He looked in the mirror at the map of his life
Covered in scars from the surgeons’ knife
A line down the centre from a life-time ago
Faded, but hideous, from a time of his woe.
The scar on his leg was from ankle to knee
Not something he’d ever expected to see
There’s cuts on his wrists and backs of his hands
Where the cannulae went in attached to drip stands
But all that remains are the bits of scar tissue
Nothing at all, not really an issue.

We all have these scars, they mark who we are
Some can’t be seen, there’s more hidden by far
But they serve to remind us that we aren’t alone
We all need help sometimes, we’re not on our own.

There’s another impressive scar on his head
But if it wasn’t there, he’d surely be dead
The same with the others, they’re ugly old things
But they mark off the years, in the way of tree rings.

©Joe Wilson - Scars...2015

Up we go, up the stairs
To sleep or dream or play with bears
Under cover with ‘secret’ lamps
Beds turn into night time camps
Where special messages are passed about
“Only in whispers, you mustn’t shout.”
’cause we’re asleep our parents think
Our tired red eyes are on the brink…

Then “wake up children, time to go,
one more day at school you know.”
Off we race to get to class
To take some tests we hope to pass
Then running home at end of day
Homework, tea, and then we play
amazing games in the weekends
having fun with all our friends.

©JRW2014

Winter has dumped her bounty upon us again
In snow-covered landscapes which to some are a pain
‘Normal service will be resumed as soon as possible’
Tractors pulling cars and more patients in hospital
Eventually it thaws and it all goes quite hoary
Returning our pothole-filled roads in all of their glory.


Spring is on its way though, so be of good cheer
Plants that were hidden now start to appear
Remember resolutions you made at New Year
In front of your friends who’ll remind you I fear
Now get on your bike as you promised you’d do
Get fitter this year, it’s a good thing to do.


Summer comes in with a rush of bright colour
Up comes the grass and the mower bag gets fuller
Mimosa and marigolds are out in full show
Mild summer breezes are starting to blow
Even as the nights start to draw in again
Red skies at night hold off much of the rain.


Autumn arrives with the wind through the trees
Unsticking leaves that have held on with ease
Taking them all on a trip through the air
Upstart that it is drops some here and some there
Many leaves are golden, others are bright red
Now dying back ready for winter instead.




©Joe Wilson – Seasonal Acrostic…2015

I feel the chill of the season's approach
As Autumn moves aside for Winter's cold
And wild creatures sensing the coming storms
Frantically forage in ways so bold.

Trees shed of all their majestic colours
Draw food and moisture down into their roots
And close off thousands of Summer scarred pores
Ensuring strong growth to next years new shoots.

It gets darker now as the night-time draw in
Heavier skies create a blackened hue
Before too long the snow clouds will gather
And the crops of this year will die back to renew.

Suddenly Winter is finally upon the land
Not too much to see at a casual glance
And as insects burrow deeper and redwings feed
A slow Winter dormancy takes over the plants.



©Joe Wilson - Season's approach... 2014

And the days were spent in wonder
at all the horrors He’d seen
He sent unholy flooding and chaos
To wash the planet clean.

To see if change was ever made
He waited then two thousand years
But horror still was all around
And what He saw proved all His fears.

Can man not recognise his fate
can he not see when he is wrong
can man not see of His design
that words like peace and love mean strong.

The fiery pits that destroy our Earth
aren't in the depths of Hell
they’ll be the fire and cordite
of that last exploding shell!!

©Joe Wilson – Self-made Armageddon… 2014

She doth inspire me so gently
In her essential sensuousness
She fills me with hope so intently
As she soothes with whispered caress.



I’m empowered by her will for my being
To reach heights I could never believe
She aids my heart’s vision of what it is seeing
Keeping me focussed in my desire to achieve.



And when at the end of a very tiring day
When I’m worn from the travails of this life
I sit down by she who’s my muse everyday
She’s my friend, she’s my heart, she’s my wife.



©Joe Wilson – She doth inspire me so gently…2015

Though willing hands are always there
To feed her, dress her, and brush her hair
Disease has crept through her with stealth
Some things just can't be stopped with wealth.

The frailty was quite slow at first
She couldn't fasten her shoes at worst
But then it weakened her gentle heart
And eventually it tore her life apart.

And though she prayed with all her might
She started soon to lose her sight
She fell down often and broke her hip
And life began to fade and slip.

