Monthly Archives: May 2017

When you reach the apex

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I used to watch you clucking your skewed way toward routine danger –
two brutal daily stabs if the cash could be accrued —
felt like crying, yet ate up the sight of you,
hungry for a clue that something had changed.

I waited for a glance, maybe a wave —
but, blind to these stale-lemonade eyes that filtered rainbows from my life,
you strode toward a spiral destiny, as if hell-bent,
your sagging clothes a locomotion of holes,
displaying scraped parchment, stretched thin over sharp bones.

Was that really you, and was it so recent?
Seems no more than a bad dream
that left me weeping,
long, long ago.

The streets hold no echo of your desperate trips.
Shamed alleys contain no ghost of your guilty visits;
so brief and so frequent, with whispered exchange…
and though I hanker to see your face,
I am glad you are safe, and far out of range.

Each moment spent with you feeds  into my memory;
I soak up your words, to keep ’til I see you again.
They murmer as I go to sleep, raise me as I wake,
speak to me in the silence of work, and aid sweet meditation.

Your very being gleams as you speak of where you have been,
what you have seen, done, will do, and will become,
days became weeks, soon to be months, each one noble and clean.
My heart rises as you share your love of life,
and meets yours when you say you love me.

You have burnt the empty coffin of an abandoned destiny,
kicked away the ashes, that they may nourish healthy seed,
thrown away all you don’t need, embraced wise selectivity,
and set your spirit free.

May the hills you climb rise gently to welcome each brave step,
and when you reach the apex, may you gaze upon a calm sea.

xxx

©Jane Paterson Basil

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Anagram slam

Toad Ode –

An anagramatic tongue-twister – go on, see how fast you can say it without swallowing your tonsils…

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A ten ton, one toed toad,
toted a donated date,
notated a neat ode,
noted date…

ate note, not date;
no ado,
no ante-dote…

dot… dot… dot…

done.

Toad –
note tenet;
don’t eat note,
eat date.

End.

***

Funny how constraints can make or break a poem. Were they too tight? I’ll let you decide.

The Daily Post – #Detonate – a day late, but achieved without pressing the red button marked D, or single a mention of the Trumpeting Dicktator… oops – I’ve blotted my copybook.

©Jane Paterson Basil

Rumbled

Photo fiction

Mate; you’ve been rumbled –
you’re not crushed and humbled,
or stumblingly blushing in shame.
It’s the same old game that you play whenever
I catch you together with a weathered coquette,
in flagrante delicto – you know it’s a no-no,
but you will not forego your fumbling foreplay
or illicit delight; you go weak at the sight
of each flighty whore,
and by now you’ve had more
loose women than I’ve had hot dinners.

You may think you’re a winner, but I can resist
your lithe, virile flesh as you writhe and twist.
Don’t pretend to repent; my patience is spent,
you sick, silly nitwit, you’re ticked off my list.

Thank you  Michelle. I had a lot of fun with Photo Fiction #89

©Jane Paterson Basil

Leaves

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Please;

don’t offer to brew me my favourite tea,
unless you possess the sweetest loose leaves.

Those bags are abhorant;
their taste does not warrant
the honoured bestowal
with the legendary motto of the late Earl Grey,
who, as you may know,
once was political head of the nation
now laughably named the UK.

Loose leaves are a fragrant,
attractive, and blantantly
vastly superior, exquisite treat,
to feeble tea sweepings, both tasteless and sad,
so slyly concealed in a pale, perforated,
limp paper bag.

Please, don’t be confused
between
tea that’s infused
— a spoon for each person and one for the pot,
in water that’s steaming and scaldingly hot —
so lovingly strained, poured into a teacup
of fine bone china or slim porcelain,
daintily lifted and sipped at my leisure,
caressing my palate with citrusy pleasure…
and
dust that is dumped in a thick, chunky mug
— printed with some vulger caption or image —
to be vacantly swilled or unwillingly gulped.

The Daily Post #Infuse

©Jane Paterson Basil

My Reprieve

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Lost in a mire
for half their lives and more,
two children, their maturity halted by addiction…

…and I could point my finger at causes,
or take the blame upon myself.
I could break down in shame and remorse,
but the past would remain the same.

I could try to turn back time
and change the way their lives became;
as if I may find relief in the madness
of that aspect of grief.

I could do all these things and more;
these sad practices I acted out a thousand times before,
but they relieved me of my feeble susceptibility,
when they exchanged lies and deceit for honest fight.
Each day they draw clean swords, and slash at their demons,
and with each clash the demons get weaker.

They are retrieving their lives,
thereby returning mine to me,
and so I say, with gratitude and pride,
Thank you for all you have achieved.
Thank you for the reprieve.

A tribute to my two younger children, Laura and Paul.

The Daily Post #Reprieve

©Jane Paterson Basil

A Poor Example

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Six foot three,
gleaming, even teeth,
walks with confidence,
clean, impeccably dressed
rippling with reassuring muscle,
manicured, shaven and trim:
Magnificent him.
Mmm…

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His eyes hint at an intimate secret
hidden within a mystery
five fathoms beneath a turgid sea,
where he and I, alone,
may swim… must swim… have swum…
in an alternative reality.
His lips pulse a promise of depths to plumb…..
sensual pleasures to come.

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His voice
is a blatant embrace;
in a purring masculine bass:
.“You have the face of an angel,” he says.

I’m fevered and flustered, bashfully blushing,
I’m stumbling and flushing. I don’t know what to do.
I want to drink champagne out of his shoe,
to sweep inhibitions out of the way
and make crippling love for the rest of the day.

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His velvet voice becomes husky, like rough hessian:
“Have you had surgery? It’s essential to make the best of yourself.
Look at my perfection;
I’ve had hair implants, a tummy tuck, liposuction, silicon, botox shots,
a nose job, throat job, butt-cheek job, a penis extension –
all the better for a blow j……”

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……As I leave
he is yelling that on closer inspection,
his first impression had been a tad sketchy,
and I’m not the woman he’d thought me to be.
My legs are too hairy,
my attitude lairy;
to bed me he’d need a large fee.

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As far as I can see, the flat of my hand
has left a strong impression on his plasticised face;
as for my impression of him…
he’s a pretty poor example of the human race.

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The Daily Post #Impression

©Jane Paterson Basil

The Lighthouse

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.

Inhibited sky
hides day’s naked light
behind a blushing veil of cloud.
Bashfully, it dons its night time hues.
Below the sleeping beacon, dark ocean cools,
murmering its merciless melody
of endless, incidental
conquest.

Saline spray
lingers on skin and lips,
like the memory of a million kisses;
signposts on a highway to heaven or hell.
She wishes that she could pinpoint them all;
rinse away those that were planted by force,
retaining only the imprints of pleasure –
but thinks it too late.

Her eye
measures the drop,
the sharp surprise of rock.
Oh, to be taken by the reckless sea
 {{{ – enveloped in its fluid caress – }}}
not this ignominious nosedive onto stone,
bequeathing her decomposing carcass
as appetising fast food
for carnivores.

In such a ferocious place,
to be quick is to be too harshly dead;
not her imagined romantic dissipation,
but yet another beaky invasion.

She considers;
shall she precipitate
this cheapened technique
to attain irreversable decay?

With a final, longing glance,
she steps off the catwalk,
her spiral descent
no shocking
freefall,
after
all.

spiral_staircase

~

©Jane Paterson Basil