One Bright Hue

You twist the cube,
try for one bright hue to fill your eyes, 
fumbling to build a blue wall 

that shines 
like a clean childhood sky, 

but the fingers fail and the cube bleeds, 
refusing to comply, its fuming patches 
bragging bitter truth,
describing the sickness that grins 
between the seams.
You drop the cube,
close your eyes 
and dream.

©Jane Paterson Basil

Written for Reena‘s Xploration challenge #196. Sorry, Reena, my WP editor has a glitch: hard as I try, I can’t get it to highlight the whole name of your post when creating a pingback.

Come into Oxfam (re-hashed)

Don't diss me sister; I'm a cool fashionista,
running with the times, an Eco A lister.
Dressed by Oxfam from my head to my toes,
elegant in every stitch of pre-cherished clothes
and feeling pretty nifty in my vintage hat --- 
fifty years more stylish than this season's tat.

I never understood; it's always been a mystery
why people steer clear of raiment with a history,
but the world is changing and the wise understand
it's grand to to be strutting in second-hand.
Our over-production will suck the planet dry ---
we cannot halt the damage unless we all try.
.
If you buy less new, it'll slow production down,
saving precious energy the world around,
so come on into Oxfam and rummage with me,
you never can tell what treasures you'll see.
It's better than the High Street shops in town ---
come with me to Oxfam and look around.

Labels lack soul and the prices are steep,
those showy little tags make folks look like sheep
or mannequins standing in a window display
trailing the fashion victims rags of the day.
Change your look, show your personality ---
come into the Oxfam shop with me.

When you learn about the projects that Oxfam holds dear
I hope that you will sign up to volunteer,
giving up a portion of your time for free,
learning new skills while you work with me
or any of the members of our friendly crew
who'd surely be delighted to get to know you.

If you ain't got the confidence I'll hold your hand,
and when you walk out the door you will understand
the reasons I spend my time like I do,
and buy pre-used instead of brand new:
I'm runnin' with the times, I'm a cool fashionista,
don't diss me sister, I'm an Eco A lister.  

©Jane Paterson Basil

Seems I’m all out of poetry. so I’ve been messing about with this one, which I wrote a few years ago... still not entirely happy with it.

Fairer Sex

A beautifully crafted poem penned by my guest poet, PW.

Abuse can take so many forms
the worst of which a bitch that's scorned
who shoots untruths from lips not hip each time her man takes stand or slips.

Her hands hold grip around your throat and with her words she bounds and chokes. No room to breathe, your freedom gone and with it youth, the truth along
with peace of mind and decent times - deceit then reaps to beat you blind. So blind in fact your tragic eyes can't see the traps or magic die.

Imagine why, I can't, can you? She kills the thrill of love so true then blues come back with blackness too to swallow up and hollow you. On borrowed time, the signs were clear as years of tears had disappeared the hope you held so very tight to live and love and bury spite. My plight can't end, my friends are hers to bend and break, my mates dispersed and curse me now just how she likes while I bleed red on beds of spikes.

She fed them lies and tied them well while hellish bouts of shouts and yells consume me still and fill my mind, an ever-growing hill to climb. So now I know, I start to grow and leave behind the crime and crows and start out fresh the best I can but torn, I warn the rest of man - don't be a sap, this patterns old. Be bold and brave, don't slave or fold and hold your head up high and cope, don't mope, just mend. I'm sending hope.

©PW

PW’s heartrending verse highlights the sad fact that men – as well as women – are sometimes subjected to repeated acts of abuse… yet their voices are rarely heard or listened to.

Kensington, Philadelphia

They stutter and creep along filth-ridden streets, 
tattered sleeves hiding the blood as it seeps,
far from the arms of mothers who weep.

Turn away, 
cover your eyes, 
blind to the shame of the crimes you perceive
as you hurry away from the flesh-eating streets.

They wade through the scud of society's greed,  
shuffling their feet, hungry for succour 
then numbed by fulfilment of lethal need.

Turn away
pretend you don't see,
blind to the shame of the streets of pain
or blaming the victim for all our mistakes.  

They're slipping through cracks between fleshly paving;
our brothers and sisters struggle and bleed 
and end on those streets.
Who finds the dead and where are they buried?
Do we really not notice? 
How can we not care?
How can we not weep as they slip between 
the cracks created from selfish greed.

Few of us focus and few of us see
that there but for fortune or luck of the genes 
go him and her and you and me.
There but for fortune  
go we.

