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
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
Carrying with it my dreams and you
The train pulled out – 11:42
I couldn’t but think I now was lost
I’d made a choice, too high the cost.
I think back now and pains return
Wiping eyes of tears that burn
And thinking brings you to my mind
The beauteous soul of one so kind.
Regrets I feel for that poor choice
I miss so much your tender voice
If such decisions I made anew
I’d never stay, I’d go with you.
So sorely how I wish that train
Would bring you to my arms again
Where we could grow our love once more
As lonely fills my empty core.
So much regret this foolish joe
I chose career and watched love go
And should I gain great opulence
I’d sit alone, there’d be no sense.
©Joe Wilson – The 11:42 to lonely… 2014
He died in a pool of disgust
after a lifetime of self-loathing
a life in which he had abused people
their trust, and even his own family’s good name.
He had been a terrible person by his own reckoning
and he was filled with remorse — but also self-pity.
It was thus that he found himself before his Maker
and he fully expected errors had been made in the direction
of his post-life travel arrangements.
His Maker looked at him and said,
“You are one sorry son,
and you’ve been a great disappointment.”
“I”, he spluttered.
“Interrupt me not, for I am not in the least finished.
You have stolen yet not hurt, you have hurt though not killed,
you have killed but only in the name of your country,
peace and negotiation and compromise seemingly beyond
the gift of human understanding.”
he heard him say,
for he was far too afraid to look upon his countenance.
“You have cursed and been ungodly
but you have cared for your old neighbour.
You have drunk to excess and yet have always
got to and done a days work.
Heaven only knows how sometimes.
You have had fights in the streets
though you have indeed tried to reform.
You have never listened to My Word
when I could have helped you and
it surely pained me to see you struggle.
You are one mixed-up man.”
He was agog as his sorry life was so
painfully listed before him, and
he was sorely afraid of his fate.
His Maker went on, “However,
you are basically a good man adrift.
somewhat confused and in a morass of self-doubt,
and I would not cast you down to my
Greater Disappointment below,
where you would surely not enjoy
— a single moment.
Get yourself in here lest I change my mind.
Do not think that this is the end of it, for
you have much to redeem yourself for
and my rooms are many.”
Without another word his Maker disappeared
and he was amidst a wondrous throng.
He felt completely enlightened and knew
he had been saved. His heart was so full
and he felt a goodness he’d never known.
He truly wished he could pass this feeling
on to those he had left behind and that
he could make up for his past wrong-doing.
“You will my boy,” he heard. “You will.”
©Joe Wilson – All that is… 2014
It rains
All of my sins
Are washed
–away!
No one will come
There is no witness
This life will cease
The rain continues.
I’ve been so careful
I’ve been discreet
The rains now run red
Out into the street.
The blade in the gutter
The wrists opened wide
The red rains flow freely
I’m empty inside.
It is over now.
©Joe Wilson – The red rains…2014
I rise from my nice warm bed
and having made a morning drink
for my beloved wife, and one for me,
I run a bath.
As I luxuriate
in that warm bubbled water
I reflect on how lucky I am.
Later, washed and dressed for the day
I sit at the table and enjoy
a fine meal from God’s harvest
and again I reflect, and I feel…
guilt!
Guilt for the small children
who have no homes in which to feel safe
guilt that so many of them
will not eat again today.
I feel guilt
for all of the poor women around the globe
who will this very day give birth
to babies who they will surely love
but in whose having they had no choice…
no one ever hears their terrified voice.
Poor women beaten by poverty
who still struggle to feed those children
and yet too those who violate them so.
I feel guilt for all the men who cannot be made
to realise that the world is not theirs to design,
and at the way that some men feel
their own importance trumps all other considerations,
and guilt at all of the war ravaged lands.
And when I look down at the bounteous fare before me
I feel only one thing – shame.
©Joe Wilson – On reflection… 2014
His death could oh so easily have been avoided
At eighteen he was far far too young to die
But the belief that lay within him was so powerful
Now his family have just the memories and they cry.
Men have always gone off fighting for their ideals
And their kinsfolk are the one’s put under strain
For the sickening news that often gets brought to them
Turns their once sun-happy days to ones of rain.
It doesn’t matter a single jot whose side they fight on
The resulting family heartache is still the same
There are those who would use these young men’s keenness
And exploit them in their own political game.
There’s a funeral now as another boy is laid down
And his family are beside themselves in grief
But governments have been this young man’s killer
Politicians stole his heartbeat like a thief.
©Joe Wilson – A stolen heartbeat…2014
To be free of this nagging doubt
Oh to be free of this pain
I know that I’ll never miss her
I don’t want to see her again.
Why beat myself then I wonder
Could it be there is still a spark
She was cruel and she hurt me on purpose
And yet…
I don’t know now, I loved her so deeply
The days pass much slower now she’s gone
Even now I still can’t forget her
Till I do I’ll never move on.
If I go to our old haunts I’ll see her
I wonder if she’ll still be with him
I can’t bear to think of or to go there
But the chances I won’t are so slim.
I’ll just watch some telly and forget her
I’m sure there’s some pointless tat on
But the nagging doubts are driving me crazy
I give in, my coat’s already on…
©Joe Wilson – …nagging doubts…2014
Jovis on a Journey... 