Month: Nov 2015

I weep…

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a_weeping_world_2_web

Now I sit poised with pen in hand
And wait for thoughts I’ll understand
To ease into my frame of mind
Maybe pleasant, not too unkind.
But I look at the news and it hits me again
The horrors in a world so racked in pain
And the gentle words that I wanted to write
Are chased off the page in terrible fright.

Is this all we have to offer each other
A knife or a bullet to use ‘gainst our brother
Our sisters are caring for babies yet now
In this world full of danger they manage somehow
But what life for children who are raised in the storm
Will they ever get to see peace as the norm.

The world is bleeding…

© Joe Wilson – I weep…2015

Cats do not make mistakes…

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A tale for animal lovers and children

 

Some things don’t happen for goodness sake
Like seeing a cat make a big mistake
But that I saw the other day
The first time ever, locals say.
I saw it fall before my eyes
As Ethel did to her surprise
It landed right on her new hat
And mean of spirit, she hit the cat
Which struck right back and scratched her arm
And that’s when Ethel lost her charm.
She went ballistic and chased the thing
Completely ignoring the engagement ring
Which I quickly put back in the box
Deciding my cat was a crafty fox.
From a long line of suitors I was struck off
I feign upset with embarrassed cough
And the cat, well she sits by my side
Giving looks of disdain when Ethel is spied.

©Joe Wilson – Cats do not make mistakes…2015

Three Rictameter Poems

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Three Rictameter poems I’ve written recently.

The first is for my wife who for some unknown reason has been at my side for over four decades now.
The second is a small dedication to all serving soldiers past and present, many of whom never make it back home
The final poem is for anyone called Alan, particularly for those who might recognise themselves. Of course you can substitute any name you wish.

In truth…

In truth
I have simply
Loved a single woman
And she has loved me wondrous too
A life together of such pure delight
Friends by day and lovers at night
Not lonely am I
For I have her
In truth.

©Joe Wilson – In truth…2015

 

War is the way in which politicians flex their muscles, while usually managing to stay safe themselves. All to frequently we see the same behaviour as that displayed by the schoolyard bully. Someone wants something that someone else has or wants it done in a particular way…things that could be talked through and solutions eventually arrived at. Politicians however, have their audience, the voter, and they want to be seen to take firm action. All to often they get it so very wrong. Politics is a whore.
In the meantime men and women bravely go to war to help sort the mess out on their behalf, sometimes, as in the Gulf, they are not even equipped correctly.
This short poem is for them.

A Soldier’s Hymn…

As men…
Brave and marching
Off to battle so grim
Their chance of coming home so slim
In fearsome fight and quite beyond all hope
Enemies just like them they scope
Who too will die right here
On foreign soil
As men…

©Joe Wilson – A Soldier’s Hymn…2015

For every man and woman who went off to war,
From El Cid to Private Tommy Atkins and GI Joe.
We know you’re scared, but you go anyway. Would
that they who start such conflicts were as brave.

 

Another Rictameter…this time just for fun.

Alan in love…

Alan
His fragile heart
Upon his sleeve it lived
Ever being broken in two
As try so hard to love he’d always do
Till May he met, one day, on train
When Alan loved again
But now, May loved
Alan.

©Joe Wilson – Alan in love…2015

And yet once more it rains…

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And yet once more it rains

So the world waits in the aftermath
Of these such terrible events
We sit here totally stunned once more
And just make our sad comments.

And yet once more it rains

As again we wonder why
Brutality in this awful style
Is meted out on the innocent
In this manner so wicked and vile.

And yet once more it rains

On pathways now blood-soaked
A new war has been declared
But for this kind of terrible evil
We will never be prepared.

And yet once more it rains

So many more have fallen
And it seems that more will too
And as the world just comes apart
We need a much better glue.

And yet once more it rains…

©Joe Wilson – And yet once more it rains…2015

His lost friend and lover…

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The ache would never be gone
All that was left was loneliness
— and the bitter sense of loss.

They had been friends before being lovers
Each knowing the delicate path they trod
Sharing their fondness of books, and life
They fell in love and she became his wife.
But she was black and he was white
And always they had had to fight
The hatred that lived in old Enoch’s time
Born of an ignorance that had no rhyme.
The abuse she suffered went over her head
When they had said she should be dead
She tried her best for it not to impress
But it only caused him so much distress.

