The letters…

Heavy the heart
Painful the burden
The messenger’s part
In passing the word on.

Deep are the creases
That now line his brow
The pain never ceases
It’s personal somehow.

His was the book
Which counted the dead
But each killing took
His heart’s peace instead.

They were his men
He loved them like sons
They’ll not sing again
Silenced by guns.

The letters he wrote
To tell of each death
Families he smote
By words of last breath.

The killing decided
There’s no final amount
Messenger lies dead
One more for the count.

©Joe Wilson – The letters…2015

His last breath…

 

A breath is being taken that’s so shallow
No sound the breathing now makes
The fear of death lurking in the shadows
Immerses the souls in fearful quakes.
For the breathing of man is a precious gift
Yet one taken as a right by this sinner
But the spectre in the shadows is yet waiting
As the rasping sound of death grows ever thinner.
 

A tear now slowly falls from the dying man’s eye
It lands with a mighty clap upon his pillow
For the man is in such pain while he is living
Yet he knows there’s more to come at where he’ll  go.
For not a word of simple kindness did he ever utter
A cruelty to fellow-men was all he’d show
And he never gave but a thought to how we got here
But down there, it’s safe to say, he’ll surely know.
 

©Joe Wilson – His last breath…2015

Where was the justice then…

Part One

A man left a prison this morning
he’d been there the last fifteen years
when he walked down the mean streets of Jesup
he’d resurrect all of their fears.

He was a man, no different to others
though he kept himself to his peace
but the anger all stored up inside him
was destined for violent release.

A young girl had been murdered in Jessup
and he’d been a stranger in town
they said that he’d beaten and stabbed her
he hadn’t, but they still sent him down.

His first thoughts were for retribution
he’d beat them and they’d feel the pain
like he felt when they kicked him in prison
again…and again…and again.

Now he travelled to seek not just vengeance
he needed to get back his name
so someone was going to suffer
and others would pay for his shame.

He’d walked out of prison in Jackson
and boarded a train to Mobile
By Greyhound he reached Pensacola
where he rested and took time to heal.

Part Two

In Jesup he woke with a headache
to the loud urgent ring of the phone
he remembered that night and that poor girl
and he let out a long quiet moan.

It was Hedley the new County Sheriff
he said for the man to go down
he could call at his office in Jesup
or pack up his things and leave town.

Such a bright sunny day as he stepped out
not one single cloud in the sky
a gunshot and a burning sensation
The man fell and knew he would die.

To Hedley the man was plain guilty
keeping peace meant he wanted him out
he thought back to the slaying that morning
the dead man’s last words cried like a shout.

A young man had rushed up to help him
there was nothing to do he could see
but as he died the man whispered something
“Tell the Sheriff, son, it never was me.”

A young girl had suffered so many years before
and the case had been closed a long time
but the wrong man had gone into prison
or his death had no reason or rhyme.

The girl needed justice as the man did
Sheriff Hedley would never be the same
for he promised the girl and the dead man
he’d catch her killer and clear the man’s name.

Epilogue

A bullet was found by the dead girl
a matched one lodged in the man’s heart
the second one carried a thumb print
for the Sheriff, a good place to start.

©Joe Wilson – Where was the justice then…2014 (re-shod from 1992)

The red rains…

blood

 

It rains
All of my sins
Are washed
–away!

No one will come
There is no witness
This life will cease
The rain continues.

I’ve been so careful
I’ve been discreet
The rains now run red
Out into the street.

The blade in the gutter
The wrists opened wide
The red rains flow freely
I’m empty inside.

It is over now.

©Joe Wilson – The red rains…2014

 

On reflection…

I rise from my nice warm bed
and having made a morning drink
for my beloved wife, and one for me,
I run a bath.
As I luxuriate
in that warm bubbled water
I reflect on how lucky I am.

Later, washed and dressed for the day
I sit at the table and enjoy
a fine meal from God’s harvest
and again I reflect, and I feel…
guilt!

Guilt for the small children
who have no homes in which to feel safe
guilt that so many of them
will not eat again today.

I feel guilt
for all of the poor women around the globe
who will this very day give birth
to babies who they will surely love
but in whose having they had no choice…
no one ever hears their terrified voice.
Poor women beaten by poverty
who still struggle to feed those children
and yet too those who violate them so.

I feel guilt for all the men who cannot be made
to realise that the world is not theirs to design,
and at the way that some men feel
their own importance trumps all other considerations,
and guilt at all of the war ravaged lands.

And when I look down at the bounteous fare before me
I feel only one thing – shame.

 

©Joe Wilson – On reflection… 2014