In time she couldn't leave her bed
And dreamed her dreams of Christ instead
For she well knew he'd suffered worse
Than her small Earthly painful curse.

Now in her mind in fear she weeps
Her life but spent in fitful sleeps
She waits in hope for His Holy hand
To lead her to the Promised Land.

©Joe Wilson - She waits in hope...2014

Now is my passion genuine,
Or fuelled by lustful need to win
I must have you within my arms
Held tight together,  sharing charms.
Forbidden love, but do we care
Wrapped in sin, we make love there
While all around, the world goes mad
For this snatched moment we are glad.

And as we lie, our passion spent
The skies are filled with dark portent
The cuckold is life’s tragedy
He lost his lover’s love to me
He couldn’t ever set her free
I took her to Eternity.

©Joe Wilson – Sinful surfing…2015

He was the sole survivor of a fairground ride disaster
and spent twenty-three months in hospital
– as they very carefully put him back together.
It had been such a lovely day for several friends
who had taken the ride, but when the bolts snapped
– they fell like dominoes on either side.

Only he survived, he’s full of anger, and weighed down with guilt
he’ll never walk again though, too much spinal fluid spilt
and though he recognises his Mum, he’ll never again speak her name
his larynx was crushed too in the fall and the new sound is not the same.

It takes so long but he taps each letter out on his new keyboard
then he blows in a cup and sound comes out through a strange cord
and although he doesn't remember his voice sounding so tinny as this
it is a voice of sorts, and it just has to do he guesses.

He’s up to Jack and Jill books now as his Mum helps him learn to read
it’s sad to see her in such pain when her eyes look into his and plead
but the words are hard to grasp now and he always does his very best
yet he lived while others didn't so some days he still feels blessed.

He hates it though when they wash him, a pretty nurse helps his Mum and when
– they wash him ‘down there’ he always wants to scream
he wishes that he could go to sleep and never wake again but then
– he feels the guilt and instead wishes he could wake to find it all a dream.

©Joe Wilson – Snap! 2014

Cast down beneath a waterfall of sorrow
Begging to know if there will be a tomorrow
While sinking into a morass of self-doubt
Unable to see if there’s a possible way out.

The voices one hears have so many sharp edges
Some driven right down to jump of high ledges
While ghouls stand around to share an excitement
Victims themselves, their lack of enlightenment.

The last-minute thoughts of where life was breached
A finality of purpose is sadly now reached
One step and it ends and the pain goes away
There’ll be no more living and no more next day.

What causes some people to end things this way
That last final action that takes all away
Perhaps it’s our failure, we’re not watching out
We get wrapped up in our life and don’t hear their shout.

There isn’t a person whose life ends this way
Who’s not shown the signs of unhappiness’ sway
But we’re blind to their problems, we don’t want to know
As blithely we miss all the pain that they show.

It’s only much later when it’s far far too late
When notices come with a church service date
That we express surprise and say ‘course we will come’
But the signs were all there, we were just far too dumb.

©Joe Wilson – Some Choose Suicide 2014

Undervalued, as she had been her entire short life
She fell into her small simple cot, exhausted
It was eleven twenty-five and so cold that night
And four that morning since she’d left it in dread.

Given up by her frightened parents at only seven
She was just as other girls in her village
Carried away by the merciless men
Who’d terrorised the area to ****** and pillage.

A ****** no longer at just eight and a half
A mother before she was thirteen
She’d had absolutely no schooling
She didn’t even know the word obscene.

The one single thing that she did understand
Was the pain of being beaten all the time
If she wasn’t fast enough at bringing their food
She was thrashed like it was a crime.

And now here she was…exhausted
She was only eighteen, but so old
And the only thing she ever got from her Lord
Was her death that night from the cold.

A six year old motherless child all alone
She’ll be safe until she turns eight
And then just like her dead mother
She’ll be cast to the men and a terrible fate.

©Joe Wilson – Some lives are always violent…2015

There are nations around the globe where this is still a common occurrence, even in so-called civilised countries. It is the 21st century, we should be able to stop this horrendous monstrosity.

Within his head there are thoughts, so many
most are irrelevant and thus ten a penny
though rare amongst his brain's detritus
a thought whirls round just like St. Vitus
yet as he struggles this thought's recall
he knows not if it be grand, or small.

