Category Archives: humorous verse

The Last Laugh

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I got a soggy dog-lick-kiss, breakfast on a tray
with the dreaded birthday sentence: Fifty years today.
Gifts enshrined in angry bills, ring box on a tin can,
and on the bed beside me, my oh, so funny man.

I wouldn’t touch my breakfast; the tea was weak and cold,
the bread was stale, the marmalade thickly furred with mould.
I unwrapped all the presents; fake poo and inked perfume,
I threw aside a birthday card, then marched out of the room.

He chased me to the kitchen; he knelt on knobbly knees
to offer me the ring box, said: Please don’t be a tease.
He looked so hurt and serious I thought he was sincere.
I’m glad I chose to take it, or he would still be here.

I carefully prised it open, expecting glittery bling,
but in that stupid jewellery box there was no diamond ring;
no long-denied proposal, no promise from my champ –
curled amidst the velvet was a grubby postage stamp.

I glared at him in fury, but he waved my rage away,
and laughing shrilly, said to me: It’s for a holiday.
Climb into this box, I’ll add the stamp and the address
of any destination, North, South, East or West.

It might be midlife crisis, but I’m weary of his humour;
I wished a heart attack on him, or a most aggressive tumour,
so feeling thus disgruntled, I shot him through the head.
He’s curled up in an outsize box, not joking now he’s dead.

I’m posting him to Timbuctoo, with no return address,
So I will never get him back, and I’ll suffer no redress.
It’s funny what you think of, when you scrub a bloody floor,
kitchen units and two windows, one kitten and a door:

We met on Friday the thirteenth, an unlucky day for me,
but the thirteenth has returned; how unlucky now is he!
I don’t regret the past, and there’s something I will miss;
I’d like to give him one last breath and see him laugh at this.

©Jane Paterson Basil

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Written for Three Things Challenge: thirteen, midlife crisis, past

©Jane Paterson Basil

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Fiction Planet

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Fiction Planet is a crazy place
unknowingly created by the human race;
with it’s ever increasing wish for fiction,
there’s never the risk of dereliction.

It’s a world that never fills to overflowing,
constantly stretching, endlessly growing,
while every writer throughout age and time;
in tales long and short, in prose and rhyme,
creates more protagonists to join the throng
of fictional characters, both weak and strong;
carelessly scribbled or seamlessly drawn,
old as the hills or recently born.

Every character in every tale
is instantly despatched, without fail,
to a rocket-ship, soon to be hurled
onto the surface of a far-flung world,
complete with their views, their histories and lives,
the secondary characters; friends, foes and wives.

Thin personalities with watery expression,
written with no talent in a hurried session,
travel with oddballs whose unlikely obsession;
unusual habits and peculiar repression,
are fascinating foibles to make them more real,
your interest to excite, your faith to seal.

Misfortune and cruelty, joy and pleasure;
every kind of fiction is here by the measure
There are ‘orrible murders by the score,
ghosts, fiends and zombies, blood, guts and gore.
Stories intermingle, tangling inextricably;
they change and distort and whirl inexplicably.

Sex scenes steam on rain-speckled streets.
Car chase leaves tyre marks on black satin sheets.
Oldies cry “Ahoy!” as their creaky hips
limp across storybook pirate ships.

Oily business men stroke local cheese,
cheesemakers in markets sell secretaries knees.
Spaceship doors open and wives appear,
husbands break rules that their aliens hold dear.

Alice is trapped in Arabian nights,
little boy blue is winning fisticuff fights.
Tommy Tucker bravely climbs up the spout
when along with Bo-peep he gets washed out.

Baa-baa-black sheep is pulling out its thumb
and finding a spider as big as a plum.
Flower fairies wander in the city of angels,
Jack and Jill have fallen into Aesop’s fables.

A dragon has eaten the princess with the pea,
and the mad hatter’s buddies aren’t coming to tea;
they’re sitting in rows in a Dickensian school,
while Peter Rabbit rolls out the golden rule.

The whole mad planet should be overflowing
since hoards are arriving and not a soul is going,
but day by day, the planet keeps growing
and there’s no indication that activity is slowing.

When the last living writer has ceased to breathe,
there’ll be no new arrivals, and nobody will leave;
no joy of birth on that planet in the sky –
and no final grief; storybook folk can never die.

.

©Jane Paterson Basil

Belly-ache

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Rigid in bed I glared at the ceiling,
belly-ache imparting a ghastly feeling.
Hurt so bad I didn’t sleep all night
belly-ache giving me quite a fright.
The veggie bake was a big mistake;
too much cheese gives me belly ache.

Couldn’t pretend that I didn’t know –
the belly-ache had hit me weeks ago;
from baking up the very same meal,
belly-ache made me squirm and squeal.
Swore back then that I’d forsake
the cheese that gave me belly-ache.

It happened again since I couldn’t resist
the lovely cheesy belly-achy dish.
Guessed the reason and it’s not too sad
belly-ache’s caused by a rocky gall-blad.
The rich cheese sauce gave me personal proof,
when belly-ache pain shot through the roof.

Knew right then what I had to do –
take my belly-ache to the medical zoo.
Personable doctor prodded me,
gave me extra belly-ache for free.
We nodded our heads and we both agreed
an ultra-sound scan was what I’d need.

