All that is me…

In pen I plough my lonesome furrow
Synapses alive and the brain set alight
Willing an audience to interpret correctly
‘The meaning’, tis always The Poet’s hard plight.

Often the words that are written on paper
Take on a new life with the nuance of speech
If only the reader could hear it as I do
But then there’d be little left for me to teach.

Oh for a lovely warm Spring morning I say
What is invoked in the spirit that’s you
I hear the converse of snowdrop and crocus
And try then to pass on the messages too.

Some are times when the words just won’t form
I can’t find the flow to fit with my thoughts
Still though the writing finds ways to the paper
Landing as ink in shapes of all sorts.

Thus I continue to put my pen to paper
Scribbling new odes for the reader to see
And all the words that I lay there before you
Are just a reflection of all that is me.

©Joe Wilson – All that is me…2015

So take me up my quill…(Sonnet)


So take me up my quill of finest swan
To write what matters yet not much less
For thus my thoughts are now shrivelled and gone
Thus left empty-headed I must now confess.

Wouldst that I could perhaps tarry a thought
As headlong it rushes before mine eyes
A serious, nay, even a gentle sort
To halt such a one that my mind defies.

Thence would I rush to parchment brand new
And write with such haste my thought down in inks
Afore it was lost to the sky so blue
Stealing the words of devotion methinks.

For if my quill wouldst move swiftly as thought
Twould  tell of the  love from thee that is sought.

©joe Wilson – So take me up my quill…2015

Musical notes…


…and so I stare at the metronome
as it counts away the beat
I lay my fingers upon the keys
after carefully adjusting the seat
but nary a delicate sound can I make
I played French Horn, the piano’s a mistake.

…but ivory keys  I would love to play
I’ll get taught somehow along the way
for I have heard no finer sound
in all the years I’ve been around
than when good fingers are laid on keys
to make great music designed to please.

…the classical sounds I learnt at school
I chose the horn as my delivery tool
for there was only a single grand
and sadly it was in such demand
but with my horn I had good tone
and skills in that field I did hone.

…time has passed and tastes have changed
and my life now is rearranged
I’ve not played horn in a very long time
I took to the pen and tried to make rhyme
while musical magic goes round in my head
often a classic or a jazz piece instead.

…with books and music and my muse at my side
I’ve lived a good life in a quiet countryside
but the one thing I’d like that I’ve still yet to do
is learn to play keyboard and play it well too
and one day I will, I’m certain of that
play a wonderful concerto…quite loud in E-flat!

©Joe Wilson – Musical notes…2015


Pen in hand…

Opinions lurk at the back of our mind
at the front there are yet many others
in recording in voice or writing in odes
we convey them to our sisters and brothers.

The onus is on us to take care what we pen
for our opinions can vary so much
but never hold back even under attack
your thoughts and opinions they can’t touch.

But there are some quite sane rules to stick to
for instance we shouldn’t purposely offend
and when you’re writing a factual poem
be confident it’s what you can defend.

Punctuation and spelling are important of course
as they help the reader  follow your flow
you choose the genre and you choose the words
learn your craft and let your minds go!

There were thousands of great poets before us
many thousands will follow us too
but we are the ones with the pens in our hands
and history might reflect what we do.

©Joe Wilson – Pen in hand…2015

to express oneself…


Were I a man less fortunate
If I could not my words express
Would I not humbly shun the light
And all my boundless thoughts compress.

My heart is full and begs release
Outpourings flow from deep within
And words flood out and take their form
Of love and pain, and life and sin.

To sit and wait these countless times
Considering this or that to say
Thoughts writ in beguiling form
Thus written they then speed on their way.

Characters flit betwixt mine eyes
So fast sometimes I cannot catch
Letters caught in mêlée furious
I place them here or there to match.

When all these letters are thus laid down
In words to make some form or sense
Then read by one’s discerning eye
With open mind and no pretence.

Who reads these words I cannot know
But surely if when read they think
That thoughts they have become theirs now
Thus quill or pen make seamless link.

©Joe Wilson – to express oneself…2014

The Master

King Edward VI Grammar School, Stafford. My old school.
We were just a bunch of teenage boys
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

We just keep going

Power of Words

Wasted moments ere we tarry
Time  not always on our side
Making plans but not completing
They get swallowed in the tide.

Of life that seems to sweep before us
Courage fails to stir our soul
Ideas falling by the wayside
Stay the hand from touching goal.

And chance may come to make our mark
We reach to grasp the offered boon
By working hard for gifts so rare
Success may come, but not too soon.

And so we plough the furrow long
All working at our chosen craft
The joy of being published shines
Especially if you’ve next work’s draft.

©Joe Wilson –  2014

The Strive


Weaving our way out of obscurity
side-stepping the positively bland
we seek to bypass mediocrity
and strive for supreme quality
in the hope of making our stand.

Sitting, quills, pens, or fingers poised
we wait, we wait, as thoughts emerge
then off we gallop, focussed, keen
often lost within our thoughts
patiently creative, the ideas converge.

Looking perhaps to distant past
chance could we upon a worded track
down which the writers have all moved forth
noting down with deft learnt skills
they raise their voice and don’t look back.

That we can match such contribution
the aim of all who follow along
the thoughts that all need writing down
ere minds play tricks and they get forgotten
Transcribed then and to us they belong.

©Joe Wilson – The strive 2014

Being a Light in the World Award

I’d like to thank Melissa S Jordan ( ) who  nominated me for the “Being a Light in the World Award,” for the critique-like poems I wrote about the utter futility of war. I feel greatly honoured, it is rather rare for me to win awards.

The award was created in 2012 by Barbara Matteo who blogs about women’s issues and spirituality on the blog idealisticrebel.


“Barbara created the LITWA to celebrate those wonderful people in our world who spread light, love, hope and peace in the name of humanity. Bloggers receiving this award are encouraged to continue promoting these virtues and work as a force of peace and light in the world, touching their readers’ hearts and making a difference in their lives, no matter how small. The award has as its background a scene of a beach taken at sunset with holidaymakers enjoying themselves. This picture was taken by Barbara herself. Just as the Sun in the picture brings light and sustenance to the Earth and is the reason why any living thing can exist on our planet in the first place, the LITWA is a gift to those bloggers who help shine the light into other people’s worlds, giving them sustenance, hope and happiness through the venerable dialogue of blogging.”

I will always try to live up to this award.

My Little Life

In my little house I live my good life
With my written down words and my beautiful wife.

As the years trundle by and we fight off the ills
I write it all down and keep taking the pills.

I divide my day neatly into eight-hour thirds
Eight of them sleeping, eight on my words.

The remainder I spend entirely with my wife
For without her great love there would be no good life.

Sometimes a thought comes that just makes me cry
I can’t write it down, even hard as I try.

I write all the words that come out of my fingers
And do it real quick while the memory lingers.

Perhaps if someone reads this long after I’m dead
They won’t delve too deeply inside of my head.

But see that with words, my house and my wife
I was really contented with my little life.