I imagine there are very few women who go into this profession willingly. A much abused woman I know described it as a living hell. This is her story.

She was a whore, a hooker, a prostitute
Beaten down by cruel men and a mean system
Yet still she had hoped that one day
She could escape and live some sort of a life.
She had always smiled and done her best
Though, unsurprisingly, it had never been her choice of job.
Inside, she was smiling now.

She had met him, oh so handsome and strong.
He had drawn her in to where she felt loved
Something that had seemed sadly lacking in her life.
That had only lasted a short time.
Soon, she just felt like she was his property.
The first time he hit her she had run away
But he found her and just beat her some more.
He never hit her on the face though
And soon she understood why – at a party.
She had expected it to be a party like any other
But then she saw him exchanging money with some men
And she knew…

They raped her, again and again
All five of them, over and over.
They hadn’t held back in any way
And she had felt so ashamed.

Soon after that he turned her out onto the street
‘To earn her keep’, he said.
Not caring what happened, anyone did anything
She was no longer revolted, just hurt and disgraced.

And now here she was.
Forty-five years old, looking like sixty
Lying in a hospital bed all wired up.
She had a bad heart, yet she still smiled.
She’d had a heart attack on the job
The client – punter, had almost had one too
He left sharpish she was told.
She cared nothing anyway.
Her ‘man’ had never given her anything
She had no money, she had no life
She had many, many bruises, inside and out.
But she smiled anyway.

She was worried about her heart
But they said she would be alright
If she stopped drinking and changed her life
She smiled again, he had said she was no use
He couldn’t look after someone who wasn’t earning.
She never thought a bad heart would be her saviour.
She knew now that she had a chance
She smiled yet again…

©Joe Wilson – Something to smile about…2015

With regard to the steeple
The church underneath
Holds masses for people
To their blessed relief.
While the spire does aspire
To be seen through the shire
Welcomes members of the choir
In their Sunday attire.
They all gather there at matins
Travelling as they can afford
Filling pews in little patterns
For the worship of their Lord.

They listen to the choir
In such angelic voice
Then sitting down, or kneeling
To pray as is their choice.
The vicar who’s a huge man
With a dark and flowing beard
Will talk as kindly as he can
So not to be too feared.
He opens up his arms
To welcome all the people
Gathering there to worship
Beneath the church’s steeple.

©Joe Wilson – Una congregazione ispirata…2015

After the rain, the sun never shone
It was just as if a bright light had gone
Then slowly at night activity all ceased
Violent crime unremittingly increased.

The bombs had destroyed all the power plants
Government response to the poor’s non-compliance
Till slowly street life just ground to a halt
People lay dying became the default.

No clean water caused the spread of disease
Soon there was cholera and children had fleas
It needn’t have happened, but governments don’t heed
The basic essentials of poor peoples’ need.

Eventually people will rise to a cause
Vile as it may be they don’t think to pause
And consider what may be the dark end result
Where everyone suffers and it’s everyone’s fault.

©Joe Wilson – The aftermath…2015

Backwards and forwards
— backwards and forwards
— — in monotonous regularity
The ever present metronome
— moving with such clarity.

But he knows all his pieces off by heart
Yet still his harsh master loves the part
Where he can suddenly change the fate
Of the genius boy he has come to hate.
The boy stays calm although it’s late
When criticism comes to precipitate
The act of violence when the master strikes
Another of the man’s hate-driven likes.

He slams the lid down onto the keys
The boy, too fast, moves his hands to his knees
Then gently he lifts the lid up to play
His fingers stay safe for yet one more day.
So still, the boy plays on and on
His pieces, angelic thoughts, every one
He will never sully composers’ aims
To satisfy his vile master’s games.

Tick tock, just like the clock
The boy plays with thoughts so pure
A jealousy entered his master’s heart
For which the boy has no cure.

©Joe Wilson – The piano, the genius, and the jealous master…2015

I wrote this for a challenge on a poetry site. (Metronome, Precipitate, Sully)

He was at the end of the line
His wall had been reached
Palliative care was only stopping his whine
It was now high time to practice
— that which he had always preached.

They’d tried of course, many times
There had been operations galore
He was now so covered in ugly scars
That his so often cut chest
— was all puckered and sore.

He decided no more
And consulted his list
Of the things before death he would do
And he noticed he’d put another parachute jump
— that somehow he seemed to have missed.

He gathered his pain
And went to the club
He arranged a jump fairly quick
Then he thought about life and he thought about death
— and he sensed that the timing was slick

On the day of the jump in unbelievable pain
He decided he’d not pull the cord
But it made him feel like he was a quitter
So he did
— and he floated down to the sward.

He may of course now just die in his sleep
Or get run down by a car or a bus
But his choice was to get on with life as it was
Sod the rest
— he couldn’t stand the fuss.

©Joe Wilson – Choices…2015