Waited seven weeks in sober mood,
sticking to belly-ache reducing food.
All of my favourite cheeses are out –
Don’t want another belly-ache bout.
Letter came and it offered me a date
for checking the reason for my belly-ache.

Crawled to the bus-stop in the heat of the sun,
went to the hospital, belly-ache all gone.
Lay on the bed for the friendly technician –
pleased that my belly-ache was in remission.
She greased my belly and employed her skill
to find what was causing my belly-aching ill.

Technician told me her name was Nelli,
as she viewed a grainy movie of my ache-free belly.
She was sweet and funny and extremely kind-hearted –
this was the belly-aching news she imparted;
Belly is filled with a truckload of rocks,
that’s what tied me in belly-aching knots.

Don’t know how long the wait will be,
but the belly-aching bundle will be cut out of me.
I’m looking forward to the glorious day
when I can throw my belly-ache diet sheet away.
This is the reason that I feel so pleased;
I won’t get belly-ache when I eat cheese.

<> <> <>

The technician really was called Nelli…

©Jane Paterson Basil

The Cut of his Jib

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He meets a woman
who
fits
the general
image of his florid dreams.
Flexing his biceps he feels the sleeves
of his long-suffering shirt
squeeze. Somewhere between elbow
and armpit a punished seam
gives up the ghost.
Shoulders bulge, muscles
swell his chest, threatening
to burst his buttons.

He preens, his regiment of
all-the-better-to-eat-you-with teeth
standing neatly to attention.
I’m built
to protect myself, he says,
should someone come to shoot me dead,
I need no bullet-proof vest;
I’ll disarm them with a flicking blow.
I’ll take the life of anyone who tries
to cut me with a sword or knife.
You’ll be safe with me,
and I will show you all the ways I know –
all the sweet techniques that go –
to
please
a homecoming queen.

She surveys the stranger,
taking in
his toned build,
his suntanned skin,
his hair the hue of a fox’s
mane, every strand contrived to
look stylishly out of place, the ice-
blue eyes that gaze, the handsome
face, chiselled in such a way…
and
the cut
of his jib.

Get outa’ my way, she coldly cries,
killing him with her scimitar eyes.

©Jane Paterson Basil

Narcissism

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A narcissist?
That isn’t a nice thing to say
to one who is perfect in every way.
I don’t wish to sound vain,
but the truth is quite plain;
I’m top of the A list,
on everyone’s play list.
There’s no-one can match my magnetic attraction,
my beauty’s undimmed by dark and refraction,
even my mirror’s in love with me.
Why, if I could find someone as winsome as I,
I’d wed them today and whisk them away,
but no matter how hard I try,
this sweet face is all I can see –
I can love no-one but me.

.

Written for The Daily Post Word Prompt: Narcissism

©Jane Paterson Basil

Where there’s Muck

 

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Patrick MacTaverty was brash in his depravity;
his habit was to excavate his every gap and cavity.
His shamelessness was infamous – sickening and unpleasant –
he dug away with mild disdain no matter who was present.
He was known in local restaurants, in the corner shop and library,
for ignoring every plea and threat and all attempts at bribery.

He shovelled at his eyes and ears, and in his mouth and nose,
he flung off shoes and smelly socks, to delve between his toes.
His heights of degradation would defy imagination;
there clearly there was no limit to his inner salutation
while he wiggled spindly fingers deep within each hollow part
as if to wave a greeting to his tonsils, brain and heart.

Aquaintances and strangers always gasped and were appalled
when he loosened up his belt and they saw his trousers fall.
His naval display was his greatest pride and joy –
a showcase for his dug-out waste from the day he was a boy.
The orifice extractions drove the viewers to distraction,
owing to the acrid odour,  rotting matter and compaction.

A dog appeared from nowhere – all claimed that it was mad
when it bit off Patrick’s fingers – but most of them were glad.
Furthermore, once he ceased collecting  murky treasures,
the mess turned sweet and friable by soft and silent measures,
and out of his round belly button mounds of flowers grew –
some were well-known species, but others were quite new.

Now Patrick’s makes a fortune from the sale of blooms of class –
which serves to prove the saying true, that ‘where there’s muck there’s brass’.

Brass = money.

©Jane Paterson Basil

Red

carrot-33625__340Why do people walk so slow,
Ain’t they got no place to go?
They won’t let me forge ahead –
a mist descends in specks of red.

They strut along with bags and thighs,
then turn and look me in the eyes.
A gap appears, but far too narrow
to fit the smallest autumn marrow.

They gasp to see their small mistake
and every inch they quickly take.
“Let me past,” I boldly cry,
“or face a deadly duel, and die.”

They pay no heed, but mockingly
slow their pace and grin with glee.
I face them with my trusty carrot,
but turnip tops are all they’ve got.

Do you think I have no chance
as I begin my fighting dance?
“Why, two on one?” you brashly say;
I’ll give you two on one today.

They stand their ground, and face me bravely.
My carrot makes them into gravy.
My goodness, what a sorry sight…
I raise my carrot, take a bite.

Rage and vengeance; both are red –
it’s time to hurry home for bed.

©Jane Paterson Basil