To sail…

I’d love to sail o’er the powerful sea, to sail to the end of time
and meet amazing people and be thankful in every rime
the pull on the sails, the feel of the rope and the salty sea
and a good fast ship to sail in, would be enough for me.

I’d love to sail and never stop, see the world in its symmetry
and watch the mighty albatross as it’s shadow flies over me
as the pull from the sea and the wind drive me on
and the cobwebs and quietude of the normal are gone.

I’d love to sail round Equator’s girth, and sail right back again
and read accounts of sailing men, who sailed this way back then
for the pull of the sea and a driving wind, and with all the sails unfurled
would make me the happiest man in our water-filled world.

©Joe Wilson – To sail… 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

The wine bottle corks…

 

The night started slowly as we just sat and talked
We were waiting for our friends to arrive
We figured they’d be here by about half-past eight
As neither had finished work till gone five.

But the bottles of wine were lined up in rows
There were reds and roses, and there were whites
And as neither of our friends had arrived yet
Those bottles were full and clearly in our sights.

So we opened a red and a white one too
Mine a Shiraz, for I like a good red
My wife, well she started the white one
As a Pinot she much favours instead.

And the time it just got that much later
But our friends well they still hadn’t come
And as each of us was drinking the vino
Well it’s nice to raise a glass with a chum.

In the end our friends never did show up
It was next week not this, we were dorks
But we drank all the wine and enjoyed it
And now we’re just left with the corks.

 

©Joe Wilson – The wine bottle corks…2014

Author Notes

My granddaughter asked me if I could write a poem about a subject just chosen at random. She picked up a couple of corks from the previous night and this is the result. It is purely for fun…

She doth inspire me so gently…

She doth inspire me so gently
In her essential sensuousness
She fills me with hope so intently
As she soothes with whispered caress.

I’m empowered by her will for my being
To reach heights I could never believe
She aids my heart’s vision of what it is seeing
Keeping me focussed in my desire to achieve.

And when at the end of a very tiring day
When I’m worn from the travails of this life
I sit down by she who’s my muse everyday
She’s my friend, she’s my heart, she’s my wife.

©Joe Wilson – She doth inspire me so gently…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

Beneath a tree deep in thought…

He sat beneath the acacia tree
and watched the world go by
its green-golden leaves bouncing joyously
while the breeze caused a rustling sigh.
He thought about life as he’d lived it
as a son, and a father, and as a man
and he smiled at some of the memories
he remembered from when his journey began.

Playing with his brothers as a toddler
and his sister who’d cared for him so
he hoped they’d all known how he loved them
not often enough said years ago.
There’d been plenty of sadness on his journey
they lost their father, grandparents they hardly knew
he lost some friends on the way that he’d never forget
and sadly, there was his beloved brother too.

But sitting there under this particular tree
looking over his little back lawn
her face came into his mind now
it swept in as if on the wind-borne.
She’d come into his life as a saviour
he knew he’d been blessed all along
while he was a weak selfish person
she was so beautiful, and witty and strong.

Their first years together she’d carried him
thinking back he’d always known it was true
how he wished he’d been a much better person
“But you’re good”, she said, “and I chose you.”
The children came along and life really changed
no time then for the fast social whirl
yet neither would have chosen a different life
than the joy from their boy and their girl.

Some hardships inevitably changed things
but they carefully steered their way through
and their love remained strong as expected
the most important ingredient between two.
Their children grew up, made roads for themselves
after tenuous steps they too settled down
now the grandchildren help keep them both youthful
with such fun and energy that astounds.

So he sits there under the acacia
and the memories linger awhile
there’s thankfully so many happy memories
that recall always causes a smile.
Then he reaches across as the wind blows
a silver hair falling out of place
he pushes it away and back over her ear
as he kisses her still lovely face.

©Joe Wilson – Beneath a tree  deep in thought…2015

Ere long…

 

 

Wouldst that I could walk with you

Down verdant paths near forests deep

While buzzards hunt from lofty view

Nocturnal creatures gently sleep.

