Dreaming of home…

My thoughts today are of our old home, Clem
I’m wistful and so slightly sad
All the time that has passed since seeing them
No longer a young boisterous lad.
I miss the trees and the creak of the gate
Of the cottage where once we did live
The river that flooded when it was in spate
The forces that will not forgive.

O this town is a fine place to find us, Clem
Though it’s not like being back at home
So today I’m wistful for our cottage again
For the hamlet from where we did roam.
And if son, you’ve these thoughts as mine
As you’re going about your day
Be ready to gather those things of thine
For soon we’ll be back on our way.

©Joe Wilson – Dreaming of home…2015
Written in a style similar to O. Henry
William Sidney Porter (1862 – 1910)

If you could feel as I do…

Everything is ugly, no beauty is found anymore
The unhappiness of troubled youth, garbage strewn by the fold
Those lumbering fools down on the farm, where habits are such a bore
All serve to think you ill of me, and the love for you I hold.

The cruelness of mortal life, is so vile as it unfolds
I wish that I could change all that, and show it just to you
And all the glory of the heavens, and stories yet untold
Tell of the love I hold so dear, my heart belongs to you.

©Joe Wilson – If could feel as I do…2015

Written in the style of W B Yeats (1865 – 1939)
after rereading The Lover Tells Of The Rose In His Heart

Going home…

Portmanteaux packed and loaded, a new life is my call
In going I am coming home, to rivers, forests and swan
And all the hustle-bustle I leave behind for all
As I start my life anew, as one.

In joyous solitude shall I bide, to be alone at last
I see it in the forest glade, among these misty leaves
The darkness and the shadows seem so very vast
And sleeping under ink-black skies deceives.

And so I travel homeward, a long, long journey home
Where waters lap so sweetly there lives a gentle swan
Which to the forest edge and by the glade does come
A gentle flutter of my heart so finally at one.

©Joe Wilson – Going home…

A poem in the style of W B Yeats (1865-1939)
After re-reading The Lake Isle of Innisfree