And then it's gone and is no more
remembers not he, nor is he sure
thus he returns to comfort's while
wanders round his country pile
his life of wealth is all for naught
soundness of mind cannot be bought.



©Joe Wilson - Some thing cannot be bought...2015

So take me up my quill of finest swan
To write what matters yet not much less
For thus my thoughts are now shrivelled and gone
Thus left empty-headed I must now confess.

Wouldst that I could perhaps tarry a thought
As headlong it rushes before mine eyes
A serious, nay, even a gentle sort
To halt such a one that my mind defies.

Thence  would I rush to parchment brand new
And write with such haste my thought down in inks
Afore it was lost to the sky so blue
Stealing the words of devotion methinks.

For if my quill wouldst move swiftly as thought
Twould  tell of the  love from thee that is sought.

©joe Wilson – So take me up my quill…2015

Again last night the shadow men called
As I finally dropped into the softness of sleep
Bringing with them the memories of tortured souls
Of those not quite dead who can only weep.

Those who went suddenly and left those who cried
Who then later joined them when they too had died.

I felt like I was falling for a thousand miles
Into a great hole so flooded with their tears
The palpable sorrow that penetrated my soul
That seemed to wash over me for so many years.

I was lost, I am lost, I know not what to do
Amongst all these souls I am searching for you.

Who do these cruel images keep entering my sleep
They go as I wake, but they ever come back
The souls seer their faces right into my heart
And their sorrow brings to me the dog that is black.

I search every time for your beautiful soul
Nothing left now, it’s my life’s only goal.

©JRW2014

I looked over yonder
And what did I see
An elephant, yellow
By a big pink tree.

Elephant, yellow
This cannot be
Are my rheumy eyes
Playing tricks on me!

When I looked round again
I saw grass of red
Surely that grass
Should be green instead.

And then a blue horse
Trotted into the scene
’twas the funniest place
That I’d ever been.

I took a step further
As I was feeling bold
Whence a group of green angels
Carried me into the fold.

The rivers there were purple
And the oranges were grey
And everywhere I looked about
People were at play.

The happiness was warming
I felt it in my heart
I loved just being in here
I felt I was a part.

And then a very loud voice
Did sonorously boom
“Who do we have here now
In this lovely coloured room?”

My name is simply Joe
I very meekly did call out.
For I was far too bothered
To raise my voice above a shout.

A huge door then just opened
And I simply passed right through
A large bearded man then said
“How do you do.”

I said, “What was that place
Where the loud voice boomed.”
He said, “That Mr Nosey
Is the oddments ante-room.

“Anyway Mr Nosey
what is it that you want.
I’m waiting for a party
from a crash in North Vermont.”

“I’m a very busy man you know
Why are you even here?
Go off and get yourself back home
And drink a lot less beer.”

©Joe Wilson – St Peter, humour, and the cost of drinking too much…2014

I wander these passages
I’m searching for you
In my mental state
It’s the best I can do.
I don’t know who you are
Nor even myself!
I feel like a parcel
Just left on the shelf.
I’m aimlessly wandering
I’m not seeing you
And if I did
Would you seem at all true?
My thoughts are a jumble
They’re making no sense
And as I see no one
I find I am tense.
Why am I looking?
I’ve no real idea
And as I go wandering
I recognise fear.
It creeps now upon me
On my shoulder it sits
I’m getting more frightened
The fear comes in fits.
So what am I doing?
I haven’t a clue
I thought I was searching
Searching for you.
But I don’t know who you are
Nor even myself
So I guess I’ll just sit here
Alone on my shelf…


©Joe Wilson – Straying from my shelf…2015

Pain in the head, again feeling gripped
Fears of another burst coming one day
Returning memories of leaks being clipped
Paralyses my mind in a terrifying way.

Shouldn't have happened, why the hell was it me?
But then, why not? Could be anyone see!
And I recovered fully anyway
To live to fight another day.

©JRW2014

In satin shoe she took a step
Out onto stage as if set free
And as she did the pas-de-deux
Her broken heart, no one could see.

Engaging others as she danced
With ballerinos she excelled
Yet though as lovers they romanced
All thoughts of that had been dispelled.

Romance the papers talked about
Her secret life laid bare for all
But love in spotlight oft burns out
And broken heart caused her to fall.

And as she fell in motion, slow
Her life now almost gone
A crushing sense of sadness
She was the dying swan.

