Coma…

Where have you gone in your faraway mind
Remind
In there so lonely, all on your own
Alone
Your pain just breaks me apart
Heart
Yet I hold you once more in my arms
It calms
Though your eyes show you’re still fast asleep
So deep
And still I can smell your skin’s sweet aroma
I’m reminded my friend is in calm but deep coma.

©Joe Wilson – Coma…2015

Tears… Red… Books…

Three short verses

TEARS…

In dreams I wander far away
You didn’t stay
I try to find where you might be
You’re free
I search to find your loving heart
So apart
How did we drift that you would leave
I grieve
In loneliness with all my fears
And nightly TEARS.

©Joe Wilson – Tears…2015

RED…

Vampire, I, and all that blood
Goodness ebbs away
In go I for gorging fill
Not a drop spill I.
Warm and sticky to delight
Vampire’s favour in the night
So the soon to be undead
With pale neck bared, yet so soon
RED…

©Joe Wilson – Red…2015

BOOKS…

Words across the pages flow
Learning, learning on the go
Right to left, left to right
Perfect is this brilliant sight
Pictures dotted in between
Open your eyes, see what they mean.
Now watch a child among the pages
Knowledge gained throughout the ages
So, so powerful are the hooks
That feed the brain from inside BOOKS.

©Joe Wilson – Books…2015

When she left…

When she left, there was nothing
There was nothing left to be seen
Seen there to be no evidence
No evidence she’d ever been.

Been around awhile since then
Awhile since figuring it out
Figured out it was a foolish dream
A dream that left me in doubt.

Left in doubt, yet she seemed so real
So real, now I’m so bereft
Bereft as I’ve never felt before
Before there was nothing when she left.

©Joe Wilson – When she left…2015

There was an old man…

The funny old man just turned up one day
He opened his case so the music could play
All the sounds you could hear would come from ‘the thing’
And the funny old man would then start to sing.

‘The thing’ was a squeezebox, and yet a trombone
There were certainly strings, and in parts, xylophone
Yet I’m sure that I remember a small kettle drum
And if you got too close it started to hum.

His life was right there in that battered old brown case
Each place that he went, the old thing had it’s place
He was a street entertainer, of some note I might add
And people gave generously to the clever old lad.

He would suddenly appear as if like a wisp
When he spoke, which was rare, he had a slight lisp
The case would be opened and out came ‘the thing’
And to it’s accompaniment the old man would sing.

O what a great voice, it soared like a rocket
And every man’s hand went straight to his pocket
Then suddenly, he lowered his voice in a verse
And ladies gave money from out of their purse.

To other street artists this wasn’t such fun
They consorted to see what ought to be done
They thought if they made him look really quite bad
That would be the end of the crafty old lad.

There are things you can do in the swell of a crowd
Things, if you’re honest, about which you’re not proud
They slipped him a ‘Mickey’, and he lost voice control
But ‘the thing’ saved the day with a fine barcarole.

He carried on for years till he got really old
His voice now much quieter and a little less controlled
One day he announced that he would soon retire
But he’d do one last show in a hope to inspire

The day of the show was so sunny and bright
Folks had strung bunting, it was such a good sight
A buzz of excitement as they wait for the man
Then suddenly he’s there and the whole thing began.

He sang all the old songs and the people all cheered
The competition too, who had usually jeered
It soon became clear though, that the old man was ill
When he came to the last song the audience was still.

He finished with a new song to the ahs and the sighs
So many who were listening had tears in their eyes
With a rueful smile on his tear-stained face
He just disappeared, and likewise, his case.

©Joe Wilson – There was an old man…2015

The celebrity abuser…

Mortified, they removed the splendid effigy
Shamefaced now, in the remembering
That magnificent eulogy that was lavished upon
His memory.

His memory, such a precious commodity
Such a thing to be proud of
Or
As it turned out
A vileness to be pushed into the farthest recesses
Of the minds of those who had looked upon him
Not realising what a wicked, cruel man he was.

For he had abused so many
He had sullied the very name
Of decency
Of rightness
Of humanity.

Now, and only if there is
No other way
People sidle past this spot
And feel the disgust
As it wells up
And resurrects
The new dislike
Of his kind.

We are all a little less
Innocent
We feel a little less clean
And a little more guilty
For a blind eye
Was turned for
Far too long.

©Joe Wilson – The celebrity abuser…2015

This was written for a challenge on a different site.The object was to write a piece using the words Effigy, Eulogy and Sidle.

Then came the silence…

The East was at war with the West
Along with many of the rest
The North was in conflict with the South
Who had so little water or food for their mouth’.
Very soon guns were pointing to the West
Yet others were turned facing East
For those who were selling weapons
It was a killing-hardware feast.

And when all of the fighting was over and done
There was no more war, and no fear
The world had been turned to a graveyard
With no one to shed but a tear
As the final missile landed and blew
Not a soul was left living to hear.

©Joe Wilson – Then came the silence…2015