Prideful consequences…

I gaze from my window at mid-Autumn sunshine
A breeze lifting those few leaves that still cling on
And I think back to the times that I spent with you
Just memories now, for you’ve gone.

And every flower that stood so proud
In the garden we both grew and cherished
Has fallen now to the chill of the frost
And the fruits on the trees are but perished.

I think that they miss you as I do now
If they could they surely would wonder
How foolish is man who drives such a wedge
That sends love away like a loud bark of thunder.

Here now as the cold has settled itself in
Self-pity takes a hold as it will
For each blames the other for this wrong, or that
Yet each loves the other so very much still.

So you went and I fear that I drove you
I was foolish and prideful and wrong
And now on my own with my pity
I realise alone I’m not strong.

Slowly the leaves have now fallen to ground
Soon the winter will start to take hold
I’ll do anything to win back your heart
So our memories won’t die in the cold.

©Joe Wilson – Prideful consequences…2016

An excess of pride…(two sonnets which can be read individually, but my intention is that you read them together as a single poem.)

injured-child

 

For life is not a young man’s game
To flutter like moths around a flame
Yet as we age the larger scene
Will leave the clues for us to glean.
And in maturing as we do
With friends right there to help us through
It’s clear, though some may need a shove
The only thing that counts – is love.

And of the world in which we live
So much war, who can forgive?
And yet forgiveness is a start
More men need Mandela’s heart
A blood-soaked land he turned to loam
By finding peace as he walked home.

——————————–

And so full circle back to dust
Disposed of with respect we trust
Earth to generation new
With baited-breath, what will they do?
For surely now they see the light
As love gets lost in vicious fight
And yet it could with care reside
If foolish men had far less pride.

For battles now need not be fought
If peace not power were what men sought
As children die along the way
Never to see a better day.
Look in their tiny saddened eyes
Sit down and talk, and compromise.

©Joe Wilson – An excess of pride…2016

His pride…

For despite all that we feel
Even in our blackest of moments
We are not alone…and yet
It is always that most difficult of things
To say – help me, help me please.

And were a man to even note
How hurt he really felt
He’d wrap himself within himself
And cry right where he knelt.

For man is such a foolish thing
His pride forever in his wake
As sees he help as weakness
And only given for pity’s sake.

Such tender words are offered
But cold his foolish soul
Instead of reaching to that touch
He resolutely keeps control.

Until the wreck falls down in tears
And weeps his life of pain
Yet someone always helps him up
As once more she is there again.

And finally he’ll realise
Indeed, we’re not alone
His grief is shared by many souls
it’s not just his to own.

©Joe Wilson – His pride…2016

More thoughts of home…

Milwichhall-hall-in-the-snow

So here we are at our old home, Clem
I’ve a joy that makes me think of kin
Yet here though are we, there’s no sign of them
They too have moved on in this new world we’re in.
But we have here the creak of the old gate
By the cottage where once more we live
And the river I fear will still flood in spate
The forces of nature just never forgive.

Settled again, Clem, and the cottage is comfy
We’re happy here, me and your Ma
It’s a fact son, we’re folks of the country
Who you’ll sometimes visit in your car.
But it was fine working with you along at my side
Though for me it was too far from home
Yet I’m happy son that you stayed, you fill us with pride
But retired now we both choose no longer to roam.

©Joe Wilson – More thoughts of home…2016

A sort of sequel to ‘Dreaming of home’.
Both were written in a style similar to O. Henry
[William Sidney Porter (1862 – 1910)]

Such foolish pride…

Locked up safe inside the brain
Those thoughts of you and all your pain
Pain that he had wrought on you
Accusations, cruel, untrue.
Alone, forgiven, here he’ll sit
To have your love he is unfit
And thinking back his tears return
To fall on guilty cheeks that burn.

Such foolish pride do men possess
Who when mistaken, can’t confess
Yet sit alone and brood unnerved
Where conversation isn’t served
Until at last we face ourself
And see our guilt in all its wealth.

©Joe Wilson – Such foolish pride…2015

Ezra’s final conversation…

Ezra cried out,
‘Lord, where art thou in my hour of need?’

Silence prevailed.

‘Lord, canst thou give unto me no succour?’

Silence prevailed.

Ezra in desperate straits
His future in the hand of Fates
Tries and fails to escape their claws
For evil is there chosen course.

Ezra cried out,
‘Lord, why dost thou make my life so hard?’

Silence prevailed.

‘Lord, why am I so tested?’

Silence.

Ezra fights against his foe
The pride that he has come to know
He fights against with all his might
And wins, and moves his sin from sight.

Ezra cried out,
‘Lord, thou truly art a sly old thing.’

Silence prevailed.

‘Lord, I hear thy angels sing.’

‘Lord, thou hast helped me yet again.’

Silence.

Ezra smiled.
Ezra slept.

©Joe Wilson – Ezra’s final conversation…2015

We foolish men…

 

A man can fancy himself a lover
He can fool himself so well
But without he’s kind and thoughtful too
He’ll remain a man for whom no one fell.
 

We foolish men with egos writ large
Our pride makes us oft so foolhardy
And in arrogant fashion we think we’re the best
Like a hero carved out by a Thomas Hardy.
 

And yet when we give all we are to the one
To the one who can bring joyous tears
That person will give all they are in return
O true happiness! You just grow through the years.
 

Love will make your heart shine bright
It will lift away your fears of lonely
For when you’re with the one you love
It is never a time of being the only…
 

©Joe Wilson – We foolish men…2015

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

Bragging rights, 1950’s style…

Margareta Berger-Hamerschlag from the cover of her still relevant 'Journey into a Fog'. 1956
Margareta Berger-Hamerschlag
from the cover of her still relevant
‘Journey into a Fog’. 1956

 

He took his lass to the local flicks
By heck he was so very eager
But when his hand slipped down her back
She said, “I smell Swarfega.”

 

Not so easily discouraged
He went and scrubbed his hands
But when he got back to try again
She’d gone, and thwarted his plans.

 

They didn’t have mobiles in those days
Further contact there couldn’t have been
So he went to the pub and stood with his mates
And bragged about the heaven he’d seen.

 

The tales those young men told…

 

 

©Joe Wilson – Bragging rights, 1950’s style…2014

(For those who may not know, Swarfega was invented in 1947
by Audley Bowdler Williamson, and is a hand-cleaning product
originally invented to prolong the life of silk stockings.
It found far more use in garages than it ever did in lady’s boudoirs)