When?…

Aylan Kurdi (aged only 3.)
Aylan Kurdi (aged only 3.)
Aylan Kurdi (so full of life)
Aylan Kurdi (so full of life)

And people saw and they did weep
That tiny child in final sleep
Cast up like flotsam on a beach
That such sad lesson laid out to teach.

Émigré , or refugee
The difference here is plain to see
The one will leave with life intact
The other’s world has been ransacked.

They flee from rape, and death and wars
Pay so much money to trafficking whores
Who promise that they will be alright
Such hollow words, such desperate plight.

Yet still the billionaires wring hands
They make their guns to sate demands
And more young man and women die
But they don’t care, they wouldn’t cry.

For where there’s guns there will be war
Caught in the crossfire are the poor
Protagonists though should not be vague
But tried for their crimes at The Hague.

Yet sadly, it was ever thus
Brushed under carpets, much less fuss
We have to get to grips with peace
Or life on Earth may surely cease.

©Joe Wilson – When?…2015

A small tribute to Aylan Kurdi (an innocent boy aged only 3)

A tribute to Brian Haw – peace protester…

He stood in protest against the war
‘What the hell do we have children for?’
We love them, teach them of free will
Not bringing them up to maim and kill.

But politicians make their spin
And send our children off to win
Against an enemy of their creation
They put at risk our very nation.

He stood and argued long and hard
As they pushed him back yard by yard
Until one day the poor man died
And at his death a nation cried.

Yes, I remember Brian Haw
His ten year protest against all war
The shameful way they moved him on
It’s four silent years since he’s been gone.

©Joe Wilson – A tribute to Brian Haw – peace protester…2015

Brian Haw died of cancer the day before my birthday four years ago…it was a respectful birthday.

A new life…

And so they gave her chamomile
To restore her sense of calm
But each and every person there
Saw pointlessness in balm.
She would now always live in fear
He’d died, she was on her own
And she who’d lived a fragile life
Would spend her days alone.

And live she did, surprising most
A new life she took to
Her past fragility she shook off
In fact she even flew.
Around the world she travelled
To countries far and wide
And everywhere she journeyed
His heart felt by her side.
Until at almost ninety-nine
She then called it a day
Whilst jumping from an aeroplane
She kept her chute in stay.
But those who jumped out with her
Saw her face was so sublime
She shouted she was going now
To join him, it’s now time.
And so she fell down to the ground
Though gently she did fall
Carried down to earth in peace
As if held by her lover’s thrall.

©Joe Wilson – A new life…2015

Holding hands…

Moulded together in love and pain
They were always by each other’s side
That’s how for life they chose to remain
Each to the other was their pride.

Heartaches came and went yet still
They were steadfast in their love
Held together by their simple will
They fitted like a hand in a glove.

They aged and their bodies grew fragile
Yet that love still carried them along
As a thing that was always so, tactile
It sustained, it was so very strong.

And then one day they were there no more
But their love was now so cast in stone
That devotion to each other went right to the core
As holding hands they passed into the unknown.

©Joe Wilson – Holding hands…2015

By dawn’s early light…

I wish that I could see the dawn
That follows the one of my demise
For I could then tell all of you
If ‘there’ beyond is truth or lies.

And if I did see dawn it’s true
That to a better place we go
But if I don’t see that new dawn
Then I could never let you know.

And so your journey you will make
Some with husband, some with wife
And you will find out for yourself
If there  exists that better life.

©Joe Wilson – By dawn’s early light…2015

The letters…

Heavy the heart
Painful the burden
The messenger’s part
In passing the word on.

Deep are the creases
That now line his brow
The pain never ceases
It’s personal somehow.

His was the book
Which counted the dead
But each killing took
His heart’s peace instead.

They were his men
He loved them like sons
They’ll not sing again
Silenced by guns.

The letters he wrote
To tell of each death
Families he smote
By words of last breath.

The killing decided
There’s no final amount
Messenger lies dead
One more for the count.

©Joe Wilson – The letters…2015

Hope springs eternal…(acrostic)

Have we really lost our way
Open warfare every day
Perhaps if some could compromise
Earnest talks could open eyes.

Sparing children from seeing death
Plaguing memories till dying breath
Rights of all, to live in health
Interfering warmongers who all get wealth
No money, the poor go to food banks
Guess you dine anywhere if you sell tanks
Somebody making a fortune from others.

Each bullet fired can kill someone’s brothers
Talks round the tables among heads of state
Extracting solutions before it’s too late
Roses should be given by lovers on a date
Not on the gravestones of victims of hate
Armageddon is the end-game we fear
Let’s step back from the edge, it’s dangerously near.

©Joe Wilson – Hope Springs Eternal…2015

 

The numbers rise…

Walked I along this Autumn morn
midst trees with bright red berries borne
where once men stood with with tanks as shields
on Europe’s bloodiest battlefields.

And in extraordinary Worldly War
friends kill friends who’re friends no more
as lines are drawn and power revealed
where once such things had lain concealed.

How many men and women died
for pious thoughts and national pride
whose wasted lives now lie beneath
that trampled o’er when we cross heath.

The bodies fall, the numbers rise
more victims of political lies
and yet some people still would fight
convinced that they are in the right.

Twas ever thus and shall remain
the populace feel power’s disdain
yet even now we fight their wars
with they as pimps and we their whores.

©Joe Wilson – The numbers rise…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