Satisfyingly exhausted
Small beads of sweat
On both our backs
Arms entwined, we sleep
For now at least
The world will keep.

©Joe Wilson – The beautiful moment…2015

And so at last it comes to this
A choice betwixt that place, or bliss
Struggling through a life of pain
Working hard for little gain.
The semblance of my life’s refrain
Is echoed o’er the world’s domain
As slipping now I start to miss
Life’s final sweet and tender kiss.

But yet, I fight and will not go
I’ve been here once before, I know
Fighting then to stay behind
Brought back to life by those so kind.
I’ve felt it though, so I won’t mind
When time is finally called I’ll find
As slide I into ebb and flow
No tiny imprints left to show.

We are here son
We so do be
But when we leave
We are set free.

We are as but a grain of sand
And dying once, I understand
We’re here to help within our span
To nurture life, do all we can.
Embracing differences of man
As tiny parts in this great plan
And if we sense it’s something grand
Perhaps we’ll feel that mighty hand.

©Joe Wilson – A grand plan…2015

When she left, there was nothing
There was nothing left to be seen
Seen there to be no evidence
No evidence she’d ever been.

Been around awhile since then
Awhile since figuring it out
Figured out it was a foolish dream
A dream that left me in doubt.

Left in doubt, yet she seemed so real
So real, now I’m so bereft
Bereft as I’ve never felt before
Before there was nothing when she left.

©Joe Wilson – When she left…2015

The funny old man just turned up one day
He opened his case so the music could play
All the sounds you could hear would come from ‘the thing’
And the funny old man would then start to sing.

‘The thing’ was a squeezebox, and yet a trombone
There were certainly strings, and in parts, xylophone
Yet I’m sure that I remember a small kettle drum
And if you got too close it started to hum.

His life was right there in that battered old brown case
Each place that he went, the old thing had it’s place
He was a street entertainer, of some note I might add
And people gave generously to the clever old lad.

He would suddenly appear as if like a wisp
When he spoke, which was rare, he had a slight lisp
The case would be opened and out came ‘the thing’
And to it’s accompaniment the old man would sing.

O what a great voice, it soared like a rocket
And every man’s hand went straight to his pocket
Then suddenly, he lowered his voice in a verse
And ladies gave money from out of their purse.

To other street artists this wasn’t such fun
They consorted to see what ought to be done
They thought if they made him look really quite bad
That would be the end of the crafty old lad.

There are things you can do in the swell of a crowd
Things, if you’re honest, about which you’re not proud
They slipped him a ‘Mickey’, and he lost voice control
But ‘the thing’ saved the day with a fine barcarole.

He carried on for years till he got really old
His voice now much quieter and a little less controlled
One day he announced that he would soon retire
But he’d do one last show in a hope to inspire

The day of the show was so sunny and bright
Folks had strung bunting, it was such a good sight
A buzz of excitement as they wait for the man
Then suddenly he’s there and the whole thing began.

He sang all the old songs and the people all cheered
The competition too, who had usually jeered
It soon became clear though, that the old man was ill
When he came to the last song the audience was still.

He finished with a new song to the ahs and the sighs
So many who were listening had tears in their eyes
Then with a rueful smile on his own tear-stained face
He just disappeared, and likewise, his case.

©Joe Wilson – There was an old man…2015

Would that I could spare you pain
You feel the demon’s touch again
I’ll wrap you in my loving heart
Where demons can’t wrench us apart.
And as you lie in sleep’s repose
Protect you, I, against all those
Who bring such wicked dreams to you
I’ll take my sword and them pursue.

With honour pure and blade so true
I’ll drive those demons out from you
And peace and such serenity
Will be returned to you and me.

Would that life could ever be
As straightforward as poetry.

©Joe Wilson – The demon’s touch…2015

He was at the end of the line
His wall had been reached
Palliative care was only stopping his whine
It was now high time to practice
--- that which he had always preached.

They’d tried of course, many times
There had been operations galore
He was now so covered in ugly scars
That his so often cut chest
--- was all puckered and sore.

He decided no more
And consulted his list
Of the things before death he would do
And he noticed he’d put another parachute jump
--- that somehow he seemed to have missed.

He gathered his pain
And went to the club
He arranged a jump fairly quick
Then he thought about life and he thought about death
--- and he sensed that the timing was slick

On the day of the jump in unbelievable pain
He decided he’d not pull the cord
But it made him feel  like he was a quitter
So he did
--- and he floated down to the sward.

He may of course now just die in his sleep
Or get run down by a car or a bus
But his choice was to get on with life as it was
Sod the rest
--- he couldn’t stand the fuss.

©Joe Wilson – Choices…2015

By choice he always sits alone
He makes capacious notes
Rarely moving very fast
Never raising
--- old dust motes.

He never talks, nor glances up
He keeps about his task
And what he writes of
No one knows
--- nobody thinks to ask.

For a thousand years he’s sat there
Quill moving slowly at work
Memories hiding in his head
What secrets
--- in there lurk?

And in this library of the dead
Where all about is still
Is every single written word
In dark ink
--- from his quill.

Tasked to record every thing
That happens everywhere
He’s scratched away for many years
In punishment
--- that he thinks fair.

On Earth he did the foulest deeds
In Limbo he pays the price
Knowing he’ll never leave this place
He was told
--- on good advice.

The Devil finds all the sinners
And they don’t all burn in Hell
There are punishments far, far worse than that
As this man
--- would surely tell.

©Joe Wilson – Purgatory is hell…2015