©Joe Wilson – Swan song…2015

His pain from fire was seen round the world
And Governments’ collective lips all curled
As its profanity was displayed without care
A King left the runway as his jet took to air.
Leading his people against this vicious attack
It began long ago and there’s no going back
They’re baying now for the terrorist blood
Though he’s sure to know it will come to no good.


So many wars and so much fighting
And so much ****** death
New children brought into the world
Where wars just rob them of their first breath.
Everywhere now seems awash with the blood
With the blood of the Innocents
While the world is slowing destroying itself
In human inflicted increments.

©Joe Wilson – Taking the lead…2015

Sometimes we return to long ago conversations
where more than cross words were uttered
where protagonists squared up to one another
and arguments and insults were uttered.

And when with the benefit of hindsight,
that most magical and wondrous thing
we realise often how wrong we were
and the knowledge of embarrassments sting.

If we could just take back those words
that were aimed to wound so deep
knowing how they’d hit their mark
and said to make someone weep.

In those teenage years, how cruel we were
how very little of life we knew
how gentle and forgiving our heart’s desire
how slow the understanding – in young men grew.

I’m now a man – three score and five
a man who love has touched so deep
but I colour now as I think back
at my cruelty then and I want to weep.

For almost fifty years I've loved just one
kindness flows through her every pore
I've strived to make up for those teenage years
and she just smiles and then loves me more.

My luck has held, we've stayed the course
I pinch myself to check I can still feel
and she looks and smiles at me and I know
it’s not a dream and it’s still real.

©Joe Wilson – Teenage boys can be cruel 2014

Tender is the heart that breaks at night
when hurt will come and cause such ache
and sleep will never come to stop
the tears that fill the deep dark lake.

A kindly word could change things
but so rarely is it heard
it would show the pain is understood
but she never hears a word.

He lies there too in his own thoughts
not beginning to understand
they loved each so much one time
their life  is not as was planned.

But how very different it could have been
if only they had both spoken
it had only needed some kindness
and now both their hearts are broken.

Tender is the heart at night that loves
as it searches for its soul-mate
it needs to feel that it is cherished
before it suddenly gets too late.

Tender is the lonely heart
tender the lonely soul
pride can make you drift apart
but your heart will bear the toll.

©Joe Wilson – Tender is the heart…2014

When I was a boy I really feared nothing
As a teenager I couldn't have feared less
But as a man when I became a loving father
My life took on all kinds of fearful stress.

You think but worry where your little kids are
You know that they’re at school, at least they were
The horrid thoughts that things might happen to them
Causes panic of the sort we all incur.

But they grow up and they manage to stay in one piece
Then they move away and make lives of their own
Then you get a call to say that one is injured
To the other side of the world you then have flown.

Later still you find your other child is ailing
And you do your best to stay so very calm
While your heart is breaking as you reassure them
This brave person that you once held in your palm.

So yes I fear so many things I never used to
Plus concerns about my body as it grows old
And of course they say we might now live to eighty
But I never did believe all I was told.

But these fears are just the things that keep us careful
It wouldn't do to let them get to rule our lives
For it’s fear of fear that takes you to the limit
It’s the very thing on which the panic thrives.

©JRW2014

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

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

Things were very different in the Sixties
Everything was like new fresh breath
But this sad, true tale of my childhood
Is the tale of a friend's early death.

Peter helped the Co-op grocers delivery-man
After he'd finished school for the day
He'd sit on an upturned milk crate
And they drove merrily along on their way.

He'd helped the man deliver for ages
It was what teenage boys would often do
But as the van took a corner in Rising Brook
Out to his sad fate Peter flew.

The van only had the single driver's seat
No one else was supposed to be there
And the doors all slid back and stayed open
Safety wasn't really thought about to be fair.

So out of the van my friend Peter flew
And fate treated him so very very cruel
He disappeared right under a passing bus
Right in front of the gates to his school.

My best friend was Harry, Peter's brother
And for him everything changed on that day
I watched Harry wither before me
As his spirit of mischief flew away.

Just a few years later Harry drifted
I've not seen him from that day to now
But I hope he was able to find for himself
A way to survive the horror somehow.

I've not spoken of this since those dark days
and the flood of the memory is still raw
If only I could step back and warn him
My friend, please, please close the door.

