It goes on and on…

He found his full measure in blood-soaked war-torn land
Where the challenges were there for all to see
There were times when he saw what he couldn’t understand
He saw men and women in fear, forced to flee.

Yet still he would carry out his work, at a pace
In a constantly vigilant state, of course
For a life in the dangerous places he’d faced
Never left time for social intercourse.

So many would call, and the visits he’d make
And he always did the best that he could
As soldiers of all sorts left blood in their wake
He picked up the mess like a good surgeon would.

His house had been damaged like others had
He certainly suffered like many others did
And though losing his wife and son made him sad
He carried on regardless as his decency bid.

When it will end, no one can ever predict
He hated the violence and the death
He prayed for a day of no conflict
So people could at last draw clean breath.

It’s sad, but a bullet found him one day
Not really one that was aimed straight at him
The man fired in the direction of an enemy
He fell in a make-shift surgery in a gym.

©Joe Wilson – It goes on and on…2015

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

Taking the lead…

His pain from fire was seen round the world
And Governments’ collective lips all curled
Such profanity was displayed without a care
A King left the runway as his jet took to air.
Leading his people against this vicious attack
It began long ago and there’s no going back
They’re baying now for the terrorist blood
He’s sure to know it will come to no good.

So many wars and so much fighting
And so much bloody death
New children are brought into the world
Where wars just rob them of their first breath.
Everywhere now seems awash with the blood
With the blood of the Innocents
While the world is slowing destroying itself
In human inflicted increments.

©Joe Wilson – Taking the lead…2015

His last words (25 December 1914)…

war_edited
…a lonely grave…

 

 

Scarred from the relentless passage of time
pitted with acid rain and covered with grime
forgotten by those who oft pass it by
gazed rarely upon by anyone’s eye.

A proud little monument in a faraway  field
with now faded words and a family shield
his nation had called and he’d gone off to war
though he and his friends didn’t really know what for.

And if you should wander and wonder at it
you’ll probably feel as if you have been hit
by the words that you see that are writ thereupon
“It is with such sadness that I bury my son.”

The last words they had, came back home in a letter
“It can’t go on Father, it has to get better
the killing is awful, they’re young men much like us
Please kiss dearest Mother, and a Merry Christmas.

 

©Joe Wilson – His last words (25 December 1914)… 2014

Bragging rights, 1950’s style…

Margareta Berger-Hamerschlag from the cover of her still relevant 'Journey into a Fog'. 1956
Margareta Berger-Hamerschlag
from the cover of her still relevant
‘Journey into a Fog’. 1956

 

He took his lass to the local flicks
By heck he was so very eager
But when his hand slipped down her back
She said, “I smell Swarfega.”

 

Not so easily discouraged
He went and scrubbed his hands
But when he got back to try again
She’d gone, and thwarted his plans.

 

They didn’t have mobiles in those days
Further contact there couldn’t have been
So he went to the pub and stood with his mates
And bragged about the heaven he’d seen.

 

The tales those young men told…

 

 

©Joe Wilson – Bragging rights, 1950’s style…2014

(For those who may not know, Swarfega was invented in 1947
by Audley Bowdler Williamson, and is a hand-cleaning product
originally invented to prolong the life of silk stockings.
It found far more use in garages than it ever did in lady’s boudoirs)

They also served…

Lest we forget...
Lest we forget…

My tribute to others who fell in the First World War

 

 

They said they couldn’t kill another
a man a soldier might call a brother
but clearing death from sodden trenches
repairing trucks with rusty wrenches.
These men did their bit too.

Many a shot mowed these men down
in trenches filled with awful sound
they fell and died, their blood as red
and in the end were still as dead.
These men did their bit too.

Some men can’t fight no matter what
so other work was what they got
and midst the cordite battle smell
they picked dead comrades as they fell.
These men did their bit too.

Four long years the battles raged
by Armistice young men had aged
so many young men had sadly died
pacifist stretcher men by their side.
These men did their bit too.

Pacifists choose simply not to kill
Clearing bodies became their great skill
patching up wounded and moving them back
under the vilest of mortar attack.
These men did their bit too.

Soldiers died that we might live
reconcile now and forgive
peaceful men did also die
honour them too where they do lie.
These men did their bit too.

 

©Joe Wilson – They also served… 2014

The little red bike…

Just a little bit too big to be mine, but similar (1956)
Just a little bit too big to be mine, but similar (1956)

 

With legs pumping like mad, eager to keep up
While his pedals went around very slow
He ambled along giving me exercise
“Would you like me to slow down a bit Joe?”

But I pedalled along with all of my might
And I was keeping up, at least I thought
But an L-driver outside the driving school
Opened his door and brought me up short.

Into the road I flew off my little red bike
But a hand grabbed me and halted my fall
I think it was the L-driver who caught me
He had a handlebar moustache I recall.

Well they all made a fuss about something
And to the hospital I was told I must go
But the thing was I’d lost sight of my father
They watched amazed as I shot off shouting “No!”

In a time like forever I found my father
He was sitting, looking back, one foot down
As I raced up and sat still behind him
His faced changed from smiling to a frown.

It seems that my face was all covered in blood
I was desperate to catch up I didn’t realise
As he leapt off his bike and wrapped his arms round me
I said “Dad! Why are there tears in your eyes?”

The driver’s door had caught me just under the eye
I’d a gash of some length underneath
Being just seven years old I didn’t know why
Dad’s tears were his show of relief.

 

©Joe Wilson – The little red bike… 2014

When I wrote this I was thinking about my Dad. He never cycled with me too much. He became ill soon after I was born and died when I was just twelve.
I loved him so very much.