I see the lights of distant towns
yet hear the noise of happy sounds
while sitting, seeing in my cave
in total silence
……….…..like the grave.
My cave’s a room
within a house
where I sit quietly
….………..as a mouse.
I cannot think
as thought is gone
from brain which stopped
……..…….it can’t go on.
And so to dust
my body goes
reduced by maggots
……………and fed to the crows.
©Joe Wilson – Desolation…2015
A hint of sunshine
across the lawn
through winter trees
with leaves all shorn
is all it ever
really takes
to think of Summer
and boats and lakes.
With children playing
having fun
such joy they give
to everyone
and Winter blues
are chased away
not to return
at least today!
©Joe Wilson – Chased away…2015
Winter creeps across the land
where mighty oaks and birch trees stand
and insects hid beneath the ground
face certain death if they are found
by mice or rats…and foxes too
nature’s food chain survival glue.
But up above the canopy
buzzards hunt by two or three
they square the ground on high patrol
in search of rabbit or tasty vole
life’s bitter struggle is borne this way
the same tomorrow as yesterday.
And as the winter creep moves on
the weakest creatures now all gone
rats and rabbits…mice and voles
bed down for winter in food-stocked holes
yet o’er the land where we draw breath
there’s barely sign of this fight with death.
©Joe Wilson – The winter struggle…2015
Within his head there are thoughts, so many
most are irrelevant and thus ten a penny
though rare amongst his brain’s detritus
a thought whirls round just like St. Vitus
yet as he struggles this thought’s recall
he knows not if it be grand, or small.
And then it’s gone and is no more
remembers not he, nor is he sure
thus he returns to comfort’s while
wanders round his country pile
his life of wealth is all for naught
soundness of mind cannot be bought.
©Joe Wilson – Some thing cannot be bought…2015
It’s two in the morning in this New Year’s Day poem
he’s cold-sober and hopeful for a good new year’s start
just six months ago he’d almost lost his way home
but she’d found him and led him back to her heart.
It’s an amazing thing, this love, he now knew
alone he was lost like an empty tin can
but this woman in his life was amazing too
she was vital to this mere foolish man.
He gazed across now at her so lovely face
and whispered “I love you,” she smiled. “I know.”
he isn’t so much feeling the New Year’s embrace
as holding on tight and letting the old one just go.
©Joe Wilson – Holding on tight… 2014
He opened the binding of The Weeping Book
curiousity piqued, he needed to look
but how he wished he had never seen
the horrors therein that were so obscene.
The guilt of man along the passage of time
senseless slaughter without reason or rhyme
each page he turned ill had been done
by book possessed he ventured on.
The rape and pillage of those years before
children the victims of violent war
races were mixed, the one good thing
vicious hecklers of bigotry sing.
On and on through the pages now
the hurt caused pain behind his brow
saints and sinners all listed here
their sins for all to see quite clear.
He saw the vilest sins of history’s pain
enslavement of those for other’s gain
let loose man’s done some terrible things
hope’s voice is quelled by vicious stings.
The Weeping Book so perfect in name
from front to end it’s full of shame
and he a priest of noble birth
would find before day’s end, his worth.
No water passed his lips, nor food
his mind so troubled by soured mood
and then the page on which he gazed
revealed the future of a man gone crazed.
No change could he make to the book
transfixed at his poor fate he’d look
and as he pushed the dagger deep
as fate revealed he went to sleep.
The Weeping Book then slammed tight shut
till guilty man next came and put
his hand upon the tome’s dark cover
then his sad fate he’d soon discover.
©Joe Wilson – The Weeping Book…2014
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
She sits alone with her ancient thoughts
she’s sat till she’s covered in grime
she never moves from her rocking chair
she just wiles away the time.
What does go on inside her head?
what does she really think?
the pain has made her look so sad
with eyes that rarely blink.
Her hands are hard and calloused
the cracks are etched so deep
you sense she feels some fearful hurt
but never does she weep.
Some say she’s sat for thirty years
They say she loved a sailor
It’s also said all hands were lost
The prey to a ghostly whaler.
That ship set sail from Mulgrave Port
With fifteen men on board
The seas were rough and wind was hard
but fin whales beckoned Nor’ard.
A listing ship in thick fog banks
the crew fell to watery graves
they now haunt the eastern seaboard
or rest beneath those stormy waves.
So the old crone will sit there forever
she knows that her man won’t return
she’ll sit there and rock while she’s waiting
to join him when Death calls her turn.
©Joe Wilson – Lost ships…2014 (originally 1992)
It had been a while
it had been an age
since he last let his style
wander over the page.
He still felt such rage
which made him feel dire
but there’d be no next stage
till he’d put out this fire.
He felt so much calmer
as ink flowed ‘cross the page
words were such a disarmer
he had issues to engage.
The more that he penned
the calmer he got
as he tried to amend
and move on from this spot.
But at the very last line
with his pen in the margin
he tore it up as a sign
and he’d write it again.
____________________
Anger all gone now
he looked at the cross
and he knew then that somehow
He was sharing his loss.
He felt again whole
as he laid his pen down
he felt back in control
from a peace he’d now found.
Presently he turned again to his labours
leaving his writing and going back to his lathe
and as he looked over at one of his neighbours
he thought of his son on a cross being brave.
Who’d not spoken of God
or of angels with wings
but of the land and the sod
and of bread, fish and things.
Ah the mysteries of life
are such a matter of faith
she was Joseph’s wife
But ’twas God kept her safe.
©Joe Wilson – He looked at the cross…2014
This is a sort of fantasia on Joseph’s story
He leaves the village and takes his bow
and soon in silence his prey he’ll know
he’ll kill a boar and his family is fed
life in the margins is that or be dead.
He’ll cut the beast down the centre line
give half to his neighbour, he is that kind
this is their way, these people are fair
with their neighbours and friends they always share.
But let us not forget the soul of the boar
He reached into its heart and his then did soar
the beast served its purpose, fed people, went rotten
its soul though was pure, and by Him, not forgotten
©Joe Wilson – All His children… 2014
Jovis on a Journey... 