By a sad twist of irony I lost my brother as well
He was struck down by the first 'Asian Flu'
That memory hurts like a stab in the heart
I was twenty, he was just twenty-two.


©Joe Wilson - The cruel hand of fate...2014

Sadly, this is entirely true. Peter was killed falling under a bus in this manner and my brother was a recently married policeman who died of so-called 'Asian Flu' in 1970.

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 had searched for ten long years
always hopeful of finding the reason.

The reason she’d been taken from him
and why he always felt so alone.

Till one day he came to realise
that the memory of the feelings he’d had
were far far better and happier
than anything he could possibly hope to find.

He stopped looking
he got on with his life
no longer searching for a memory
and went about life with a new and fresh look.

He’d survived, and now he’d be alright.

The hole was still there
but for now at least
it was shored up
and he was functioning.

We can hope for more
even beg for more.

We’re lucky when that ‘more’ happens.

©Joe Wilson - The emptiness... 2013

Rain making trails down miserable windows
Heralding a new forgettable day
Mirrored his thoughts and down-in-dumps feelings
He stared through the glass with nothing to say.
A glass on the table from yesterday evening
Stale smelling whisky he’d somehow not supped
Sitting now, staring and thinking of dying
A dejected man, head in hands that were cupped.

Suddenly a hand shot out to the whisky
Whisky sent flying, glass smashed on the floor
He couldn’t be bothered to reach for another
So he uncorked the bottle and from it drank more.
All round the sense of his failure clung to him
He’d let down a wife and a family for sure
The way that he had he just couldn’t remember
As he lifted the bottle for just one more pour.

Slow and contemptuous of himself he rose
Very much faster he stumbled and fell
He hadn’t seen soap in over a week now
Yet strangely he never even noticed the smell.
A voice in his head told him drink down another
Another said you’ve had enough for the day
They were both in his head so to him didn’t matter
As he tipped back the bottle and drank anyway.

And that’s how they found him, a heap on the floor
Drunk like the others with a bottle in his fist
They took him, washed him, and bed him for the night
And wondered as always, if this man was missed.
Daytime arrives, and the sun fills the sky
The man, like the others, wakes up very late
But sunshine means little as he sips on his bottle
He’s much too far gone to the hands of his fate.


©Joe Wilson – The end of the road…2015

I’ve got an urgent appointment
I’m absolutely all of a rush
I have to get there quickly
And I'm starting to feel a hot flush.

Hunting around with my shirt hanging out
It’s missing! It’s missing! I let out a shout.

Whenever I have to dress for a date
If ever I get there I'm dreadfully late
It’s not punctuality that comes as a shock
It’s that I always manage to lose a sock.

©JRW2014

I’m minded today we have a choice
to make our mark and raise our voice
but there are those, it’s very funny
who’d tell you how they’d spend your money.

All over Europe pundits gather
getting themselves in quite a lather
giving opinions on issues political
trying to make them sound so critical.

Skeletons found in many a cupboard
the found out grimace, some have blubbered
and later when all votes are counted
disappointment follows campaigns mounted.

In Germany too they’ll do their thing
as seats stay put or make a swing
France and Italy, Ireland too
votes for Europe are quite a to-do.

Votes are counted on Sunday of course
and Dimbleby brothers roll out in force
the great Swingometer comes into play
as seats are won across the UK.

After all the dust has settled
new MEPs all keen and mettled
all take their seats with po-faced pride
personal pleasure they try to hide.

And so to business for some it’s new
there are many and various things to do
like getting claims in for their expenses
the sitting places – the search for fences.

Alliances to make are the next big thing
who’ll vote with you on anything
but represent those who for you voted
or you’ll be out next time, I hope that’s noted.



©Joe Wilson – The European Elections 2014

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 ***** 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

I didn’t realise. I was a fool
Just another government tool
Beavering away, working hard
Until I got the pensioner’s card.

And now my ancient bones all ache
I’ll need NHS for my health’s sake
But a third of contracts in sickness’ fray
Like my local hospital, they were given away.

People’s views all treated with disdain
The Health Service reeling from such internal pain
While the wealthy go private, it’s simple for them
The ire of voters won’t be so easy to stem.



©Joe Wilson – The Family Silver Sale or The Stafford Hospital Lament… 2014

I shouldn’t really be writing this naïve drivel. I have no idea at all of the hardships these desperate people go through. I wanted to imagine how it must feel though to finally find yourself in front of an uncaring bureaucracy. Obviously I, a secure white Englishman, whose history goes  back hundreds of years in this my home country, am far too safe to understand. My pen came up with this. I hope it doesn’t offend anyone.

