How long the night…

How bright the future
When the past holds
So much sadness –

How dark the night
When the days
Were once so bright –

How withered I feel
Where once, not too long ago
I was so full of steel –

How harsh this life
Where those we love
Are dealt such strife –

How sad my heart
Where once upon a time
Such joy I felt –

How long the night
Where once my head
So full of music
Now fills only with tears
As I wait like you
For Him
To guide us Home –

Do we find Him in tragedy?
Or was he simply waiting for us?
Or, is He too, just a figment of our imagination?

©Joe Wilson – How long the night…2016

I wonder what Dickens would think…

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Carefully, he laid the book on the table
He’d been re-reading Oliver Twist
In those terrible poor Dickensian times
He often wondered how the poor could exist.

The rain poured down heavy on the windows
The sky matched his mood, it was grey
For after they had both done their eight hours of work
They had picked up a parcel today.

Journeys to the food bank were in silence
Both felt an extreme sense of loss
That they had to rely on charity and handouts
From a government who treated them as dross.

The food banks get more, the poor get more poor
It was ever thus and shall ever be
He wondered what Dickens would think of it all
About poverty he thought, no change he would see.

He’d look to the Houses of Parliament
No changes would he expect to see there
Then he’d look to the poor who still roam the streets
And see a government that still didn’t care.

Then he’d put his quill to notepaper
And tell them exactly what he thought
And ask if they’d do something about it
Or whether their votes had been bought.

All this the man mused as they emptied the box
As a solitary tear ran down his cheek
Then he held his wife and child in his arms
And he wept, for he just couldn’t speak.

©Joe Wilson – I wonder what Dickens would think…2016

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

His last breath…

 

A breath is being taken that’s so shallow
No sound the breathing now makes
The fear of death lurking in the shadows
Immerses the souls in fearful quakes.
For the breathing of man is a precious gift
Yet one taken as a right by this sinner
But the spectre in the shadows is yet waiting
As the rasping sound of death grows ever thinner.
 

A tear now slowly falls from the dying man’s eye
It lands with a mighty clap upon his pillow
For the man is in such pain while he is living
Yet he knows there’s more to come at where he’ll  go.
For not a word of simple kindness did he ever utter
A cruelty to fellow-men was all he’d show
And he never gave but a thought to how we got here
But down there, it’s safe to say, he’ll surely know.
 

©Joe Wilson – His last breath…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

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 Fall…

I fell from the top of a tall block of apartments.

How I remember my children growing
and the never-ending beauty of my wife
my boy and my girl, so full of knowing
my darling, the centre of my humble life.

But the ground rushes up at me as I fly down so fast.

I’ve loved the same woman for all of my time
contented and happy and passionate are we
I remember the night full of vodka and lime
when I asked my love if she would marry me.

And still the ground races up at me…

What joy we have had on our long journey here
with some pains that we’ve shared and endured
sadness has crept in and occasional fear
but we beat it all back and we still feel assured.

I hit the ground — there is nowhere else to go…

Did I make it…did I not?
Was it a dream…was it not?

©The Executor acting for Joe Wilson – The Fall…2015