But they’d survived and raised their son
And lived a life of love and fun
The joy of seeing their son, a man
His parents were his greatest fan.
She’d seen him love and marry too
And raise a new brood, daughters – two.

Slowly though her health succumbed
And feet and fingertips felt numbed
Her circulation, always poor
Stopped suddenly, then she was no more.

And now alone, emotions raw
He sits and stares at where he saw
Her standing last across the room
Where now is simply – empty gloom.

ⒸJoe Wilson – His lost friend and lover…2015

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John Proctor…

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He was not a small man by any means
John Proctor, obdurate and uninhibited was tall
Some might say burly, he was surely handsome.
Following their illicitness Abigail was mightily jealous
She wanted that man for herself
And yet, Elizabeth he loved – not her.
He was a good man, but one who had strayed.
It was to be his downfall.
That and Abigail’s wanton lust for him.

Accused of being a terrible witch,
But not wanting to ever reveal
His lust with Abigail Williams
That he’d always tried to conceal.
’Abigail is a whore and I so do confess,’
He shouts to the court of his final redress.
For I am now that which I despise most
A hypocrite Lord, take me to the post.

Abigail, O Abigail, is this your desire
You call me a witch – I’m condemned to the fire.

©Joe Wilson – John Proctor…2015

Inspired by real events of 1692 in Salem, Massachusetts, and of course by the play The Crucible by Arthur Miller. In reality John Proctor probably didn’t even know Abigail Williams before she accused him of witchcraft. At the time of the trial she was about 12 to his 60 years, they were not 17 and 42 years as the play portrays. He was hanged as a witch at the age of 60 and his wife Elizabeth thrown in jail with him also as a witch. She was eventually freed though, as she was pregnant during the course of the trials and after, as the unborn child was seen as being without sin. Eventually all of the accused were set free, Elizabeth though, having been convicted was cast out for many years before she eventually remarried.

In dreams, serene…

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In dreams I come to join you
Our hearts and arms entwined
Each night it will remain the same
Never the more to be refined.

And when I wake to sadness
Alone, I am in pain
I cannot wait to sleep once more
To dream with you again.

My aching heart lies broken
Alone forever I’ll trudge
Tragic misunderstanding
Then hardened into grudge.

O foolish pride keeps us apart
Beloved, now cast adrift
The jealousy of callow youth
That blinds us from the gift.

We should have run so far away
Had merry blacksmith join we two
But honour stood betwixt us
And distance slowly grew.

And thus we both remain alone
Our love can never be
We meet alone in dreams, serene
And pray that dawn won’t set us free.

©Joe Wilson – In dreams, serene…2015

His season’s end…

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Wounded badly
he lay down
…and waited.

He was bleeding profusely
…and in great pain.
Without a single doubt, he knew.
For him the sun would never rise…again.

The young buck had simply taken him by surprise
His once mighty strength was sapped.
He’d been gouged in the chest by an antler
And his own mighty rights had just snapped.

No more would he be the dominant male
This time, the rut he had lost
The harem of females that had for so long been his
Belonged to the young buck while he paid the cost.

________________________

As I watched through my sights I wondered
Do they suffer the traumas as we do
A look of great sadness passed over his face
Imagination of mine…or perhaps a small clue?

©Joe Wilson – His season’s end…2015

I was inspired to write this poem after watching Autumn Watch on BBC
on Tuesday 3 November 2015 which featured footage of an annual rut.

It’s a good race to leave…

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It was a race in which he’d wanted no part
Though like many before he’d been there from the start
But now he was tired and he needed to rest
The thrill wasn’t there now when he rose and got dressed
That tiresome trudge to the office each day
Where despite his own doubts, his opinions held sway.

But now so much older, his illusions all gone
He’d found that ‘big business’ really cared for no one
When the tipping point comes and profits all wane
They just close the factories, then move elsewhere again
This time investing in something quite new
And those left behind become jobless – like you.

These things he now pondered as he wrote the next word
His life in the rat-race had been stressed and absurd
There was never enough time to read a good book
His ear stuck to the phone he now kept off the hook.

______________________

Now he sits with his coffee, an Italian blend
And pens down new lines like they are a friend
He smiles at his wife knowing how he’s been blessed
At least from the rat-race, he’s no longer stressed.

©Joe Wilson – It’s a good race to leave…2015