Heavy mist
Matched his mood
Everywhere so damp
Once again
Brought on his cramp.
Still he supposed
It could be worse
Rising sadness
Bitter and terse.
Besides, others now
To think about
Behind the mask
His heart cries out.
First’s the worst
Is what they say
It feels like the first
Each single day.
And at Easter
Birthdays, Christmas too
He dons the mask
It’s what he’ll do.
And all the sadness
All the tears
Stretch out before
In endless years.
Where once they sat
Round table, four
That empty space
Leaves hearts so sore.

©Joe Wilson – Untitled though…2016

The winter sun
does nothing to warm
the old, weary man
who sits alone
writing his memoir.

He sits at
a small French writing desk
his wife had bought for him
such a long time ago.
It’s position is by the garden window
to catch the sun.

There he wrestles with his thoughts
Should I tell of this?
Should I reveal that?
Would anyone gain from the knowing?
And what of the pain I’d be sowing?
He’d thought of this for so many months
As he laid down the story of his life
For in truth it would not be a noble account
Save the few precious years he’d had with his wife.

Secrets he’d known, yet none had he shared
Even now, so long since retired
He remembered the words his handler had used
‘In this world. silence is required.’
There were so many wrongs he couldn’t correct
So-called enemies had died by his hand
And laid out in print in his memoir
Would anyone at all understand!

Once again he closed his writing book
Not a word had he written once more
He looked through the window as the sun shone
Though in his heart it was too cold to thaw.

©Joe Wilson – The spy who was…2016

It was a woeful time he’d been through
He survived only by the help of his friends
And now, though young still in his head he knew
His body was falling to bits as nature intends.

So he called his friends and he told them
How much that he loved them one and all
And how life was much better in his knowing
How they’d helped him in ways he could recall.

Then he called to his brother to tell him too
He loved him no matter the things from before
He called to his sister and told her
He loved her, he should have told them more.

Lastly he called to those in his heart
To his wife, his son, and that now empty space
He told them he loved as he always had
And as always he saw her beautiful face.

We should say, we should say, to those that we care for
How truly we love them and as often as we can
And for this there are no real requirements
You just stand up and say it like a man.

©Joe Wilson – The amazing power of love…2016

I was once a little boy
Nothing seemed to matter
Not too much anyway.
I think one of my main concerns
Was getting wretched caps
………….to work – in my toy gun.
It was quite a small gun really
No imitation Buntline Special for me. O no
I wanted the small silver one
Like the one the Range Rider had
It had a scary black handle.
I played with it for hours
I was content.

Long before I was an adult
I was a fool
I found myself drawn to violence
Street-fighting – foolish enterprise
Yet, perhaps surprisingly
No one ever got really hurt.
Days of innocence…if you get my drift.
Yet how quickly I learnt
How foolish I had become
I was not at all content.

Then I became a man
I became a father too
I became a worrier.
But for the longest time I was content.
Hard work brought its rewards
And the children grew into fine adults.
The love within the home has never faltered
And now, as I near the ending of my journey
I can recall, despite all of the sadness
Such happy memories, such happy times
And though there have been terrible illnesses
And such terrible loss…
I must reflect that I’ve not had a bad life.
But content? Not really.
Not anymore…

©Joe Wilson – A journey we take…2016

He stood there so still, terrified like the rest
In this one single moment their short lives compressed
The order came then, ‘right lads — over the top’
He saw so many, many bodies just drop.
He was sixteen, too young yet to even vote
Chances of that now seemed so remote
He didn’t understand politics anyway
He just tried so hard to reach the end of each day.
The madness around him, that cordite smell
He watched while tank crews got burnt all to Hell
If he could vote he couldn’t have voted for this
His last thought, then a bullet didn’t miss.
He lies here now with comrades, so many
Used by politicians like they were ten-a-penny
But we will remember him, aye, and the rest
Who laid down their lives as they gave of their best.

©Joe Wilson – Too young to vote, old enough to die…2016

When I was a very little boy
The dining table was a great big toy
It stood so big in the kitchen then
And watched as boys grew into men.

Between the legs it was a cave
Where toys were gathered there to save
And Mother would hang a sheet or two
To make it safe, it’s what Mums do.

Sometimes we sat upon the top
Became a stagecoach that wouldn’t stop
As Cowboys and Indians our usual trend
We played for hours and all were friends.

Yet later on it changed again
Father died and there were fewer men
I started doing my homework there
As I dreamt of a life goodness knew where.

And breakfasts and lunches and dinners too
Were spent with family as folks would do
Until one day I left the rest
And made a life and a perfect nest.

For years we sat round a different table
Encouraged the kids in a life so stable
Until they too grew wings to fly
Where one broke our heart as she fell from the sky.

©Joe Wilson – The kitchen table…2016

‘Let us not look back in anger, nor forward in fear, but around in awareness.’
JAMES THURBER, Credos and Curios        Harper & Row 1962

On looking back along the course the year has taken
Immediacy brings a sense of such great sorrow and pain
Yet, where at first my thoughts were steeped in anger
I’m calmer now, reluctant to travel that sorry path again.
For though it’s true I’ll never yet more see her face
She is in my heart and helps to stay my grief
I look back now at all the things in life we shared
Her life so very full of goodness and self-belief.

So with her in my heart I’m feeling rather brave
For she would brook no choice to sit things out
Adventure was a watchword that I think drove her
And family of course, that first, there was no doubt.
Thus when I’m huddled down and my eyes begin to rain
My heart feels crushed to the smallest ravaged pieces
I think of her throughout her life and am restored
And once again my mind is smoothed of creases.

We take our personal journey and do with it as we will
And help along the way can sometimes be expected
For if there’s none perhaps our route is far too wayward
We should get on track and then we’d be accepted.
Yet those who cannot bring themselves to care
Are still our brothers in this strange odyssey
Thus we should wish them well as we move along our way
And convince ourselves the crazy ones are never you or me.

©Joe Wilson – When rain my eyes…2016