Gently, very gently
She held the child in her arms
She was a mother, a protector
And would shield her from all of life’s harms.
Or at least that’s what the lady thought
As she leaned down to coo and smile
As she breathed her nicotine breath on her
And passed germs to her baby so vile.
The child at four got cancer
At six she’s no longer here
Yet the mother still smokes in her sorrow
For those who won’t listen never hear.
©Joe Wilson – It’s not just a fag anymore…2016
Where now the promises of five years ago
We’d all feel much better, but do we, O no!
Some having now to use a food bank
Children are learning in schools that are dank.
The roads have become a sea of potholes
Zero-hour jobs not much better than dole
Fewer police officers walking the beat
Feeling secure is becoming a treat.
The man at the top expounds thoughts anew
Deputy man has a different view
University fees we won’t let them change
In government though such things rearrange.
Rich businessmen avoid paying tax
Down below credit cards teeter at max
Inflation comes down as they try to impress
But energy bills never get any less.
The silent majority keep a stiff upper lip
As their security starts losing its grip
But it gets barely noticed in the Westminster bubble
For those less than rich will always spell trouble.
Naturally, of course, there’s a different view
From politicians cast in a different hue
All trying to wheedle their way to get votes
Filling our heads with more promissory notes.
Imagine if you will it’s December next year
Do you feel right now that you have less to fear?
Or is it the case that nothing has changed?
Just the furniture in Downing Street got re-arranged.
Maybe in fact it stayed exactly the same
And we voted back in this bad lot to the game
We can blame ourselves later, when we see what we’ve done
Ensuring that actually, we’ve really not won.
©Joe Wilson – Where now the promises…2015
Voracious the appetite of government departments
Entrapping the citizen in reams of red tape
Bringing out laws that reduce our empowerment
They are in charge…there is no escape!
Woeful the behaviour of said politicians
Claims of expenses for things they don’t need
Peddling half-truths in the Westminster bubble
Those grand good intentions get lost to the greed.
But we do get a chance in May, this year
To say who shall mess up the next, let’s not gripe
Though it matters not where your crosses are placed
They’ll all make us suffer, no matter their stripe.
Patients will still lie in A & E corridors
While over-stretched staff do their best
Sick people die from a lack of attention
The system is wrong and not properly addressed.
The greed will go on, the poor will still lose
While the fortunate will reap the rewards
The disreputable will be given directorships
No men of honour left to fall on their swords.
©Joe Wilson – Outrageous fortune…2015
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.
Who’d grown up playing with Dinky toys
Who now sat in this Master’s class
Exams upcoming we had to pass.
With Fowler’s Usage in his hand
He strode amongst our hapless band
And taught us all of composition
And how to use a preposition.
He always wore a teacher’s gown
That seemed to match his careworn frown
With his long chin we called him Drac
While flirting ink-bombs at his back.
His language classes were of renown
And in them none would play the clown
He made it ever seem such fun
Including always everyone.
He also taught us English Lit
The class that was my favourite bit
Though as most favoured Shakespearean pickings
My personal choice was always Dickens.
While Edward Lear wrote tales of Nonsense
Charles Dickens had a social conscience
Writing tales of deprivation
Still he entertained the nation.
Our Master taught me all of this
And lost in books I am in bliss
And I thank Tom Davis for it was he
Who opened my eyes and set me free.
©Joe Wilson – The Master 2014
Jovis on a Journey... 