chill
settles
in
now-
snow
edges
ever
closer
white
will
cover
all.
~~~
spring
warily
starts-
as
buds
even
now
burst
forth
yet
frost
still
lurks
here.
~~~
summer
calls
to
me-
I
long
for
shorts
and
t-shirts
and
sun
on
bare
legs.
~~~
and
so
to
autumn-
as
blissful
reds
fill
the
trees
till
canopies
fall.
©Joe Wilson – haiku…2016
written in traditional vertical style.
Obsidian like pools stared back at me
His face a mask of bewildered pain
As through his mental warzone
He’d journeyed so hard again.
And all that I could do for him
Was hold him very tight
To stop him self-inflicting
In his all too frequent fight.
And all the drugs that he’s prescribed
That he swallows every day
They cannot cure him of his ills
They keep it – just at bay.
I know what passes through that mind
And sadly, so does he
For when he looks in mirror-glass
All that he sees — is me!
©Joe Wilson – The mental warzone…2016
Each morning at six
Each morning, promptly at six, he went to his desk.
Every evening at eight
Every evening, precisely at eight, he stood, stretched and left for home.
Each day he spent fourteen hours hunched over his desk come what may
Each week he laboured obsessively on what had become his glorious tome
Each month his family had drifted further and further away
And every year he now spent less and less time at home.
Finally, with a great fanfare of publicity, his mighty tome was complete
So good, its sales soon rocketed to the highest mark
But of life and any kind of normality
There was now not the faintest spark.
So how does he gauge his success my friend?
Where do all his new found riches really go
Well his wife took his children to the other side of the world
He spends it on air fares as he now travels to and fro.
Time will tell if the tome is indeed to be a classic
Or if it is to be a seven week wonder.
But in that he lost his family to success
Well that my friend was his mighty blunder.
©Joe Wilson – A lesson in obsessiveness…2016
The winter tang from fresh wet bark
Brushes senses gentle as I walk by
Across the dew-wet meadow
And over the aged and rotting stile.
A cheeky fox trots swiftly over the way
His keen eye never leaves my sight
He sidles through the hedgerow
I think no food he caught last night.
I hear the screech of hawks nearby
Some little creature met his match
And though it’s sad when they get caught
The kestrels hover over this patch.
Horses whinny in the field nearby
As they shuffle in the cold damp grass
One of them leans across the fence to me
So I stop and stroke her head as I pass.
Steam rises up from her white wet nose
There’s such pride in her noble face
And she’s not too cold with the near high hedge
And the winter coat tied in place.
The sun starts to rise now over the fields
And a warm day’s expected, which is fine
I believe it’s the greatest start to the day
Taking walks within Nature’s design.
©Joe Wilson – A winter walk…2016
I)
As I walk down from Bury Ring
I gasp at seas of plastic
To feed extended seasons
Stupidity fantastic.
If we ate fruit in season
No need for sights obscene
And all the seas could be rolled up
We’d see our verdant green.
But when it rains it washes soil
That carries down the lanes
It puts money in people’s pockets
The land, it never gains.
And now we are in winter
The seas of plastic rolled
Revealing frames of ugliness
That sag now, uncontrolled.
There is an orchard that I know
That fills my fascination
Wherein the Ashmead Kernels grow
In natural inclination.
But come the late October days
The fruit is at its peak
With tastes that fill the senses
I hardly dare to speak.
And what I’ve learnt is patience
The wait increases joy
You see, we’re meant to wait awhile
It’s Mother Nature’s ploy.
©Joe Wilson – What price the environment…2016
I)
At year end oft, we think to say
Look back no more, as comes new day.
Some will see it with their spoons engraved
Though sadly, many remain enslaved.
But Hopeful ever, we press right on
As we search for good in everyone.
II)
In store and warehouse food is bailed
Urgent supplies for when crops have failed.
While shattered lives in tents on hillsides
Families caught in the refugee tides.
As earthquake victims lie underground
Courageous rescuers listen for sound.
Some must rely on drug-lord’s favours
In lives that no sane person savours.
Yet here are we in our clean safe home
From which we’re always free to roam.
III)
Complaining often, we fail to grasp
The richness of our situations
In truth we live in comfort zones
Free from terror and deprivation.
Whilst some no luck they ever see
Until in death at last they’re free.
IV)
And who should tackle such terrible woes
It should be us, plain as your nose
So we elect fine politicians
Who mainly only serve patricians
From whence they mainly are derived
Plebeians forgotten, of voice deprived.
For even though your vote was cast
And Bills you disapprove get passed
You only get to vote one way
And never really have your say
Your troubled mind creaks with unease
As those in charge do as they please.
V)
And in inertia nothing moves
The rut of hopelessness just proves
That though we feel the pain of others
Around this Earth we all are brothers
The comfort zone adapts to fit
The place within in which you sit.
VI)
Meanwhile, those victims still in tents
Await such help as we have sent
Which waits in ports in rotting state
While shares are argued in debate.
We did our bit they all will cry
But did that stop young children die??
©Joe Wilson – Those who are at the end of the queue, always…2016
Even now so many years later
The rawness picked at the scars
Contempt was all they’d felt for him
They beat him with iron bars.
His faith was just the same as theirs
He worked as hard as they
But the night the hooded men came
Not a single word did they say.
For just that single one moment
He wished he looked their way
But he’d been born albino pale
Not pink or black as they.
His skin always burnt in Summer
He could barely cope with the sun
The butt of harsh jokes for all his short life
He blew out his brains with a gun.
There was no one to mourn his passing
His death never raised an eyebrow
He was simply a lonely sad suicide
Who just couldn’t fit in somehow.
©Joe Wilson – It often hurts being different…2016
Jovis on a Journey... 