Hornbeam #haiku

.

hardy forest man

flirting boldly with the sun

~ schoolgirl pleats unfurl ~

.

.
Hornbeam (Carpinus betulus), is a tree native to the south of England and parts of Europe.. It is a deciduous, broad-leaf tree which can easily be mistaken for the common beech. Their leaves are similar, but those of the the hornbeam are more deeply serrated, and young ones have a rare and beautiful symmetry as they unfold.
.

The Daily Post Unfurl

©Jane Paterson Basil

Message to Saturn

Waking,
wondering why or where I am on this weighted planet.

Breakfast waits
while I bring to mind the shape of yesterday
and my cause for tomorrow.

Light that once burned with promise now fades
into a child’s fairy tale pages,
whose favourite rhymes are yellowed by the worn thumbs of time.

Jaded by the world’s repeated spin
an aching stiffness plays in wintering hips,
bringing hints of grief to be shaken free, unstirred by memories
which clamour to be heard.

Saturn looms in wait
to hang new rags befitting of increasing age.
I cannot know the nature of the cloth he brings to me;
He holds his dim-lit secrets close.
I will not see till richest jewels embed red velvet robes,
or humble sackcloth meanly coats my modesty.

Yet he may choose to steal away my mind,
taking every gleaming gem and cleansing all the dirt of my design,
to leave me naked,
staring blindly through dementia’s whitened eyes.

Should this be my dusty fate,
if I can find whatever courage it may take
to face the kingly bringer of old age,
maybe I’ll be bold enough to beg one small request,
and this is what I’d hope to say:

Saturn, through the changing milky way, you have viewed my every inch of life, my ant-like triumphs, my small mistakes, my deepest suffering and my utmost joy.

You know I’ve borne three daughters and one boy, and with their children we have built a family that is more than life to me. If you insist, then whip away those cherished memories, and those from childhood days when love for mother reigned supreme.

Rob me of the lifelong passion I have carried hidden deep – the one enduring dream which freed my breath and eased my nighttime sleep. Take the trees I climbed, take my friends and my possessions, my ego and desire.

Take the earth and take the last remains of smoky fire.

Hack away the tangled rope of sanity.

But please
leave the one perfect moment that my life contained —
you know the one I mean:
That simian day beneath a beating sun;
a silly prank while in midst of friendly fun,
Russian-marching down the road, kicking high, grinning wide.
He grabbed my ankle, held on, made me hop.
Humorous indignity multiplied by unbridled hilarity
ached in my sides,
while occupants of passing cars laughed; became part of our antics
and I held a fine balance beneath a magic sky.

There in the eye of the mad storm of chortling glee,
I felt the peoples of the world reach out in quest for peace
as the earth briefly spun into line.

You remember it, Saturn, bringer of old age and senility —
who could forget the moment when eternity stood still,
and for an instant,
pain, suffering and death did not exist;
nothing remained but love,
and love was the funniest thing.

You and your sibling Planets froze in space,
awaiting that moment —
that quintessential moment —
to pass,
that you may resume
spinning.

Please,
let what little I have left
be the funniest thing.

.

©Jane Paterson Basil

All Of The Pieces

Only four days after posting John T Wood’s ‘Poem for Everyone’ I’ve stumbled on another rare poetic treat. Written by Carol J. Forrester, it contains echoes of Wood’s poem – purely by chance, since Carol wasn’t aware of its existence until today – but tells a different story.

Writing and Works

I’m far too good at handing over pieces of myself

and it’s a wonder that there’s any of me left to give.

Each time, I held my heart with both hands.

Shattered it with a white knuckle grip

and offered out the fragments like bon-bons,

melting and sticky in my palm.

I should have kept them closer,

away from those who saw only wrappers

and threw them aside without thought.

Others tucked them into corners

or placed them on shelves out of sight

out of mind.

No one realised I’d become a jigsaw.

Not until you.

---

Daily Prompt: Delivery

View original post

Charred remains

You delivered him in pain,
yet with his emergence, pain eased
and love took its place.

His innocent face,
his little boy’s embrace –
they were sweet life to you,
and you trusted that nothing he would do
could take that away.

Slowly he grew.
You heard rumours,
but you didn’t think they were true;
each time he looked at you,
you got lost in his eyes;
taken in by his lies.

When deceit comes easy to a child,
danger can ensue,
and though he later rues his wayward ways,
he is not wired for change.

