaced fences.
It refuses all blame for my iniquity,
for I have had plenty of time
to get used to its limits.

How I describe myself
depends on the colour of leaves,
the buzz of a bee, the shape of the day.
The tone of spoken words, the patterns in my brain,
my mood, my pride, my sense of shame,
my courage or my cowardice,
all factor into my reply.

I say just this of me;
sometimes I make mistakes;
walking lanes where danger creeps,
or I may fail to show compassion for a heart
that strikes out in confusion or pain;
I often err in a tough decision,
or let anger hold sway;

but I grow a little each day,
not at day’s pace but like a snail,
forever trying to improve my human ways;
climbing life like it was a bank of sharpened shale.
Slipping back, crying out at each fresh gash, pausing,
then, blood-streaked, in a sweaty blur, I carry on,
determined, cheered by each brave bloom
that blossoms on these rocky hills.
Slowly I climb higher, confident
I will conquer the peak.


Written for the Sandbox Writing Challenge #60

This week, Calen asks us to describe ourselves in five words or sentences. I chose to cheat, and instead wrote a five-stanza poem.

Now I’ve decided to make up for this and describe myself first in five sentences:

I’m an honest, compassionate, ethical person who strives to improve myself and my environment, but I find myself unable to carry out the majority of my good intentions, because I have difficulty tearing myself away from my writing.

I have an obsessive personality which is usually focused on something creative, and throughout my lifetime I’ve always been submerged in one activity over all others, to the extent that I resent taking time out from that activity to cook meals, spend time with friends, sleep, or do any other ordinary day to day things; however, I have always written, and writing has now taken over my life.

If you read the story of my life, you’d perhaps consider it sad, dotted as it is with abuse and tragedy, but I’ve had many happy times, and still do, despite unsolved family difficulties, because I’ve learnt to extract both joy and laughter almost from thin air, and I have good, caring family and friends.

My family are grown up and I now choose to live on my own, as living with a man never made me happy, and, apart from the love of my life, who I haven’t set eyes on in years, I believe there is only one other man I could love, but he’s at least twelve years my junior, and too busy offering an essential service, free of charge, to our drug-stricken area, to have any interest in the most scintilating woman in the world, let alone li’l ole me.

I’m shy, and lack confidence and self-esteem, possibly because, when I was a child, my peers – understandably – mostly avoided me, finding me weird, but there is a gregarious, funny side to my personality which comes out when I’m in the company of those I love and trust.

To make up for the protracted length of the sentences, I now describe myself in five words:






and to further make up for it, in five letters:




©Jane Paterson Basil

The summer of 1979



summer, 1979
punk rock was booming,
bringing pseudo-anarchy to the UK
giving us spitting in the street
laced DMs and black PVC
a new ripped-jeans generation
lolled by the road, smoking rollies
swearing and hoping someone would notice.

greetings were a sneer or a two-fingered salute,
the rich said they were skint, and dressed with care, to suit
joining ragged queues to prove their identity
playing follow-the-leader, proclaiming on live TV
and waggling their sharp mohicans to show they agree

but the music
it rang in my ears
at local gigs we’d hear songs
bursting with rage against the system
written by those too young to know the difference
and having too much fun to take an interest
yelling hurriedly-scribbled lyrics
only to be drowned out by screaming electrical feedback
from cheap guitars
sweat dripping, we’d pogo in the mosh pit
buzzing, bumping, spilling beer,
never wanting the night to finish

some summer evenings
our band-member friends would visit
we’d sit on the floor drinking coffee
smoking cigarettes
and making jokey plans for revolution

it would begin in the park and end in time for tea
deep down we all wished our plans were real
and we were waiting for a signal

seeing how successive governments
have damaged this land
it might have been a good idea
but I’m still waiting

The Daily Post #Waiting

©Jane Paterson Basil

Not too late


and the streaming insult of petrol-driven traffic
three arms generate the turbine, as
churned by sturdy autumn wind
they gracefully rotate against steel-grey skyline

slow circling
you would think they have all the time in the world
but the world is unfurling, controlled by a bigger machine
and a clean, spinning angel is too little
for the needs we daily create
try as it may, it cannot feed our technological greed
it is time for us to change

while this issue is urgent
it is not too late for the human race to learn from history
step back from our mistakes
and return to simpler ways

The Daily Post #Urgent

©Jane Paterson Basil