The Sadness…

It became the time of The Sadness
The world had lost its chi
There was more, so much more killing
Every fifth life, a refugee.

Controversial depleted uranium
Was filling every armoured shell
Determined weapons businesses
Were sending the people to Hell.

And the people all behaved as sheep
Just milled around and waited
Till not a one was left there
Red mist passion was finally sated.

©Joe Wilson – The Sadness…2015

The Chosen Son…

He knew not how long he’d travelled this road
For it seemed he’d been walking all his life
Since The Old One had come to his father’s encampment.
So many, many long years ago he’d now lost track
The Old One had foreseen that great suffering would come
All in the villages would die, save one, The Chosen Son.

As night followed day, one by one, people began to die
The Old One, an apothecary, did all he could to help
But no one could hold back the tide of bubonic plague.
Yet The Chosen Son was spared, just he alone
And so, with heavy heart, after burying his parents
Then later his beloved sister Maya, he left.

He never looked back, what was there to see
The villages were now all but dead, and fires were set
In tears he stumbled away, still a child.
And yet with all that he had seen he was almost a man
He grew as he walked, learning how to hunt for food
He gained the skills of an archer for he needed meat to live.

And on he walked, quickly finding ways to defending himself
How to make his own tunics and gaskins and boots
He resisted the wearing of a cod piece as silly.
Thought he that they were the things of fops and dandies
He only wore what was needed to keep him warm
And he had a good cape for the purpose, and for sleeping.

He hired out his skills with the bow to farmers
To rid them of the marauding boars and wolves
Soon his reputation began to spread far and wide.
Till one day he was called upon to compete for gold.
Winning with ease his standing grew ever more
And more contesting and winning became the norm.

He never knew or understood why he was The Chosen Son
Barely remembering his village and The Old One
All things had become entangled in the sands of time.
Till finally he couldn’t even remember his name
As he fell by the roadside so tired and ill
He moved not a muscle, lying perfectly still.

But all was to change, a wanderer chanced by
Who touched his cold frame and his spirit soared high
Now The Wanderer is He and will walk as He did
Keeping a watch on His flock as He’s bid.
For never will He die, The Chosen Son
He’ll walk with us always, with everyone.

©Joe Wilson – The Chosen Son…2015

The inhuman condition…

In a clearing in the wood there was a gathering
The head stag was there, as was the badger
There were dogs, some rabbits and also a hare
And there were fighting cocks too looking quite worse for wear.
Last to arrive was the crafty old fox
With his lovely red jacket and his perfect white socks.

They had gathered because they were really fed up
Why does man get such pleasure as he does
From chasing and killing and charging about
The rabbit said man tried to poison us out.
They argued about it all night and day long
And when they had finished they knew men were wrong.

It was, they concluded the human condition
That made them all feel a superior position
But inadequate mentality inevitably meant
Proving it forever, on which they were Hell bent.
Till finally man was inured to the slaughter
And one day killed every ones son or daughter.

©Joe Wilson – The inhuman condition…2015


Aylan Kurdi (aged only 3.)
Aylan Kurdi (aged only 3.)
Aylan Kurdi (so full of life)
Aylan Kurdi (so full of life)

And people saw and they did weep
That tiny child in final sleep
Cast up like flotsam on a beach
That such sad lesson laid out to teach.

Émigré , or refugee
The difference here is plain to see
The one will leave with life intact
The other’s world has been ransacked.

They flee from rape, and death and wars
Pay so much money to trafficking whores
Who promise that they will be alright
Such hollow words, such desperate plight.

Yet still the billionaires wring hands
They make their guns to sate demands
And more young man and women die
But they don’t care, they wouldn’t cry.

For where there’s guns there will be war
Caught in the crossfire are the poor
Protagonists though should not be vague
But tried for their crimes at The Hague.

Yet sadly, it was ever thus
Brushed under carpets, much less fuss
We have to get to grips with peace
Or life on Earth may surely cease.

©Joe Wilson – When?…2015

A small tribute to Aylan Kurdi (an innocent boy aged only 3)

When the visitors have all left…

She’d travelled from Pinner, the aunt I liked least
And goodies meant for me she consumed like a feast
Then suddenly she stood and said she had to go
The bell will ring shortly, I’ll see you soon Joe.

And five o’clock surely is the saddest of times
All the visitors are gone as that bell cruelly chimes
It’s soon time for tea in its various guises
You give up all hope at the nightly surprises.

The hours leach away round the clock oh so slow
You’re stuck in this sickbed with nowhere to go
And porters all vanish, and orderlies too
And nurses change shifts every night as they do.

So you pick up a book you’ve been wanting to read
It’s blood pressure time then, so you have to concede
And you ask what it is as you would like to know
Though all that they say is, your pressure’s fine Joe.

And the hours stretch away far into the night
The man in the far corner bed gave them fright
The bed that he’d been in was empty again
We all know he died, we just don’t know when.

