The consequences of free will…

Rested and Risen
He went out in search
Of the Lord.
Not needing to look
So very far
He looked for Earth’s
New monstrous scar.
Tragically, another war
Where people ran
Where people bled
Seeming to happen
More and more.
‘Why this?’ he asked
A weeping Lord
‘Why must men always kill?’
‘My Son, I cannot stop this
For I gave them all free will.’
‘But you could stop it My Father
With just a wave of your hand.’
‘I cannot My Son, I’m sorry too
But they must learn to understand.’

‘You’ve seen a new-born baby child
They only know how to love
Any hatred learnt as they grow up
Isn’t gifted from above.
And all throughout the centuries
Man has raped and pillaged the land
They’ve treated each other in similar kind
It’s difficult to understand.
They invaded each others country
Robbed gold and silver from source
Then violence rears its ugly head
It seems mans only recourse.

But there are so many others too
Who are different, do so much good
Who reflect all the wonderful qualities
That all humankind really should.
Some work hard in the family home
Raising children to be wise and good
For those who nurture their children
Peace is something that’s well understood.
Others patch up the wounded and spread good cheer
Never asking rewards for them self
They work under fire in war zones
Putting at risk their own health.

These are the people the Earth should be filled with
For they are the planet’s real wealth.

©Joe Wilson – The consequences of free will…2016

Untitled thoughts…

Heavy mist
Matched his mood
Everywhere so damp
Once again
Brought on his cramp.
Still he supposed
It could be worse
Rising sadness
Bitter and terse.
Besides, others now
To think about
Behind the mask
His heart cries out.
First’s the worst
Is what they say
It feels like the first
Each single day.
And at Easter
Birthdays, Christmas too
He dons the mask
It’s what he’ll do.
And all the sadness
All the tears
Stretch out before
In endless years.
Where once they sat
Round table, four
That empty space
Leaves hearts so sore.

©Joe Wilson – Untitled though…2016

The spy who was…

The winter sun
does nothing to warm
the old, weary man
who sits alone
writing his memoir.

He sits at
a small French writing desk
his wife had bought for him
such a long time ago.
It’s position is by the garden window
to catch the sun.

There he wrestles with his thoughts
Should I tell of this?
Should I reveal that?
Would anyone gain from the knowing?
And what of the pain I’d be sowing?
He’d thought of this for so many months
As he laid down the story of his life
For in truth it would not be a noble account
Save the few precious years he’d had with his wife.

Secrets he’d known, yet none had he shared
Even now, so long since retired
He remembered the words his handler had used
‘In this world. silence is required.’
There were so many wrongs he couldn’t correct
So-called enemies had died by his hand
And laid out in print in his memoir
Would anyone at all understand!

Once again he closed his writing book
Not a word had he written once more
He looked through the window as the sun shone
Though in his heart it was too cold to thaw.

©Joe Wilson – The spy who was…2016

The amazing power of love…

It was a woeful time he’d been through
He survived only by the help of his friends
And now, though young still in his head he knew
His body was falling to bits as nature intends.

So he called his friends and he told them
How much that he loved them one and all
And how life was much better in his knowing
How they’d helped him in ways he could recall.

Then he called to his brother to tell him too
He loved him no matter the things from before
He called to his sister and told her
He loved her, he should have told them more.

Lastly he called to those in his heart
To his wife, his son, and that now empty space
He told them he loved as he always had
And as always he saw her beautiful face.

We should say, we should say, to those that we care for
How truly we love them and as often as we can
And for this there are no real requirements
You just stand up and say it like a man.

©Joe Wilson – The amazing power of love…2016

Your cake and eat it…

They’ll say we got what we deserved
We vote for our way of life preserved
A coin that’s view-able from both sides
Along with other stuff besides.
Yet in these days of clever soundbites
Where truth is lost in political dogfights
Where some don’t read their own manifesto
How can voters possibly know!

So trust becomes a thing now gone
You look at leaders and there is not one
For in each you simply have no faith
As Democracy steals away like a wraith.
And if we got who we deserved
What chance our way of life preserved.

©Joe Wilson – Your cake and eat it….2016

A journey we take…

I was once a little boy
Nothing seemed to matter
Not too much anyway.
I think one of my main concerns
Was getting wretched caps
………….to work – in my toy gun.
It was quite a small gun really
No imitation Buntline Special for me. O no
I wanted the small silver one
Like the one the Range Rider had
It had a scary black handle.
I played with it for hours
I was content.

Long before I was an adult
I was a fool
I found myself drawn to violence
Street-fighting – foolish enterprise
Yet, perhaps surprisingly
No one ever got really hurt.
Days of innocence…if you get my drift.
Yet how quickly I learnt
How foolish I had become
I was not at all content.

Then I became a man
I became a father too
I became a worrier.
But for the longest time I was content.
Hard work brought its rewards
And the children grew into fine adults.
The love within the home has never faltered
And now, as I near the ending of my journey
I can recall, despite all of the sadness
Such happy memories, such happy times
And though there have been terrible illnesses
And such terrible loss…
I must reflect that I’ve not had a bad life.
But content? Not really.
Not anymore…

©Joe Wilson – A journey we take…2016

Too young to vote, old enough to die…

Lest we ever forget…


He stood there so still, terrified like the rest
In this one single moment their short lives compressed
The order came then, ‘right lads — over the top’
He saw so many, many bodies just drop.
He was sixteen, too young yet to even vote
Chances of that now seemed so remote
He didn’t understand politics anyway
He just tried so hard to reach the end of each day.
The madness around him, that cordite smell
He watched while tank crews got burnt all to Hell
If he could vote he couldn’t have voted for this
His last thought, then a bullet didn’t miss.

He lies here now with comrades, so many
Used by politicians like they were ten-a-penny
But we will remember him, aye, and the rest
Who laid down their lives as they gave of their best.

©Joe Wilson – Too young to vote, old enough to die…2016