The hopelessness…

Invalidated…
It was such an ugly word
So many tall letters
It looked faintly absurd.
But the word simply robbed him
Of chances he had
Struggles to get here
So brutal, so bad.
Beaten, *****  and robbed
He’d slipped out of Mogadishu
His parents both dead now
He was there sole issue.
He paid all his money
For a hopeless sea trek
And got washed up on shore
Now the boat was a wreck.
It was filled to the gunwales
With people like he
Many were lost
As the boat wrecked at sea.
But he never gave up
He just fought all the way
And now six months later
He arrived at this day.
The bureaucrat before him
Had a large black word stamp
He was clutching it so hard
He surely had cramp.


And then there it was
That strange looking word
That made him an alien
Akin to a ****.
So all of the struggles
And all of the pain
Now left him deflated
It had all been in vain.
How desperate he’d journeyed
To leave behind war
What now! Invalidated!
His future unsure!

©Joe Wilson – The hopelessness…2015

With a languidness the great bird lifted itself off the branch,
It was much older now but it still had a mate and young chicks to feed.
From the hide across the hill the hunter could hear the steady beat
of those great powerful wings, slowly pounding out their regular note.
He watched, fascinated by the beautiful golden colours that gave the bird its name
as the great creature soared off up into the air, to begin its slow steady scout for food.

Now that the eagle was aloft you could almost hear a pin drop, save for the odd sound
of running water slowly trickling down the hillside into the burn far below.
The hunter had quietly settled in this spot some four hours ago before dawn,
he was comfortable and had set his rangefinder on the eerie right from the start.
Now he just had to wait, but patience was one thing that he had in spades.
His skills as a ****** had been fully tested in foreign lands some years before.

Too many of the enemy had appeared in the cross-hairs of his rifle sights
and when they had they’d never reached the end of that day, he was that good.
That had been the problem, being that good you get called on more until…
He swore he would never again pick up a rifle containing live ammunition,
so here he was preparing for the perfect shot with his ****** rifle,
waiting to put a tranquiliser dart into this majestic golden eagle above, to protect him.

He never expected that this work would be so fulfilling, but here in the hills
He found job satisfaction and this work was certainly worthwhile, and no one died.
The eagle had spotted something for he was starting to rise and tilt his wings.
The hunter had watched him for days and had become very familiar with his method.
He would circle to come in from behind of course, but this canny chap had a trick,
he would come in so low he was never really in the prey’s field of vision long enough.

There was the prey, a rabbit who wasn’t too alarmed yet, but that would soon change…
and there he goes, darting about in a zigzag trying to throw the monster off his trail
with the hunter watching the eagle down, and as he lined up to swoop at the rabbit
at almost a hundred miles an hour, the hunter fired and the great bird fell to the ground.
He fired at the point where the eagle was closest to the ground, not wanting to hurt him.
The rabbit lived and the hunter packed away his rifle and walked back down the hill.

Others would do the tagging and the hunter would wait for his next call……

©Joe Wilson – The Hunter…2014

After the dark shall cometh the light
Exploded into by man’s devilish slight
To ruin the land and dominate all
The Earth falls into a deathly pall.

Sides will get taken along the way
The poor of learning will never get a say
The rich and clever will make the rules
History shows the poor are their tools.

A poor woman begs for work or bread
Her very rich neighbour kicks her in the head
And laws are passed to keep them down
And hidden from view on behalf of the crown.

Arguments start and war then breaks out
That guileless citizens know nothing about
But involved they become as their faith is then tested
Forced into arms for the thoughts they've invested.

Only a minority will claim they’re the proudest
But they have the guns and their voice is the loudest
We get swept along and get hurt on the way
Young children in war games with no time for play.

After the dark shall cometh the light
Exploded into by man’s devilish slight
He ruins the land and dominates all
As Earth waits to fall into it’s deathly pall.


©Joe Wilson – The inhumanity of it all… 2014

While those around him were going mad
he stood completely still
then he saw what he was looking for
picked it up and went to the till.

The madness took him by surprise
it was truly beyond belief
so when he’d found what he wanted
he’d left with a sigh of relief.

