All His children…

 

He leaves the village and takes his bow

and soon in silence his prey he’ll know

he’ll kill a boar and his family is fed

life in the margins is that or be dead.

He’ll cut the beast down the centre line

give half to his neighbour, he is that kind

this is their way, these people are fair

with their neighbours and friends they always share.

But let us not forget the soul of the boar

He reached into its heart and his then did soar

the beast served its purpose, fed people, went rotten

its soul though was pure, and by Him, not forgotten

©Joe Wilson – All His children… 2014

A tiny tear…

 

 A tiny tear falls from my eye

For each and every death

Another suicide bomb goes off

And snuffs out human breath.

 

They blow themselves for principles

That we don’t understand

If they are right —if we are right

It still means blood-stained land.

 

For pity’s sake each life that’s lost

Just hardens attitudes against

We have to talk to stop their deaths

And negotiate without constraints.

 

Each innocent life that gets destroyed

Is a wasted friend or lover

A murdered mother or father

Or a dead sister or brother.

 

This surely cannot go on forever…

 

©Joe Wilson – A tiny tear…2014

 

All that is…

He died in a pool of disgust
after a lifetime of self-loathing
a life in which he had abused people
their trust, and even his own family’s good name.

He had been a terrible person by his own reckoning
and he was filled with remorse — but also self-pity.

It was thus that he found himself before his Maker
and he fully expected errors had been made in the direction
of his post-life travel arrangements.

His Maker looked at him and said,
“You are one sorry son,
and you’ve been a great disappointment.”

“I”, he spluttered.

“Interrupt me not, for I am not in the least finished.
You have stolen yet not hurt, you have hurt though not killed,
you have killed but only in the name of your country,
peace and negotiation and compromise seemingly beyond
the gift of human understanding.”

he heard him say,
for he was far too afraid to look upon his countenance.

“You have cursed and been ungodly
but you have cared for your old neighbour.
You have drunk to excess and yet have always
got to and done a days work.

Heaven only knows how sometimes.

You have had fights in the streets
though you have indeed tried to reform.
You have never listened to My Word
when I could have helped you and
it surely pained me to see you struggle.
You are one mixed-up man.”

He was agog as his sorry life was so
painfully listed before him, and
he was sorely afraid of his fate.

His Maker went on, “However,
you are basically a good man adrift.
somewhat confused and in a morass of self-doubt,
and I would not cast you down to my
Greater Disappointment below,
where you would surely not enjoy
— a single moment.

Get yourself in here lest I change my mind.
Do not think that this is the end of it, for
you have much to redeem yourself for
and my rooms are many.”

Without another word his Maker disappeared
and he was amidst a wondrous throng.
He felt completely enlightened and knew
he had been saved. His heart was so full
and he felt a goodness he’d never known.
He truly wished he could pass this feeling
on to those he had left behind and that
he could make up for his past wrong-doing.

“You will my boy,” he heard. “You will.”

 

©Joe Wilson – All that is… 2014

 

The inhumanity of it all…

After the dark shall cometh the light
Exploded into by man’s devilish slight
To ruin the land and dominate all
The Earth falls into a deathly pall.

Sides will get taken along the way
The poor of learning will never get a say
The rich and clever will make the rules
History shows the poor are their tools.

A poor woman begs for work or bread
Her very rich neighbour kicks her in the head
And laws are passed to keep them down
And hidden from view on behalf of the crown.

Arguments start and war then breaks out
That guileless citizens know nothing about
But involved they become as their faith is then tested
Forced into arms for the thoughts they’ve invested.

Only a minority will claim they’re the proudest
But they have the guns and their voice is the loudest
We get swept along and get hurt on the way
Young children in war games with no time for play.

After the dark shall cometh the light
Exploded into by man’s devilish slight
He ruins the land and dominates all
As Earth now descends into it’s deathly pall.

©Joe Wilson – The inhumanity of it all… 2014

The bitter struggle…

Annie Kenney 13 Sept 1879 - 9 July 1953
Annie Kenney
13 Sept 1879 – 9 July 1953

Born in Springhead in September, Seventy-nine
Started at the mill when she was ten
She lost a finger in a bobbin soon after
Couldn’t complain, jobs scarce even then.

After twelve-hour shifts as a tenter
In a harsh cotton mill amidst murl
She still had to help with the washing
Not much time to be just a girl.

Enfranchisement of women was what drove her
Fought the Cat and Mouse Act for the vote
To prison oft times for not paying the fines
Not an ordinary woman, one of great note.

She was once compared to Joan of Arc
The way she took such a principled stance
When women over thirty finally gained the vote
A more normal life for her stood a chance.

Hunger strikes and prison took a toll though
Wore her down and left her so weak
Diabetes in the end was what killed her
Her courage, with others, does still speak.

That the Suffrage Movement existed
Was a terrible indictment of those times
Though I speak of the courage of a woman – Annie Kenney
One couldn’t do her justice in mere rhymes.

 

©Joe Wilson – The bitter struggle…2014

A tenter was an assistant to the weaver, the one who had the highly dangerous job
of keeping the bobbin loaded and in line with the shuttle. The tenter also had to
feed the loose cottons back in. All highly dangerous, especially for a small child.

There were many brave women who struggled for enfranchisement.
Annie Kenney was just one. There were those who gave their lives
to the rightness of the struggle.

A stolen heartbeat…

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His death could oh so easily have been avoided
At eighteen he was far far too young to die
But the belief that lay within him was so powerful
Now his family have just the memories and they cry.

Men have always gone off fighting for their ideals
And their kinsfolk are the one’s put under strain
For the sickening news that often gets brought to them
Turns their once sun-happy days to ones of rain.

It doesn’t matter a single jot whose side they fight on
The resulting family heartache is still the same
There are those who would use these young men’s keenness
And exploit them in their own political game.

There’s a funeral now as another boy is laid down
And his family are beside themselves in grief
But governments have been this young man’s killer
Politicians stole his heartbeat like a thief.

 

©Joe Wilson – A stolen heartbeat…2014

In mortal pain…

This land has been robbed of all that it had
Nothing is left, even for the slick and the rich
Crumbling edifices to our capitalist greed
Our world no capacity now left for its need.

There were those amongst us who fought agin this
Imprisoned in jails within our own tortured selves
Not enough of us tried to stop the horrors we saw
Now nothing is left, our charade is no more.

Your fathers all fought in such bloody campaigns
There fathers too, and there fathers before
New weapons of destructive powers previously unheard
That slaughtered the innocent in ways cruelly absurd.

Buildings left standing with all inside dead
People didn’t matter, but the real estate did
And thus the corruption swept over the Earth
We were judged by our value but not by our worth.

It angers me now as I feel guilty shame
For I didn’t do enough and that makes me as them
And for you with the mess whatever is left
There’s a world that was rich and is now so bereft.

One thing is certain, save the wealth of the land
The one crucial thing that we never did foresee
Don’t go down the pathway of war-like inventions
Create things for peace and for better intentions.

Think in these ways and you may stand a chance
It’s a message I couldn’t ever iterate to much
War and corruption lie together in bed
Growing good crops gets communities fed.

©Joe Wilson – In mortal pain…2014