I was once a little boy
Nothing seemed to matter
Not too much anyway.
I think one of my main concerns
Was getting wretched caps
………….to work – in my toy gun.
It was quite a small gun really
No imitation Buntline Special for me. O no
I wanted the small silver one
Like the one the Range Rider had
It had a scary black handle.
I played with it for hours
I was content.

Long before I was an adult
I was a fool
I found myself drawn to violence
Street-fighting – foolish enterprise
Yet, perhaps surprisingly
No one ever got really hurt.
Days of innocence…if you get my drift.
Yet how quickly I learnt
How foolish I had become
I was not at all content.

Then I became a man
I became a father too
I became a worrier.
But for the longest time I was content.
Hard work brought its rewards
And the children grew into fine adults.
The love within the home has never faltered
And now, as I near the ending of my journey
I can recall, despite all of the sadness
Such happy memories, such happy times
And though there have been terrible illnesses
And such terrible loss…
I must reflect that I’ve not had a bad life.
But content? Not really.
Not anymore…

©Joe Wilson – A journey we take…2016

He stood there so still, terrified like the rest
In this one single moment their short lives compressed
The order came then, ‘right lads — over the top’
He saw so many, many bodies just drop.
He was sixteen, too young yet to even vote
Chances of that now seemed so remote
He didn’t understand politics anyway
He just tried so hard to reach the end of each day.
The madness around him, that cordite smell
He watched while tank crews got burnt all to Hell
If he could vote he couldn’t have voted for this
His last thought, then a bullet didn’t miss.
He lies here now with comrades, so many
Used by politicians like they were ten-a-penny
But we will remember him, aye, and the rest
Who laid down their lives as they gave of their best.

©Joe Wilson – Too young to vote, old enough to die…2016

When I was a very little boy
The dining table was a great big toy
It stood so big in the kitchen then
And watched as boys grew into men.

Between the legs it was a cave
Where toys were gathered there to save
And Mother would hang a sheet or two
To make it safe, it’s what Mums do.

Sometimes we sat upon the top
Became a stagecoach that wouldn’t stop
As Cowboys and Indians our usual trend
We played for hours and all were friends.

Yet later on it changed again
Father died and there were fewer men
I started doing my homework there
As I dreamt of a life goodness knew where.

And breakfasts and lunches and dinners too
Were spent with family as folks would do
Until one day I left the rest
And made a life and a perfect nest.

For years we sat round a different table
Encouraged the kids in a life so stable
Until they too grew wings to fly
Where one broke our heart as she fell from the sky.

©Joe Wilson – The kitchen table…2016