Anyway, the doc on his rounds came to see me today
He said I was much better and I could be on my way
So I’ll just thank the staff, it the proper thing to do
Then get myself home with no more to do.

©Joe Wilson – When the visitors have all left…2015

I wrote this after reading Five O’clock Shadow by the wonderful Sir John Betjeman

Romeo & Juliet briefly…

So smooth the stone in hand held tight
Then cast it he across the lake
And in the way of ducks and drake
It skimmed awhile then sank from sight.
And with it went his last sad chance
That he would see her ever yet
The play retold their meeting set
But came she not for him to glance.

Their love was passion tragic, short
Each felt they’d met their heart’s desire
Though some did seek to quell that fire
And drive the lovers apart for sport.
Of them tales told that were untrue
And spread amongst their kin
That what they felt was mortal sin
Shamed Capulet and Montague.

In secret tryst and wedded now
One night of love spend they
Before the exile goes away
One briefest kiss will time allow.
With Tybalt dead and lover gone
Yet she does think him dead
And so she feigns her death to bed
While Paris weeps thinks he’s the one.

And thus now Romeo, Paris smites
And weeps then he o’er Juliet’s tomb
For to her death she did succumb
He kills himself this poisoned night.
Poor Juliet, her love lies dead
Thus family feud has proven best
She takes her dagger to her breast
Now peace at last comes in death’s stead.

©Joe Wilson – Romeo & Juliet briefly…2015

Too proud…

The troubadour caressed his tunes
And all before him they did hear
The sad escape from twixt his lips
To many eyes brought tender tear.

And turning to those sensile few
Forbade them he to cry
Thou shalt not weep at such sweet sound
But on thine own self thee rely.

But troubadour now all alone
Falls to the grave so freshly made
He rails at all and drowns in tears
The final vain-filled price he paid.

©Joe Wilson – Too proud…2015

In the style of O. Henry after reading again ‘Vanity’

My friend Tim…

They called him names and some would laugh
He was different, and they were a bit scared
Yet when he walked along the street
It was as if he couldn’t have cared.

It was the Fifties, an unsophisticated time
He was clumsy, and sometimes looked into space
But his smile had that kind of innocence
You only see on a Down Syndrome face.

He grew up in pain with a twisted foot too
Which made his gait odd for to see
But we got along fine like the friends that we were
My noble young friend, him and me.

He lived with his mother, no dad to be found
Inseparable, they were a great team
My friend and his mum tried to get him a job
For that was his biggest ever dream.

They managed to get him a post helping out
Moving boxes and trolleys at the store
He did it for years with that smile on his face
Said he felt proud when he left his front door.

But his heart was quite weak and his lungs not too good
By thirty he was struggling to breathe
He passed away peacefully at just thirty-two
And I and his friends all quietly grieve.

For Tim it was a full life, one he’d enjoyed
And why not, he was like you and me!
He just made the best of the things that he had
And was the best he could possibly be.

I miss my friend often, so many years have now passed
His nobility made him special in ways
That so many people mistakenly read
For it was kindness they saw in his gaze.

©Joe Wilson – My friend Tim…2015

Farmers, milk quotas, TB & suicide…

It had been such a long stormy summer
There’d been floods all over his land
The crop yield gave another poor harvest
He was defeated, he couldn’t make a stand.

Whenever the tanker called on him
It cost him more than he made
For every litre of milk that he sold
Had cost more to produce than they paid.

He’d lost sheep to the ovine foot rot
And cattle, he’d lost to TB
The bank manager had rung him that morning
Said foreclosure was a near certainty.

When they found him he was hanging in the cowshed
He was dead, and had been for days
There was no one on the farm there to miss him
He’d had to let them go with half-pay.

©Joe Wilson – Farmers, milk quotas, TB & suicide…2015

Some live are always violent…

Undervalued, as she had been her entire short life
She fell into her small simple cot, exhausted
It was eleven twenty-five and so cold that night
And four that morning since she’d left it in dread.

Given up by her frightened parents at only seven
She was just as other girls in her village
Carried away by the merciless men
Who’d terrorised the area to murder and pillage.

A virgin no longer at just eight and a half
A mother before she was thirteen
She’d had absolutely no schooling
She didn’t even know the word obscene.

The one single thing that she did understand
Was the pain of being beaten all the time
If she wasn’t fast enough at bringing their food
She was thrashed like it was a crime.

And now here she was…exhausted
She was only eighteen, but so old
And the only thing she ever got from her Lord
Was her death that night from the cold.

A six year old motherless child all alone
She’ll be safe until she turns eight
And then just like her dead mother
She’ll be cast to the men and a terrible fate.

©Joe Wilson – Some lives are always violent…2015

There are nations around the globe where this is still a common occurrence, even in so-called civilised countries. It is the 21st century, we should be able to stop this horrendous monstrosity.