Thrills burn bright, making sparks fly;
they alight on those he claims to love the most.
When storms rage, the fire dies
leaving a lonely hole,
dusted with the charred remains of all your hopes.

You delivered him in pain,
and through the tender, loving years,
you tried to teach a better way to be,
yet failed to keep him safe.

Blackened by the flames,
flattened by the falling rain,
still you would willingly risk any pain
if you could only make him well again,
but you have no potency to deliver him
from the grip of his sickness.

.

The Daily Post #Delivery

©Jane Paterson Basil

Smemtogis, so much more than a poem.

I’d like to begin this post by explaining; it wasn’t my idea, it was Ellen’s. In fact, Ellen made me do it. Yup. Not my fault; Ellen’s fault, and if you want to know who Ellen is, you’ll have to go to her blog, but I warn you; once you get there you may have trouble tearing yourself away. However, that’s another matter entirely. I’m not here to publicise Ellen’s blog, hilarious though it may be. No, I’m here to tell you that I’m not responsible for this post.

Great! I shouldn’t have added the link. Now all my readers have wandered off to read a better blog, and I’m left all alone, talking to myself like an idiot. They won’t be back. Once they’ve discovered that blog, they’ll forget all about me. Huh; I ask you, where’s the loyalty? Not that anyone’s here to answer my question; they’re all lapping up the words of somebody  else, which is what I’d rather be doing, instead of sitting around on my own, talking to myself.

It’s probably for the best – I don’t really want those two or three halfwits my host of magnificent friends who think I’m sensible and level headed – and not at all obsessive – to know I went back to that silly ‘I Write Like‘ site, to carry out further experiments.

So, gather around, everybody. If you want to read about my previous experiments, you can find them HERE, and THERE.

Not that there’s anybody left, they just couldn’t wait to run off and check out Ellen’s… wait a minute, there’s one… hi! HI!… I see you… tucked behind that chair at the back of beyond… poor thing… what’s that?… you want a wee?… Oh. You want to leave. . . . . .It’s OK, I won’t be offended… you can go and join the others… go on… I won’t mind… here you are, have the link >>>>>>to Ellen’s blog<<<<<<

…Yeah,  that’s fine… you go off and have fun… don’t mind me… waffling away to myself… ALL ON MY OWN…

…oh, no, I did it again. I should never have mentioned that other blog… should’ve known this would happen… next time I post a link to a blog, I’ll make sure it’s one of those niche blogs where the posts all show photos of blank sheets of foolscap paper, or describe different methods of cooking pebbles, …

As I was saying, someone else is to blame, for Making A Suggestion – it’s true it was only a Suggestion, but everyone knows that I’m a sucker for a challenge, and to be fair, I did my best to hold out.

The Suggestion: Try feeding the ‘I Write Like’ analyser something in a foreign language, or something written in gibberish.

I said I’d managed to give up my ‘I Write Like’ habit.

My tempter came back with, “Surely just one more won’t hurt.”

I’m not made of stone, and I’m no angel.

Perhaps you can imagine how it feels to be confronted with such wicked temptation. I attempted to write something witty and clever like, “Shan’t”, but as my fingers reached for the letters S and H, I heard the algorithmic sirens singing sweet music in my ears, calling me home to them, and as I touched those two keys, a shock ran through me, paralysing my whole body… and my teeth all fell out, and my hair stuffed itself down my throat and a big dog a huge lizard a giant dragon swallowed me whole and then I cut my way out of it’s stinky old stomach with a key that I sharpened with my teeth a toothpick that I didn’t need any more because I didn’t have any teeth, and then it breathed fire all over me and I went up in flames and I had to throw my last two 6 packs of extra strong lager over myself jump in the bath and then I decided I’d had enough of all that malarkey, and p’raps I should just go with the flow.

See? I can say anything I like, as there’s nobody here – you’re all reading some other blog… huh… just ‘cos she’s funnier than me… 

 I chose the nonsense option, and stuck it in the ‘I Write Like’ postbox.

The more sensitive of you will divine that if my gibberesque poem had a meaning – which it doesn’t – it would be an impassioned plea from a woman whose lover has forsaken her, in order to live out his dream of collecting discarded toenail clippings circa 1960. He takes up residence in a disused railway carriage which has been discarded beside a rubbish dump that’s been derelict since November 1969. However, he meets a professional sand sorter who had to take early retirement – since there was little call for his services in the UK (or any where else for that matter). The sand sorter believes him to be the reincarnation of his beloved dog, and starts feeding him lids from dog food cans – which he claims Rover enjoyed, though in fact it was the cause of his demise. I’ll leave you to figure out the rest for yourselves.