 

To silent ripples of narrow brook

Your gentle hand fills mine

A journey ere long undertook

My life with you divine.

 

And as we stroll in Nature’s thrall

My heart and yours as one

I cannot bear to think of times

When these such things are gone.

 

 

©Joe Wilson – Ere long… 2014

 

As always this is written for and to my beloved wife without whom
I would not wish to draw a single breath.

My own personal hero…

 

The man who lived on the silver screen
Was never the real hero to me
For he was the man who worked the side-door
And let me and my Mum in for free.

Back in those days the heroes were many
Tex Ritter and Roy Rodgers were just two
The cowboy films shown were always the best
Watching those I never felt blue.

But the real hero for me was my granddad
Who attended the cinema side-door
He’d trained engineers till retirement came
And the side-door job helped a bit more.

There were stories of robbery and mayhem
Tales of magical mystery and fun
And we were always let in through the little side door
The moment the programmes had begun.

Everyone sat there in the darkness
Curtains opened and then the screen lit up
And as the sheriff rounded up all the bad men
Our hands were diving into big popcorn cups.

My granddad was as good as those cowboys
He took me to my first cricket match
I remember once when the ball flew at me
He put his hand up and made a good catch.

He served his country throughout the First War
As auxiliary he served through number Two
He was a fine man who everyone loved dearly
He did good things just like heroes do.

They don’t give medals for just being a granddad
They should do when they are the best
Now I have grandchildren of my very own too
I just hope that I too pass the test.

 

©Joe Wilson – My own personal hero…2014

The man to whom I refer was indeed my granddad and he took on this job for the reason I say. He did however, have an allowance to let two of his relatives in by the side-door on Wednesday afternoon in the school holidays. This is the time to which I refer.

 

The cruel hand of fate…

Things were very different in the Sixties
Everything was like new fresh breath
But this sad, true tale of my childhood
Is the tale of a friend’s early death.

Peter helped the Co-op grocers delivery-man
After he’d finished school for the day
He’d sit on an upturned milk crate
And they drove merrily along on their way.

He’d helped the man deliver for ages
It was what teenage boys would often do
But as the van took a corner in Rising Brook
Out to his sad fate Peter flew.

The van only had the single driver’s seat
No one else was supposed to be there
And the doors all slid back and stayed open
Safety wasn’t really thought about to be fair.

So out of the van my friend Peter flew
And fate treated him so very very cruel
He disappeared right under a passing bus
Right in front of the gates to his school.

My best friend was Harry, Peter’s brother
And for him everything changed on that day
I watched Harry wither before me
As his spirit of mischief flew away.

Just a few years later Harry drifted
I’ve not seen him from that day to now
But I hope he was able to find for himself
A way to survive the horror somehow.

I’ve not spoken of this since those dark days
and the flood of the memory is still raw
If only I could step back and warn him
My friend, please, please close the door.

By a sad twist of irony I lost my brother as well
He was struck down by the first ‘Asian Flu’
That memory hurts like a stab in the heart
I was twenty, he was just twenty-two.

 

©Joe Wilson – The cruel hand of fate…2014

Sadly, this is entirely true. Peter was killed falling under a bus in this manner and my brother was a recently married policeman who died of so-called ‘Asian Flu’ in 1970.

He was thinking of flowers and the one he loved…

Gardenia-steph-hydrangea-bridal

 

He was thinking of flowers and the one he loved…

His first thoughts were of jasmine for her elegant grace
And lovely hibiscus for her beautiful face.

He thought about hyacinths as she was so sincere
Yellow tulips, he was hopelessly in love it was clear.
The red roses he gathered for their passionate love
And forget-me-nots together till the heavens above.

He picked orange-blossom for the children she bore
With larkspur for her beautiful spirited core.
Her lack of desire for great wealth to unfold
Meant he put to one side any marigold
He sprinkled them with daisies for her innocence
Adding some black-eyed Susan for encouragement
Then he wrapped them all up in a very large mass
Of beautiful gardenias for a joy that will last.

©Joe Wilson – He was thinking of flowers and the one he loved…2014