Old age and hand-written journals…

The pen moved slowly now in his old and aching hand
He was writing trifling notes, it was nothing very grand.
Putting down on paper a few of his daily thoughts
Of friends he’d met that very day, and odd things that he’d bought.

His journal was his record of a simple daily life
He’d kept one from his childhood long before he’d met his wife
And when sometimes he’d wonder of his friends from years ago
He’d pull out some old journal and very soon he’d know.

Page and page he’d filled with happenings from back then
But yet without his journal now, he’d not remember when
It was as if his memories had all transferred to the page
He guessed that kind of happened when you got to his old age.

So many books were very full of such a lot of lines
Sublime writing sometimes, as his thoughts were always kind
He always noted down events as they happened though his life
He got through even more books during times of greatest strife.

He’d started his first journal as a lad between the wars
He followed Aston Villa and he jotted down the scores
And soon he added other things such as birthdays and the like
Once he even wrote about the day he caught a pike.

He wrote about the horrors that he saw in World War Two
He’d lost so many friends back then and some he barely knew
The skies were ever thunderous and they lived with cordite smell
And parts of Europe ran with blood as dying soldiers fell.

Then times moved on and many things began to change
As borderlines were argued and then finally rearranged
Another war began so soon, as deadly as the last
And no one trusted anyone, the Cold-ness, it was vast.

He’d been an angry young man in the Fifties, yes indeed
Protesting nuclear weapons and the new generations seed
And his heroes, Osborne and Amis, were as disillusioned as he
Things don’t really change that much, the electorate’s not so free.

The world declared they’d had enough, there would be no more war
Except of course Korea, and Vietnam, and many more
And in his written journals he had noted all this down
He hated violence so much, there was bloodshed all around.

Yet after many, many years, the Berlin Wall came down
He’d noted in his journal when it went up – with a frown
At last he thought, united, perhaps this is a chance
But he was only fooling himself in some dreamt up romance.

And even after all these years since the war to end all wars
Soldiers and civilians are still killed for politics flaws
He closed his books so many times with tears in his sad eyes
Concluding all too often that the governments aren’t too wise.

And now here he was again with his old pen in his hand
He’d tried that new-fangled webbing, but he couldn’t understand
He decided that he’d always stick with his books, his pen and the word
The Web would never catch on, the strange idea was just absurd.

©Joe Wilson – Old age and hand-written journals…2016

The weavers……….

The weaver…

He sits cross-legged and weaves his threads
And recounts his tales in children’s heads
And when he ends each woven line
He claps his hands and makes a sign.

And all the heads of boys and girls
Are filled with magic tales of worlds
Where mountain trolls and dwarves and elves
All live in books on library shelves.

Some are good and win the play
While others meet their fate today
And magic potions cast their spell
While fairies watch that all is well.

The weaver brings them all to life
The Giant and Jack, and the Farmer’s Wife
And all the stories children read
In to their heads he plants that seed.

And as the weaver turns a page
A sleeping child he’ll thus engage
A smile will form upon his face
Another child is safe in place.

For he was tasked to do this right
And keep all children safe at night
So his soft voice sounds in their ears
He keeps them free from night-time fears.

©Joe Wilson – The weaver…2016

The weaver…a very different sort…

He sits cross-legged and weaves his thread
And fills their heads with tales of dread
And when he ends each woven line
You live or die, he gives the sign.

And though you barely hear his voice
You have to listen, you’ve no choice
For if you don’t, or if you’re late
Surprise will then precede your fate.

For some their journey ends in Hell
To burn forever in sulphured smell
While others who have better luck
Can walk away and close the book.

But he can grip you with his tales
You get drawn in, he never fails
And once you turn your eyes to him
The chance of leaving gets too slim.

So if you see the weaver there
Cross-legged upon your bedside chair
You may decide to turn and run
Before his sordid tale is spun.

Weaver, weaver spin your thread
But keep from me your evil dread
Spin some silver, spin some gold
Show the tales that will unfold.

©Joe Wilson – The weaver…a very different sort…2016

Europe…or not?

