Sad thoughts at the dead of night…

Deep lines ploughed his dark furrowed brow
He was lost in his world full of sorrow
For try as he might to shake off such thoughts
He was plagued by thoughts of a sad tomorrow.

It had been such a long, long time
Since he’d held his pen to write
So much happiness had deserted him
Though still he sits there at dead of night.

There was a kind of happiness
But it was so muted somehow
A laugh, restrained, and quieter
They get by, though sometimes, how?

And yet his mind could never rest
So much he still wanted to say
But now, again, seemed not the time
He’d wait, perhaps another day.

He carefully closed his writing book
And put down his fountain pen
He wiped away a single tear
While inside his heart felt broken again.

©Joe Wilson – Sad thoughts at the dead of night…2018

Children seem less important than guns sometimes…

 

And in our claim of love for life
What place the guns that kill
The guns that seem to never still
That take the child or innocent wife.
Children now left to scavenge
Surviving by their wits
No longer to live in joy or love
Who may grow wanting revenge.
Their innocence was blown away
By the bombs of a pointless war
They may well turn to violence
And bear the gun themselves one day.

And what does it prove
That one country
Can out-bomb another.
That in the blink of an eye
Someone can lose their brother
Their home, their family, their world.

A much loved dog lies dead
Killed by the shrapnel
That killed the little girl
Who was throwing it a ball.
Neither will now grow strong or tall
Amongst the rubble
Children fall.

While politicians in comfortable chairs
Decide their fate without such cares.

©Joe Wilson – Children seem less important than guns sometimes…2018

Grains of sand…

 

The effervescence of youth
What a wondrous expression
But so long now gone
Replaced by depression.
Yet still there is sparkle
If you know where to look
Consider the Bard
And recall dear old Puck.
His mischievous pranks
And his practical jokes
In today’s modern parlance
He’s be one of the blokes.
That youthful hobgoblin
Robin Goodfellow by name
He’s the spirit of youth
The prankster’s no shame.
But soon we age and grow weary
Our youth then disappears
And our once bright effervescence
Slowly fades with advancing years.
Hang on young Robin
Hold onto your youth
For the old goblins round
Are for you all the proof.
We once had the spirit
We played just the same
And we cavorted just like demons
For we too felt no shame.
And just for that one moment
We ruled as if we were kings
For we were all invincible
With the strength that that feeling brings.
Live for the moment
Carried away by your youth
For the moment comes far too soon
When you will find out the truth.

We’re just so many grains of sand
In a desert that is only time
And our life in that desert
Is just a short pantomime.

©Joe Wilson – Grains of sand…2018

A deserved dystopia…?

 

The rains fell heavy that Tuesday night
No one had predicted it
No one would have believed it could be
No rain had fallen for ten years.

They all rushed out to drink their fill
And though it seemed a minor miracle
At the time, that is
No one fell out, no one got shot!

People had relied on bottled water
For so very, very long
That ever-present taste of plastic
All too common on the tongue.

Bottled water companies had made a killing
The only water there was to drink
‘Bottles of water were the new bullets’
Or so ‘they’ said, the media in the pink.

The coastlines of the world
All lined with desalination plants
And those with the power to control
No longer needing weather info-stats.

But that night, just for a moment
All of that was forgotten
As the rains poured and poured
And the world was refreshed.

Mother Nature had taken back control
Thank goodness She always does
But how long till the next rain
How long —- how long?

When the oceans and the rivers teem
With plastic of all kinds and hue
Perhaps we got our just desserts
Reliant on water in plastic, me, and you.

©Joe Wilson – A deserved dystopia…2018

One of life’s nuisances…

 

The hours go by
Slowly, inexorably
Every single one
Of the eighty-six thousand
And four hundred seconds
Was felt by the constant
Nerve damaged feet
And the unending pins and needles.

Nothing could be done
It will never go away
Diabetes type two, see
The price that we pay.

Perhaps if he’s lucky
Tomorrow will prove to be
A good, much better day
Pins and needles free.

Bugger! Ce la vie!

©Joe Wilson – One of life’s nuisances…2018

Wasted…

 

Wasted —-me
Time, not enough was said
Too much was said
Nuance is a funny word.

‘I love you’
You should have said —— but didn’t.

Alone and feeling like a fool
Modern parlance — you’re a tool.

And you went to Jack
Is that the answer?

Oh! Now we’re into the self-loathing
God!! Relationships go belly-up
But only because you don’t —speak!

Jack does taste nice though
I think I’ll have another.

Wasted ———— me
Oh bugger!!!

©Joe Wilson – Wasted…2018

Untitled…

 

He was drunk
Three large glasses of Jim Beam
Had ensured that
… and they were large glasses.

It didn’t help of course
No demons were driven out
Or away.
The drinking had become a bad habit.

He used to worry
About his liver
His general health.

Now it is only her
His one, his lover
His companion, his friend.
She has yet another hurdle to climb.

When will enough be enough
It would seem that the answer is – never!

©Joe Wilson – Untitled…2018