©Jane Paterson Basil

Butterfly Kyodai

You can't think straight. The reins 
were always slack. They slipped 
from your hands again. You can't 
remember when; could've been 
in your sleep or while you  
escaped into butterfly flight, 
clicking: once, twice, watching  
colourful wings flit...
as if 
they 
could save you...  

anyway you let go or maybe 
those reins were stolen and 
now there is no escape from 
the claw that clamps your flesh,
forcing you 
back into the cold  
of an echoing cave. 

©Jane Paterson Basil

Everything In Its Place

 
 
 
  
 My father was a talented man. 
 He drew, painted, pressed clay, carved stone 
 into naked feminine shapes with big bums and 
 tiny waists. He was practical, too. 
 When my family moved to Devon, he mastered 
 the art of plant husbandry, and grew 
 much of our food.
 He pulled nails from reclaimed wood,  
 saved metal scraps and screws, used them  
 to build, to make tools.
 When I was eight, I helped him 
 create a two-room caravan from waste.  
 This space became a base 
 for his creations. Wood, chisel and clay 
 lived at the front end with his workbench.
 Hammers, drills and related accoutrements 
 were neatly arranged on shelves. 
 Beyond lay his photographic studio, complete 
 with convenient divan and blankets. 
 Everything had its place -- cameras, hammers 
 and home-made pottery wheel of his design, powered  
 by peddling a recycled bicycle -- all
 neatly in reach.
 
 When one of his scented women came -- her waist 
 not that thin, her bum
 not that big, and her painted face never 
 as pretty as in his imagery -- we knew 
 The Artist Was At Work 
 and we must turn away. 

 When they left, some 
 made a quick getaway, while others 
 played innocent, dripping 
 into the kitchen for a quick visit. 
 My mother was friendly, polite, never 
 accused, never raged or complained, 
 ostensibly dismissing his sickening betrayals,
 gently raising them on the pedestal 
 of art. No-one could have seen her pain, or known 
 she was afraid.
 
 Yes, my father was a  
 gifted man. Every possession  
 was kept in its place. As 
 an innocent child, I worshiped him.
 Then my breasts grew, and I began to understand  
 the depth of his despot views:  
 e-v-e-r-y woman's place was
 pressed
 in the palm  
 of his 
 grasping 
 hand.  
 
 
 ©Jane Paterson Basil 

 Written for Word Of The Day Challenge: Practical

Obscure Miracles

 Morning brings a fragile visitation: 
 the hint of a poem whose silken threads
 ebb and flow,
 playing hide-and-seek with my mind, 
 gradually reproducing into compatible flecks 
 which swim like dust motes 
 on a sunny day.
 
 Words and phrases  
 float through an open window: tender gifts 
 bestowed by an unknown source;  
 obscure miracles which mingle with the mix,
 transforming raw verse till it fits, 
 displays a hint of beauty, 
 and on occasion, blooms 
 with exhumed truth. 

©Jane Paterson Basil

In Peace

©Jane Paterson Basil

Oak

This brave beauty
has been buffeted 
by autumn's steely breath,    
robbed of its faded cape.
Not one thread clung 
to shield it 
from winter chill. 
Twigs snap, strained limbs 
creak and break, 
yet victory is gained; the tree 
remains staunch,
tall and erect. 
Vanquished 
by harsh wind, 
leaves crumble 
and decay into mulch 
to feed next season's 
stunning display.

©Jane Paterson Basil

Poor Old Santa

Written for Word Of The Day Challenge: Reflect

With apologies to the oft-disputed author of ‘Twas The Night Before Christmas

 It's a dim little Christmas we're having this year,
 stranded from family and friends we hold dear.
 Factions are splattered all over the place,  
 there is fear and denial, ragr and bad grace.
 World leaders sit haggard on prickly fence
 while scientists struggle to make them see sense.
 Conspiracy geeks prittle predictable prattle
 and the papers continue to treat us like cattle.
 Mother is shielding and father is fraught
 by the dreadful cost of the gifts that he bought.
 Business is failing, his debts are a-growing,
 since Covid put paid to the seeds he was sowing.
 His children are sleeping in confident bliss
 faithfully dreaming of generous gifts.
 Santa has packed up his sleigh with great care,
 he's padlocked his storehouse and fed his reindeer.
 He's flying up high on his usual rounds;
 although visits are tricky, he won't let us down.
 Since rulings preclude him from entering chimneys
 he drops down the presents and flies away nimbly,
 with a groan in his throat and a tear in his eye;
 he'd be glad of a drink or a lovely mince pie,
 to fill his fat belly and give his heart ease -
 but he cannot risk catching a nasty disease.
 As he smoothly directs his crew through the air,
 he's pleased to be giving but filled with despair.
 He reflects that it's been a difficult year:
 There's lots of goodwill, but damn little cheer.   

©Jane Paterson Basil