Broken Wing

When she was born 
I hoped she'd be an eagle
but like a feather
torn
from a crippled wing
she got caught in a stinging breeze
spun through grey mist
and swept into a turbulent pool

Numb to the ache of an ancient break
I thought I was healed
until she tried to take flight


©Jane Paterson Basil

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.

Cancelled

A winter sun warms baubles
which glint as they cling
to fingers of fragrant pine.
Thoughtful gifts lie neat
next to ripped paper.

Screaming sirens
are silenced by the peace
which sits fat on this traditional day.

Soon,
thrilled, sucrose-filled grandchildren
will demonstrate new electrical gimmicks and gismos.
We will feast while I stand firm with myself, refusing to overeat
so I don’t ruin the treat of evening cheese.
When the table is cleared, we’ll play silly games.
As dark deepens, children will play and over-eighteens
will take turns to choose music,
praising or abusing the chooser of each tune.
We will all be equal;
all equally insulting, with one
short-lived exception; there will be
a brief act of deference when Leonard Cohen
serenades me with a single song.
We’ll tell jokes, talk movies, tastes, politics,
hand-slapping when views concur,
mock-raging when we disagree.
The racket will rise; we will be
ever more raucous until we must shout
in order to be heard.
We are united in love.
We do not celebrate quietly.
You might mistake our solid core for a battlefield,
yet it is a haven of peace and safety.
We laugh while we yell, and our laughter
describes love.

It’s time
to cease musing and leave, time
to replay the untiring Christmas theme.
I reach for my coat.

The phone rings.
I lift it, and listen
while pained words
cancel Christmas.

©Jane Paterson Basil

Go Gently, old Friend

Go gently, old friend.

Leave only
sweet ashes, drifting
through minds that
sift away
the silt.

Memories
of confusion and pain
are the dust in our tears;
we rinse them away.
What remains is a
kind reminder
of the
best
times
of your life.

Gone is the child
who reached for hands to hold,
the child who hungered for a loving touch.
Gone are the fists that rained cold blows
on your bewildered sensibilities.
stealing away what might
have been.

Now
you are free.

Go gently, and rest in peace.

.

©Jane Paterson Basil

Peace #2

One word,

spoken by the gentle,

whispered in prayer by quiet souls of faith,

breathed into the air by those who hold out human hope,

sobbed and gasped and beseeched

by the oppressed.

One word, a wish issued

by imploring lips that speak for

you and me, its plea reaching across

the dipping curves and stretched flats of

our burdened planet as it struggles

for its next breath.

One word which will not

be choked back or swallowed by the

butt of a gun pressed into the

tender necks of the

persecuted.

One word whose meaning

we must never forget, whose need

we must understand, no matter

what language

we speak.

One word articulated

by each race and every loving creed.

One word that could

change the

world.

One word:

Peace.

.

Although my intentions are good, I don’t always remember to credit those who inspire my posts. This post was inspired a beautiful post written by Tinasharma.

Those of you who know Raili, will also know about her Steps for Peace. Every day she puts a peace-inspiring quote at the bottom of her post. I wanted to join Raili in doing something to promote peace, and this post has given me an idea. At the bottom of each of my posts, I will write the word Peace in a different language, and I’ll try to learn to say that word in every language I can. It carries the most important message I can impart to any stranger.

My passion for words has been known to carry me away. In case I sometimes forget to carry out my promise, I apologise in advance.

My first Word for Peace is in Hindi:

Shanti

I wrote this post before I saw Reena’s Exploration Challenge for this week, but it fits the requirements perfectly, so I’ve linked it to her post, which is well worth checking out – maybe you’d like to join in. These are the two images she has used to inspire our writing:

©Jane Paterson Basil

Rue

.

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

Oh Dear; Deer.

 

My mother used to sing an old Irish folk song: –

I know where I’m going
And I know who’s going with me
I know who I love
And my dear knows who I’ll marry.

I have stockings of silk
And shoes of bright green leather
Combs to buckle my hair
And a ring for every finger.

O’ feather beds are soft
And painted rooms are bonnie
But I would give them all
For my handsome winsome Johnny.

Some say that he’s poor
But I say that he’s bonnie
Fairest of them all
Is my handsome winsome Johnny

For some reason, instead of “and my dear knows who I’ll marry”, my mother used to sing “but the deer knows who I’ll marry”.

I always wondered who “the deer” was. I’ve only just discovered her mistake…

©Jane Paterson Basil

Catalyst for survival

Image credit, Wikimedia

all these years
my reasoning poet
my rhyming priest
you held me

hid beneath this keening ache
beats the rhythm of your sweet profanity
the shades of your rainbow passion,
the elegant grit of your reality

rivers of words drifted from your lips
inviting me to swim in your vicinity
they caressed my wind-bleached skin
sinking in, making my body sing

you have been
my catalyst for survival
all these years

droplets
collect in the cold air

all these tears
I rinsed from your guitar
drip into rippling pools around my feet
radiating Leonard-energy

worlds of love
that will never end

Leonard Cohen.
September 21st 1934 – November 10th 2016.
R.I.P. xxx

Today, I grieve. There is a void where my words used to be.
Maybe tomorrow I will be ready to celebrate his life.

©Jane Paterson Basil

You ask

You ask how much I need you, but I explained;
I wish you had more sense in your tiny bird brain.
You ask how much I love you; I told you before,
You irritate my senses, you foolish old bore.

Hold the train, I won’t be a mo.
Hold the train, can’t you see I want to go.

You ask that same old question, did you mis-hear;
I’d love you to syringe all the wax from your ear.
You ask how much I need you, I’ll tell you true,
Until the twelfth of never I’ll not be wanting you.

Hold the train, I will not be long.
Here’s the train, release my arm and I’ll be gone.

You ask that same old question, did you mis-hear;
I’d love you to syringe all the wax from your ear.
You ask how much I need you, I’ll tell you true,
Until the twelfth of never I’ll not be wanting you.

I offer my almost sincere apologies to Jerry Livingston and Paul Francis Webster, who wrote The Twelfth of Never.

Unfortunately, the following video only shows Johnny Mathis singing the original version, as I haven’t yet persuaded him to record my lyrics. However, it’s really rather good, and I hope you’ll enjoy it.

The Daily Post #Tiny

©Jane Paterson Basil

A place called Jeopardy

Last Monday brought a hangover from hell
rang up my work, said I didn’t feel well
boss knew I’d been on a drinking spree
told me that my job was in jeopardy
On Thursday the same thing happened again
can you imagine my consternation when
In the blink of an eye I was in a strange land
full of rolling boulders and slipping sand
and though you may think this story is berserk
I was sitting at my desk from the office at work
Danger was apparent everywhere I looked
slitty eyes were glinting out of every nook
razors were raining down from the sky
I even saw a scorpion flying by
the earth beneath kept shifting and slanting
I could hear some invisible creature panting
jagged cracks kept opening in the ground
while fire balls exploded all around
0n my computer screen my boss appeared
laughing so much that he shed a tear
His eyes glittered brightly as he said to me
D’you like your new position in Jeopardy?

Written for The Daily Post Prompt #Jeopardize

©Jane Paterson Basil