Monthly Archives: April 2017

Nothing new

yarn-986252__480.jpg

.

You
s
t
r
e
t
c
h
it out,
unwinding a grey skein
whose bulk remains forever the same
as the trying tale unfolds.

Its length pools upon the floor,
piling, tangling around my legs,
trying to trap me.

Day after day
I kick the yarn away.
It’s a boring story;
you have
nothing
new to say.

.

The Daily Post #Yarn

©Jane Paterson Basil

Advertisements

Rue

Embed from Getty Images

.

Following my nose
I ran to the valley of love;
buried my head
in sweet and sour perfume –
soap, stale cigarettes,
sweat seeping through citrus –
and like a shivering spectre,
a hint of foreign flowers,
a feminine bouquet of jasmine
underlined by rue.

 I laid a tear-stained rose
upon this potent cocktail
of passion and loss,
and stole away the rue.

.

The Daily Post #Perfume

©Jane Paterson Basil

Moments like this

retro-2031321_1280

I had a little time………………………….
……………………..so I wrote a little rhyme

You may be in doubt……………………..
………………….of what this poem’s about.

It’s not about trees………………………….
…………………..and it’s not about cheese –

though I love the stuff……………………..
………………………….and can’t get enough.

It’s not about love…………………………….
………………………or the passion thereof,

it’s not about any of the usual topics,
like nostalgia or anger or dreams of the tropics,
and although I have hung some pictures today,
that’s not really what I’m wanting to say –

I need a word that rhymes, and I’ve chosen kiss
to perfect the couplet, and tell you this –

I bet

you’re annoyed

that you’ve

wasted your time

reading

to the end

of this

pointless rhyme.

<> <> <>

(Thinks… maybe I can pretend that I’ve been hacked, and this is none of my doing…)

©Jane Paterson Basil ………. but she may deny all responsibility

Roots

tree-402953__480.jpg

Beneath plastic castles and shifting sands,
beneath mortgages and grandiose plans,
beneath labour pains and mortuary vans,
beneath gleaming yachts and broken fans,
beneath lion hearts and rodent fangs,
beneath flat denial and praying hands –
beneath all of the hunger and greed of man,
lies the inheritance on which we stand.

It’s there, where it has always been,
silently waiting to be seen.

Beneath the feet of you and me,
are roots of possibility.
Though we may be too blind to see,
the earth still strives for harmony.

There, beneath all that we wish to become
is the strum of life, the truth that we are one.

©Jane Paterson Basil

The Daily Post #Harmony

The Wolf

wolf-2028222__480.png

Three bodies sat around a table;
a wolf disguised, as in a fable,
a bloodied victim, half chewed away,
and the predator’s next intended prey.

The bloodied victim had the audacity to survive. Bravely, she spoke to the intended prey, describing the tactics and weaknesses of the wolf. The wolf stammered excuses, but the woman in his sights was not a fool.

I was one of the three,
and, yesterday, I aquired a pile of knives.
Each one was etched with a
different
crime
against my sex
All the sins committed by you, the wolf, were represented.

I sharpened my knives with a fine whetstone.
Aggression and affection rubbed together, each clearly defined.
I had no love for you, only the desire to save a life.

Today I examine my prospective weaponry, silently interviewing every well-honed applicant for the post of accomplice to rough justice. Each stretch of steel sharply translates the rays of sun into a gleaming silver streak of lethal dreams.

I select the most stylish knife in my armory;
fashioned for filleting, its sleek blade
emerges, confident, from a welcoming wood handle,
elegantly narrowing
to a
pin
p
o
i
n
t
more threatening than Madonna’s famous bra.
Tenderly, I stroke it with my thumb.
I name it for you.

I picture a glistening film of crimson, the viscous drips weeping their shame at your lack of remorse.

I’ll hand you the knife, and wait
for the cutting slash, the stabbing thrust that will drive the spike through your flesh, into the unsleeping, penile heart of the matter.

I’ll watch your dispicable spirit simmer –
see you spit, but your spit will not reach.
You will have been hoisted by your own petard.

I’ll raise a victorious fist
for womens’ solidarity.

Finally,
I’ll drink (coffee) to the health of my new friend.
She drinks weak tea,
but with my tolerant nature
I view that as a minor misdemeanour.

The Daily Post #Spike

©Jane Paterson Basil