The sun didn’t show its face today
Grey clouds scudded across the sky
As the wind got up and brought rain
These things I observed with a sigh.

Summer seems so reluctant to show itself
In some ways reflecting the country’s mood
Yet sometimes just the tiniest bit of sun
Can pick up the spirits, for sunshine is food.

That big event looms Thursday next
It has caused such murderous pains
To stay or go, the question vexed
Whatever will come, still heartache remains.

How can our world be so full of revile
That one would snuff the opposing view
Are we still that close to such savagery
I wonder sometimes, as surely you do.

Opinions will vary on so many things
That is why we have such debate
Those elected may now need protection
Against the brute force that’s so full of hate.

©Joe Wilson – Europe…or not?.. 2016

 

A very small tribute to a courageous woman, Jo Cox MP, who represented us, the people.
We therefore, were also attacked, as was democracy.

Two short poems I could never have imagined I’d write.

Rock-bottom…

Fraught, angry, and down at rock-bottom
Nowhere left to go but up
His mind in a turmoil and so full of sorrow
He picked up the bourbon and took a long sup.
No explanation would come to his mind
Only the feelings that he couldn’t control
And yet once again the tears freely flowed
He no longer felt that he had a role.
And such self-loathing now filled his head
He’d lost his way through the dark
The ones that were left had no rudder
Now they’d lost that very bright spark.

Fate had been so merciless
To that they could all confess

©Joe Wilson – Rock-bottom…2016

The pointlessness…

Life has become a thing of such sorrow
Who will I fall out with by nightfall tomorrow
How can I not feel emotions of pain
Without hurting the ones that I love so, again.
Everything seems like a reason to be vile
Until it appears now, it’s becoming my style
I hate myself for it and yet can’t decide
If I still want to be a part of the ride
For I would give anything for one precious smile
Of the one who has gone that I miss all the while.

©Joe Wilson – The pointlessness…2016

Out of the crumbling mess…

The sun didn’t show its face today
clouds filled a vacant sky in gloom
lightening lit the darkest alleyways bright
and rain fell to the sound of the following thunder.

Such was the awful day in the city and in towns.
And yet!
In the countryside
rabbits frolicked in flower-filled meadows
badgers did their thing,
which is mostly sleep through the day.
Foxes roamed looking for tasty morsels
and birds sang in harmonious tremolo —
and all was well with the world.

Can it be, that the green
the very essence of the countryside
could be the very thing
that saves us,
all of us
from ourselves and our egos?

For it has to be said.
Green, country, trees and wildlife
will never go away
were always here.

Long before society’s clever dicks
who once thought high-risers were
the thing the rest of us needed,
then changed their collective minds
deciding, once more thinking they knew better,
that we needed to meet each other more.
Now they think high-risers are brilliant —
for the nouveau riche of course…

Green will always remain.

Even as once towering concrete monstrosities
collapse in a heap of lung clogging dust,
so plants will slowly push their noses out
of the crumbling remains.

To start again…each time with renewed vigour.

©Joe Wilson – Out of the crumbling mess…2016

Feeling his way…

In the gloom that surrounded his new life
he found no happiness to face him.
No joy upon waking as there once had been.
No laughter or silly giggling at just being,
until he heard a little voice.
“Wake up Gondwanagrandaddy, you’re it.”
And he knew then that life did indeed still
have purpose
have meaning
have love
and yes…
have joy too.

It was different, it would always be different.
But it was so.

Besides —-he’d made a promise.

©Joe Wilson – Feeling his way…2016

Lost…

He gently laid down his knife and fork.

Why the thought had suddenly occurred
he had no real idea, nor did he ponder
Stopping only to tie his shoes
he headed for the door, and yonder.

The evening was as cold as it was dark.

He cared not a bit, he barely noticed
as he strode off purposefully to where?
To no one he spoke, nor wave his hand
for he himself knew not till he was there.

He walked for miles across fields and hills.

It was quite some time before he slowed
and when he stopped he was thinking.
For he’d forgotten why he’d left his home,
he just stood there, sadly blinking.

©Joe Wilson – Lost…2016