It’s a tragic tale – or it would be if it wasn’t gibberish. Even written as it is, it may move you to tears – except you’re all at some other blog, mopping tears of mirth from your laptop keyboards.

Here is the poem, with the ‘I Write Like’ analysis beneath it:

Smemtogis,
florpangal seg flostus
kringle-bingle sot plerostus
pantsa bost e thinto tost
Smemtogis, roastie baestie clost

sa smemtogis,
retsi drostal yentiodalistiation
retsi retsi binkle em deigh
sa, sa smemtogis

sa de sa de sa smemtogis
sa de sa
de sa
de
smemtogis

smemtogis draapsetit ste grender toenail clippings turg foret tes voeru de glgogogin ind weorister pusk ste banglseje dogwim dg thretmacil would return ud stanstastive sairdostle quirdsit est di e sedit grrr doset ste fo fo stankle diddo vinkstew not a bloody dog renlex ada bo bo skiddle help dodedo ouch that hurts

smemtogis
sa de sa smemtogis
retsi

smemtogis oh oh oh

I write like James Joyce

Astounding.

I ask myself, “Am I really going to post this on my pretty little blog?”

“Yes”, comes the reply.

The End

~~~

….Oh, so you didn’t all desert me… well, off you go – there’s nothing left to see…

…….

…All right, if you must know, I conducted one last, final, terminal, ultimate, climactic swansong of an experiment. I copied and pasted everything that was written on the analysers home page, and this is what I learnt:

The ‘I Write Like’ site writer writes like Cory Doctorow

Try saying that quickly.

With grateful (I think) thanks to Ellen, who can be found at Notes from the UK.

©Jane Paterson Basil

Spinning Seasons

Few weeks have died
since oak leaves swelled to greet a brightening sky,
a welcome treat that screened my eyes from dun-hued proof
of teeming human life across the street.
The sky’s white sun gave promise of tomorrow;
its tenuous rays reeled in our faith as it beckoned buds to bloom,
while clean rain rushed to nurture roots beneath the earth
and tease new life to sprout through damp nutritious dirt.

Summer swells and fades far sooner than in former days,
as if the the carousel of nature’s failing fast;
the fickle sun can’t wait to hide behind a wall of foggy grey,
and amber tinted hands begin to wave amidst the green bouquets
of helpless branches swaying in the cooling breeze.

The evening sunset hints at autumn gales
that whip wet hair across the face,
that wreck umbrellas, leaving busy shoppers wringing wet,
so, eyes downcast,
they watch the slippery path beneath their feet,
and many miss the bronze display of nature’s brief retreat.

Ageing folk will button coats and wrap up snug,
complaining of the cold, forgetting childhood’s biting weather.
They’ll creak past harried mothers bustling through the mild chill
boldly chiding scuffling kids who kick on rustling golden lawn
as careless litter flutters by,
and swarming birds fly home to warmer climes.

Skeletal trees will briefly mourn the passing of their glory,
then settle in for pregnant winter sleep,
and I will sit and watch wild horses race across the sky
and beg the carousel to quickly bring the Spring.

The Daily Post #Carousel

©Jane Paterson Basil

A poem.

I want to share a beautiful, poignant poem with you. It was written by John T. Wood, and I have a copy of it on the wall beside my bedroom. It’s been there for over two years, but even now, I often stop and read it. Sadly, I’ve been unable to find anything else written by this man. The first time I read it, one of the thoughts which went through my mind was “I wish I had written it”.

POEM FOR EVERYONE

I will present you
parts
of
my
self
slowly
if you are patient and tender.
I will open drawers
that mostly stay closed
and bring out places and people and things
sounds and smells,
loves and frustrations,
hopes and sadnesses,
bits and pieces of three decades of life
that have been grabbed off
in chunks
and found lying in my hands.
they have eaten
their way into my memory,
carved their way into
my heart.
altogether
– you or i will never see them –
they are me.
if you regard them lightly,
deny that they are important
or worse, judge them
i will quietly, slowly,
begin to wrap them up,
in small pieces of velvet,
like worn silver and gold jewelry,
tuck them away
in a small wooden chest of drawers

and close.

–

John T. Wood.