Things were thrown and tempers flared
it was well beyond the pail
and that was the only visit he made
to a January sale.

©Joe Wilson – The January Sales (his only visit) 2014
[just a bit of fun]

So now the thing is over
all the pundits have gone back home
and the Rimet Trophy has been put away
to be played for again another day
some managers will now lose their teams
for not fulfilling a nation’s dreams.

But it is football, just a game
men paid so much, disgraceful shame
while others struggle to put food on the table
players cavorted like Betty Grable
but we watched it still – we cannot stop
I wonder when the penny will drop.

I remember pictures in black and white
when games were played in failing light
where players had jobs to earn their pay
and played the game on Saturday
where then the ref’s decision was law
and players didn't roll round on the floor.

Those days are gone and that’s for sure
the ***** were heavy and kit was poor
but player’s hearts were in the game
and not the glory of fleeting fame
when celebrity wasn't theme of the day
for men oft found to have ‘feet of clay’.

©Joe Wilson – The Jules Rimet 2014

I can still remember Franz Beckenbauer playing on after breaking his arm, simply by wearing a black sling to support it…a sight you wouldn't see today.

I see a fine looking lady sitting on a hill
Pretty flowers all around her and she’s sitting so still
She is watching a little girl play with a ball
She smiles at the sight and is totally enthralled.

The little girl laughed as she chased the ball down
If she got too far away the fine lady frowned
One time the ball ran over my way
So I rolled it right back, she continued to play.

The lady then opened a hamper to eat
There were biscuits and cakes and many a treat
The little girl tried a small sandwich at first
Biting it gingerly with her tiny lips pursed.

She was smiling again as she ate a cream cake
That was much more enjoyable, there was no mistake
After fruit juice and tea it was all put away
They gathered their things and called it a day.

I often see them both up on the hill
I sit here and watch them and smile
The girl calls me Daddy, the fine lady, dear
And we all leave together for our home close to here.

©JRW2014

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 hearts'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

With legs pumping like mad, eager to keep up
While his pedals went around very slow
He ambled along giving me exercise
"Would you like me to slow down a bit Joe?"

But I pedalled along with all of my might
And I was keeping up, at least I thought
But an L-driver outside the driving school
Opened his door and brought me up short.

Into the road I flew off my little red bike
But a hand grabbed me and halted my fall
I think it was the L-driver who caught me
He had a handlebar moustache I recall.

Well they all made a fuss about something
And to the hospital I was told I must go
But the thing was I'd lost sight of my father
They watched amazed as I shot off shouting "No!"

In a time like forever I found my father
He was sitting, looking back, one foot down
As I raced up and sat still behind him
His faced changed from smiling to a frown.

It seems that my face was all covered in blood
I was desperate to catch up I didn't realise
As he leapt off his bike and wrapped his arms round me
I said "Dad! Why are there tears in your eyes?"

The driver's door had caught me just under the eye
I'd a **** of some length underneath
Being just seven years old I didn't know why
Dad's tears were his show of relief.



©Joe Wilson - The little red bike... 2014

When I wrote this I was thinking about my Dad. He never cycled with me too much. He became ill soon after I was born and died when I was just twelve.
I loved him so very much.

He cast a long sad look along the horizon
And gazed down on the planet’s Armageddon
For man was battling on to it’s destruction
Destroying all that fell in their path.

Placing man on the Earth had been troublesome
But the intellect of man had given Him hope
They could work out the problems that beset them
Yet all the killing and shooting and bombing had to stop.

He’d placed races of different hue and differing creed
Putting them in all manner of places far and wide
But man’s warlike nature seemed reason enough
For them to find their excuses for genocide.

What was it with the ****-sapien class of mammal
That had them at each other’s oft exposed throats
It was not the result of something that He had create
But a flaw that was in the essence of man.

©Joe Wilson – The long sad look…2014

Deluded by a strange life of fantasy
Fueled by his own macabre insanity
The vilest of beasts sets out once more
To create dead bodies and increase his score.

Nobody knows yet the who or the when
For the shadows are his closest friends
But when the month begins anew
There’s dead body one, and dead body two.

He seems to like to **** in twos
Psychiatrists scratch their heads confused
And witter on in gobbledygook tones
As yet more bodies turn up as bones.

It’s been a year so that’s twenty-four
He needs a holiday that’s for sure
But when on holiday he acts the same
For he loves to play his killing game.

