Tag Archives: womb

Love In Ten Sentences

I am proud to be one of 12 people selected by Rosalyn to go on a mission.  I am to share my thoughts on “Love” with an axiom of ten lines, using four words in each sentence and each sentence to include the word “love”, then give my favourite quote on love.

If any of you haven’t read Rosalyn’s words, I suggest you visit her spaceship as soon as you finish reading this post. Not only are her thoughts and poems a treat to read; she also radiates love and happiness, lifting the reader’s spirits and making them smile.

Strictly speaking, these aren’t sentences, but lines. I’m sure I will be granted poetic licence!


When love was born

love made no sound

a soft loving caress

the infant’s first love

a love that learned

to love family, friends

to love a man;

nurture a love seed

in a loving womb

rotating love’s sweet circle

© Jane Paterson Basil

I can’t choose between my two favourite quotes on love, so here are both of them:

Love -Mahatma Ghandi

Good things are to be passed on. So, I hereby nominate the following  bloggers to spread “love”.


Laura poem image for blog

sometimes I can't pretend
        (with fraudulent smile
           and counterfeit jollity)
            expelling misery caked carbon dioxide
             grappling with fresh clean oxygen
           looping it around happy happy speak
         to bluff-tumble all around
        sometimes I can't pretend
        as her falsehoods
         assault my crumbling walls
            as conspiracy theories replace responsibility
               as accusations curl around lunatic lies -
                  today I am a victim of her inconsistency
                   tomorrow her absent shrug will not heal me.
                   sometimes I can't pretend
                  (though the knife feels blunt
                 and her nails are clipped)
              that my best foot is alive and well
            you may see me walk is if I were living
            expansively naming my blood-warmed jewels
            writing false futures with a dried-up pen
                 sometimes I can't pretend
                   when softly she steps
                     with white feather wings
                     when she strokes my brow and bestows stolen gifts
                   and tries to suggest that the demon is dead
                   while robbing my soul to sharpen her rage
                     to cut me open when I'm lulled to sleep
                            sometimes I can't pretend
                             as the demon expands
                            biting chunks from my mind
                        as giggle-groans echo beneath my ribs
             and with stained talons she crawls a smidgen deeper
     sometimes I can't pretend 
    that she is not burrowing back inside the womb
      where I lovingly formed her so long ago
                    (daily she wept at her exile
                                from that moist-hugged cave within me)

© Jane Paterson Basil


Mum told me I could do anything I wanted to do, be anything I wanted to be. All I needed to do was try. So I decided I’d be a mountaineer. Sissy said: You can’t do that. I told her mum said I could. I practised on a cliff when we went to the beach one time, but I fell off it and broke my arm.

After that I didn’t like mountaineering.

My friends at school wanted to be teachers or hairdressers, or marry someone rich so’s they didn’t have to do anything, just sit around in a big house and eat chocolate all day. But since I broke my arm, I didn’t know what I wanted to do when I grew up.

One day my teacher told me my paintings were different, so I thought I’d like to be an artist. Famous paintings are always different. That’s what makes them famous. And artists don’t have to do any writing. I’m not very good at writing.

My mum gave me acrylic paints for my birthday, so’s I could practice and get really good at painting. She even got me proper canvases stretched over frames, and an easel. I put it up in the bedroom, near the window, to do a picture of the junk shop across the road.

Sissy came into the room. She looked at the picture. You’ll never be an artist, she said. She grabbed it off of the easel. I think I’ll chuck it in the bin, she said. While I was trying to get it off her, I knocked my palette, and it landed on the floor, upside down. She got on my bed, then climbed onto my chest of drawers, and stood there holding my painting away from her, between her finger and thumb, like it smelled bad. Then she sort of whizzed it away from her, across the room, saying: Catch!

It landed near the window and the paint stuck to the carpet.

You did that on purpose, I said.

Suddenly dad was in the room, yelling at us to shut up, filling my nose with his dirty smell of cheap cider and cigarettes. He was angry about the mess.

An artist! You’ll never amount to anything, he said.

He took my paints away. For a long time after that I didn’t think about what I would be when I grew up.

My dad may not have thought much of me, but the boys at school did. I reckoned I should make the most of it, before they noticed I wasn’t worth the bother.

I’m in the assembly hall, bent over my biology GCSE paper, and I don’t understand most of the questions, but it doesn’t matter, because I’m grown up now, and I know what I’m going to do.

As I put my pen down, and stand up to file out of the room, I feel the first tiny flutterings inside my swollen womb.

© Jane Paterson Basil