Category: Poetry

The inhuman condition…

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In a clearing in the wood there was a gathering
The head stag was there, as was the badger
There were dogs, some rabbits and also a hare
And there were fighting cocks too looking quite worse for wear.
Last to arrive was the crafty old fox
With his lovely red jacket and his perfect white socks.

They had gathered because they were really fed up
Why does man get such pleasure as he does
From chasing and killing and charging about
The rabbit said man tried to poison us out.
They argued about it all night and day long
And when they had finished they knew men were wrong.

It was, they concluded the human condition
That made them all feel a superior position
But inadequate mentality inevitably meant
Proving it forever, on which they were Hell bent.
Till finally man was inured to the slaughter
And one day killed every ones son or daughter.

©Joe Wilson – The inhuman condition…2015

When?…

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Aylan Kurdi (aged only 3.)
Aylan Kurdi (aged only 3.)
Aylan Kurdi (so full of life)
Aylan Kurdi (so full of life)

And people saw and they did weep
That tiny child in final sleep
Cast up like flotsam on a beach
That such sad lesson laid out to teach.

Émigré , or refugee
The difference here is plain to see
The one will leave with life intact
The other’s world has been ransacked.

They flee from rape, and death and wars
Pay so much money to trafficking whores
Who promise that they will be alright
Such hollow words, such desperate plight.

Yet still the billionaires wring hands
They make their guns to sate demands
And more young man and women die
But they don’t care, they wouldn’t cry.

For where there’s guns there will be war
Caught in the crossfire are the poor
Protagonists though should not be vague
But tried for their crimes at The Hague.

Yet sadly, it was ever thus
Brushed under carpets, much less fuss
We have to get to grips with peace
Or life on Earth may surely cease.

©Joe Wilson – When?…2015

A small tribute to Aylan Kurdi (an innocent boy aged only 3)

Too proud…

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The troubadour caressed his tunes
And all before him they did hear
The sad escape from twixt his lips
To many eyes brought tender tear.

And turning to those sensile few
Forbade them he to cry
Thou shalt not weep at such sweet sound
But on thine own self thee rely.

But troubadour now all alone
Falls to the grave so freshly made
He rails at all and drowns in tears
The final vain-filled price he paid.

©Joe Wilson – Too proud…2015

In the style of O. Henry after reading again ‘Vanity’

My friend Tim…

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They called him names and some would laugh
He was different, and they were a bit scared
Yet when he walked along the street
It was as if he couldn’t have cared.

It was the Fifties, an unsophisticated time
He was clumsy, and sometimes looked into space
But his smile had that kind of innocence
You only see on a Down Syndrome face.

He grew up in pain with a twisted foot too
Which made his gait odd for to see
But we got along fine like the friends that we were
My noble young friend, him and me.

He lived with his mother, no dad to be found
Inseparable, they were a great team
My friend and his mum tried to get him a job
For that was his biggest ever dream.

They managed to get him a post helping out
Moving boxes and trolleys at the store
He did it for years with that smile on his face
Said he felt proud when he left his front door.

But his heart was quite weak and his lungs not too good
By thirty he was struggling to breathe
He passed away peacefully at just thirty-two
And I and his friends all quietly grieve.

For Tim it was a full life, one he’d enjoyed
And why not, he was like you and me!
He just made the best of the things that he had
And was the best he could possibly be.

I miss my friend often, so many years have now passed
His nobility made him special in ways
That so many people mistakenly read
For it was kindness they saw in his gaze.

©Joe Wilson – My friend Tim…2015

Farmers, milk quotas, TB & suicide…

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It had been such a long stormy summer
There’d been floods all over his land
The crop yield gave another poor harvest
He was defeated, he couldn’t make a stand.

Whenever the tanker called on him
It cost him more than he made
For every litre of milk that he sold
Had cost more to produce than they paid.

He’d lost sheep to the ovine foot rot
And cattle, he’d lost to TB
The bank manager had rung him that morning
Said foreclosure was a near certainty.

When they found him he was hanging in the cowshed
He was dead, and had been for days
There was no one on the farm there to miss him
He’d had to let them go with half-pay.

©Joe Wilson – Farmers, milk quotas, TB & suicide…2015

Ah Ella…

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Sitting writing, a bourbon to hand
Something was missing
I couldn’t understand.

Scratched my head
Scribbled some words
Nah! Something else instead.

Then it came and I felt so much sweller
It was some musical company
And I switched on the glorious Ella.

‘Every time we say goodbye…’
Others often sing it too
They shouldn’t even try.

Amongst these words I now peruse
Only a bit of fluff I know
Finally though, I realise, Ella’s my musical muse.

©Joe Wilson – Ah Ella…2015

With her purity of voice she was the perfect jazz singer.

Coma…

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Where have you gone in your faraway mind
Remind
In there so lonely, all on your own
Alone
Your pain just breaks me apart
Heart
Yet I hold you once more in my arms
It calms
Though your eyes show you’re still fast asleep
So deep
And still I can smell your skin’s sweet aroma
I’m reminded my friend is in calm but deep coma.

©Joe Wilson – Coma…2015

Tears… Red… Books…

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Three short verses

TEARS…

In dreams I wander far away
You didn’t stay
I try to find where you might be
You’re free
I search to find your loving heart
So apart
How did we drift that you would leave
I grieve
In loneliness with all my fears
And nightly TEARS.

©Joe Wilson – Tears…2015

RED…

Vampire, I, and all that blood
Goodness ebbs away
In go I for gorging fill
Not a drop spill I.
Warm and sticky to delight
Vampire’s favour in the night
So the soon to be undead
With pale neck bared, yet so soon
RED…

©Joe Wilson – Red…2015

BOOKS…

Words across the pages flow
Learning, learning on the go
Right to left, left to right
Perfect is this brilliant sight
Pictures dotted in between
Open your eyes, see what they mean.
Now watch a child among the pages
Knowledge gained throughout the ages
So, so powerful are the hooks
That feed the brain from inside BOOKS.

©Joe Wilson – Books…2015

When she left…

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When she left, there was nothing
There was nothing left to be seen
Seen there to be no evidence
No evidence she’d ever been.

Been around awhile since then
Awhile since figuring it out
Figured out it was a foolish dream
A dream that left me in doubt.

Left in doubt, yet she seemed so real
So real, now I’m so bereft
Bereft as I’ve never felt before
Before there was nothing when she left.

©Joe Wilson – When she left…2015