Tag Archives: son

The woman in his life

I was always the woman in his life.
Through all of the abuse.
he knew he could rely on my love
and he loved me, he always loved me.

He stole my money and more;
he took all of the things he could sell.
I struggled to keep the heart beating in my chest;
I fought to keep those gems that fade when all is not well;
the seasons, with their soft and crisp textures and breath;
the goodnight kiss of each evening sunset;
each mealtime caress on the tongue.

As a last resort
I curled up in a tight ball;
with less inches exposed to the air,
less pain could enter my body
while I thought about:
the pull of the moon;
the ancient hills of my home;
the hazel eyes of a long-lost love;
the waves crashing on the cliffs at Porlock;
the thrill, as a child, of holding an unread book;
and soon I would unroll, take up my laptop,
and write much of the remaining pain away.

Just recently
I have been superceded
by a wild and lovely young rose;
who with one blow, has tamed my son.
so long I have waited for this day to come;
a day when he would cease tormenting me;
when my suffering would evaparate,
as my beloved child’s life
finally came together.

I celebrate
and am relieved,
while the edges of me
ache with the
grief of
loss.

The Daily Post #Together

©Jane Paterson Basil

Waiting

me,
here,
sandwiched
between two
doughy doorstops;
hope and fear.

(reason, 
  though spread thin,
    protects me 
      from  
        bleeding my whole heart 
          into 
            either slice of bread)
                                     
            you,
            somewhere
            in uncharted 
            neighbourhood;
            blithe creator of
            indigestible
            food.

Written for The Daily Post #Sandwich

©Jane Paterson Basil

Oh You.

(So named because the only vowels in this poem are O and U)

Embed from Getty Images

how you bloom

your youth
not lost

your good
looks not flown

no hurts
worry you now

no low words
groom you for doom

no low thoughts
pull you down

no drugs
now confound

how you bloom

your humour
so grown

good boldly
surrounds you

your soul
glows gold

you

my son

my wondrous son

© Jane Paterson Basil

Plucking at Something

Here is my take on today’s assignment for the Writing 201 Poetry course: a prose poem about hands, incorporating assonance.

BeFunky_Handbag.jpg

You come to my home uninvited, unnerving me, and although I’m uneasy I silence my tongue, because today your subdued air of submission gives me unaccustomed trust in you. I don’t want to shun you, my unravelled daughter, though my love seems redundant and unkindly used. The cuts and the bruises are ugly and telling, starvation and pallor are are hard to ignore. Your fingers are busily plucking at something under the rubbish in the hub of your bag

And now you are urging for news of your brother, a worrying subject, for one so unwell. I have nothing but good news, which shouldn’t unhinge you but unhealthy thoughts could worry your skull. I plunge the memory of our last discussion under my consciousness as must be done.

He walked out of prison anxious and wary, he was clad in mis-matched minimal garb, because everything he had worn upon entry was already filthy and ripped and marred.His feelings were mixed as he breathed semi-freedom at the side of his case-worker and walked to the car, because under the fear of a failure at freedom, was excitement at the thought of the fun he cound have.

(From under subversive eyelashes I watch you, and see my reluctance was undeserved. You unreservedly absorb every morsel; your abundant joy is undisguised. But still unremitting your fingers keep picking, plucking at something inside your bag.)

When he arrived at the re-hab the staff and residents all reached out a welcoming hand. He was overwhelmed by strange emotions and the push and the pull of feelings within. But he knew that very soon he would settle to a new routine in this friendly regime. He was longing to see his sisters and nephews and for trips to the city during weekends. When we visited him there within hours of his entry we brought him fresh clean jeans and tee shirts, and it was easy to see that he was intending to be a good brother and uncle and son.

I conclude my tale by re-asserting how pleased I am and how terribly proud. I re-assure you of his desire to see you, as soon as an appropriate day is arranged.

And although your fingers still pluck and worry at whatever is lurking inside your bag, I can see that you needed some news of your brother, and maybe his freedom will help you get well.

© Jane Paterson Basil