Shattered

morphology
Image credit: https://sha.org/bottle/morphology.htm

.

Words of promise
dripped from your rounded lip
so convincingly that I didn’t notice
the constriction of your throat
beneath a borrowed collar with satin finish.

Sticking your neck out,
you shouldered the blame,
but your body was too weak with need
to make you other than a heel.

You could have bought back the spoils of your theft,
thereby reversing the trend and reducing the hurt,
but instead you roamed the backstreets;
a base addict in search of his dealer.

Thought you had the bottle to clean up your mess,
thought regret would lead you to make amends —
but the seam is split, the glass is shattered,
and the myriad shards
have sliced our hearts.

.

The Daily Post #Bottle

©Jane Paterson Basil

Roseate

…………………………..I count the days,
……………each night keeping track of the remainder,
…….like a child subtracting each sleep, awaiting
..the thrill of waking on Christmas day,
and yet…
and yet her arrival
 .is like the delivery of an unlikely gift,
..  .one that I expected to be a lipstick in an excruciating shade of pink,
……   .sent by a dotty aunt; or a vase that has been shattered in transit,
…………   .but turns out to be the book that I was longing for,
……………….even though, until I held it in my hand,
…………………I hadn’t known of its existence..As I unwrap the packaging
…………………..I sense…
………………….I sense that it holds a key —
……………….or more than that, it is a key —
………….]which will unlock a lifetime of doors,
…………each one containing a new secret to happiness.
………..This book has a life of its own,
………..and it does not renage on its promise.

…………….She arrives, delivered
…………….. ….by her rugged protector. As I hold my risen girl, her smile
………………………reminds me: the dotty aunt has been banished.
………………………..Her shocking jokes of cosmetic horror and broken glass
………………………..lie buried beneath my daughter’s safe castle.
…………………. …Each visit…
…………………each visit is like a revelation;
……………she is well. She speaks flowers, and when she goes
…………my words sit upon the petals of happiness that she has scattered.
………..I gradually gather them up, until I have enough
…………to describe my gratitude and love.

……………..I write…
…………………I write of her rehabilitation.
…………………..My roseate words and phrases
………………….fall fragrantly upon the page,
…………….echoing feminine grace.

..rose-stem

The Daily Post #Revelation

©Jane Paterson Basil

……….

…………

Interesting times

My eldest Grandson and I stayed up all night, watching the results of the general election. It’s now almost 4.30pm. I still haven’t slept; I’m buzzing from the excitement. My family are getting together for an Indian takeaway in half an hour, to celebrate a comparative victory.

The results for Labour were better than anyone expected. Although they got less seats than the Conservatives, the Conservatives didn’t get enough to achieve an overall majority. They have 328 seats, having lost 12, Labour have 261 seats, having gained 31. The Conservatives plan to form a coalition with the Democratic Unionist Party, formed by right-wing racist Ian Paisley in 1971. It appears to have became a little less extreme since those early days.

The smaller parties lost out to tactical voting. It was nice to see UKIP being crushed underfoot, but I’m sad that the Green Party didn’t get more votes. The Scottish National Party had almost all of Scotland after the last election, with 54 MPs. They’ve slipped dramatically down to 35, with some areas plumping for labour, and others going for the Conservatives.

I’m with the Green party, but they had no chance of winning this election; the most we hoped for were a few seats, but I was a card carrying Labourite until the despicable Tony Blair appeared on the scene. I couldn’t continue my membership with him at the helm.

I think Jeremy Corbyn is one of the best things that’s happened to labour since the revered Aneurin Bevan was an MP. I wanted Labour to win. Jeremy achieved the highest vote ever recorded in his constituency of Islington; a wopping great 40,086 (in the last general election he got 20,659 votes, so that’s a an increase of 19,427 votes.) Somewhere in the distance, behind him, were the Conservatives, with 6,871, and the Liberal Democrats with 4,946.

That’s one in the eye for the Blairites who tried to push him out of the leadership. The country loves him, and so do his constituants. He’s a good, fair man, who wants the best for he people of this country.

Theresa May and her Cons have blown it. Political commentators and Conservative associates are pointing the blame for the humiliating result at Theresa May, which seems fair. She ran a terrible campaign, making a lot of slip-ups. Jeremy Corbyn is calling for her resignation, but she says she won’t stand down. The general opinion is that the Conservatives are ruthless cut-throats; she’s blotted her copy book so thoroughly it won’t be long before they dump her.

The Conservative Party should be a laughing stock by now; David Cameron chose to hold a referendum to prove that the people of the UK wanted to stay in the EU, then Theresa May announced a general election, with the idea of proving that the country was securely behind her.

David provided the timber, and Theresa constructed the coffin. Will the next Party leader put the lid on it? We shall see…

The Conservatives are feeling quite sore and tender today. I wonder what tomorrow will bring.

These are interesting times….

The Daily Post #Tender

©Jane Paterson Basil

First World woman

sewing
Image credit: http://www.royan.com.ar/

.

Stitch, stitch stitch…
speed is essential,
so First World woman
can wear the right fashion.

Stitch stitch stitch…
my labour is cheap,
so First World woman who buys this creation
will have enough cash
to grab the next fashion.

Stitch, stitch, stitch…
I sew through my hunger,
so First World woman can have many outfits for every occasion,
and each one poised
at the apex of fashion.

Stitch, stitch, stitch…
Soon my babies will labour in sweatshops,
so First World woman can open her wardrobe and hang her new purchase,
pick through her dresses, keep all the best and discard the rest —
last year’s tat and the ones which don’t suit her,
don’t match her eyes, or don’t show her legs —
as it would be shameful to step out in less than
the latest, the brightest,
the hottest new fashion.

Stitch, stitch, stitch…
I’ll work til I drop,
while First World woman
demands better wages for her thirty hours,
so she can buy armfuls of this season’s fashions,
while me and my babies labour and sweat.

Stitch,

stitch,

stitch…

– – –

©Jane Paterson Basil

Anton

rose-670447__480

Anton,
you did so much for my family,
your faith never ceasing to light the way,
despite medical evidence of impeding fatality.

Those warnings about your mortality were spoken
in words that confused doctors had to eat
each time the hungry tumour weakened, and retreated,
deferring your end.

Hard though it may be
to believe that my daughter and me gave you a reason —
or that your deity gave you strength to cling to this life
for a little more time — yet I accept it as true.
I’ll never forget how you thanked us
when it was we who owed thanks to you.

I wish you could hear my good news;
I wish we could meet,
so that my daughter and me could speak
our humble words of gratitude,
but I fear it may be too late.
You ceased communicating with this ethereal web of words
at the point where her speed increased
along the road to health,
and, for selfishness’ sake, I fear what that may mean.

But for the sake of you,
may wherever you are
be the place where you wish to be,
and may the atheism my father forced into me
be cruel falsity,
at least for those of true goodness and certainty, such as you,
so that, should you finally have left this terrestial plain,
you shall be making heavenly music on a celestial piano,
accompanied by the sweet harps of angels,
while other great peacemakers
listen and appreciate,
in the high place
where you deserve to spend eternity.

Anton, you did so much for me,
for more than this crude poem can explain.
I will always think dearly of you,
and I hope that someday, somehow, we may meet again.

xxx

©Jane Paterson Basil