By the sea, or near the shore
He still adds to his wicked store
Of trophies that he takes each time
When he commits these wicked crimes.

Will he be caught, he thinks not
Though there are times the trail is hot
But then he plays a clever trick
One that he thinks makes him slick.

One male one female normally
But when in trick mode, he kills three
And this he thinks throws of the scent
Of police detectives all hell-bent.

And these detectives can see no link
For our killer never stops to think
He picks them up at any place
Barely looking them in the face.

But slowly now as time goes on
His madness grows, all reason gone
This could be the end of him
It drives him closer to the rim.

Control is what he’s losing first
His plan for killing has just burst
If he goes out and kills again
He’ll make mistakes, they’ll catch him then.

And so the killings suddenly stop
****** numbers see a drastic drop
Can they catch him, who knows how?
Will thirty dead see justice now?

©JRW2014

We were just a bunch of teenage boys
Who’d grown up playing with Dinky toys
Who now sat in this Master’s class
Exams upcoming we had to pass.

With Fowler’s Usage in his hand
He strode amongst our hapless band
And taught us all of composition
And how to use a preposition.

He always wore a teacher’s gown
That seemed to match his careworn frown
With his long chin we called him Drac
While flirting ink-bombs at his back.

His language classes were of renown
And in them none would play the clown
He made it ever seem such fun
Including always everyone.

He also taught us English Lit
The class that was my favourite bit
Though as most favoured Shakespearean pickings
My personal choice was always Dickens.

While Edward Lear wrote tales of Nonsense
Charles Dickens had a social conscience
Writing tales of deprivation
Still he entertained the nation.

Our Master taught me all of this
And lost in books I am in bliss
And I thank Tom Davis for it was he
Who opened my eyes and set me free.

©Joe Wilson – The Master 2014

He saw her sitting and took the chance
Of asking if she’d like to dance
She looked at him and he understood
This dance would be special, and then she stood.

And so they danced the light fantastic
Glides drew gasps at their gymnastic
For each had found their special muse
And dancing made their bodies fuse.

For hours they spun around the floor
And with each step they wanted more
All other dancers seemed to fade
As they danced on in their masquerade.

But when they finally stopped their whirl
There was no sign of his dancing girl
She was in his dreams as she was before
He suddenly woke and she was no more.



©Joe Wilson – The Muse 2014

The garden looks lovely at this time of day
but an essential ingredient is not here
for without your feel for its Gaia
It’s not really a garden I fear.

I touch a rose and see your beautiful face
in the hibiscus and camellia it’s there too
but without your gentle encouragement
their beauty just doesn’t shine through.

I sit on a small garden bench in the shade
and I think of the things that we said
and the tears start to fall and they just cannot stop
how I wish for those good times instead.

I’ll carry on tending our small garden
I know that you’d like it that way
but it will never again have that sparkle
that it did when you tended each day.



©Joe Wilson – The now empty garden 2014

Walked I along this winter's morn
midst trees with bright red berries borne
where once men stood with mighty shields
on England's ****** battlefields.

And in uncivil - Civil War
friends killed friends who'd lived next door
but lines were drawn and power revealed
where once such things had been concealed.

How many men and women died
for pious thoughts and English 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 ******.

©Joe Wilson - The numbers rise...2015

The small stone fell from a ledge
in a study somewhere
and dropped into a travel bag.

Later the bag was picked up and carried away.

Much later still it was put in a car
being placed on the back seat. The car was
then driven to a port where it was taken off
the seat of the car and carried on-board
a cruise ship. The cruise ship was about
to sail up the Norwegian Fjords. It sailed
there quite frequently, though not
exclusively as it also sailed
around the Mediterranean Sea.

The bag was taken to and placed in
one of the luxurious staterooms.The
owner of the bag and her husband
were celebrating an important event
by enjoying a journey that they had
always promised themselves. The bag
eventually ended up on the deck as the
husband had fetched it for his wife
for an object that it contained. In
getting that thing out, the small
stone got caught up in it somehow
and was pulled out of the bag and
fell onto the deck of the ship,
whereupon it started to roll about.

Ultimately the stone found its way
to the stairs down to the lower deck
where it found a gap to lodge in. The
cruise ship sailed into the fjords
during a sudden heavy storm causing
much turbulence not only on the ship
but in a number of the passengers
stomachs, one of whom, a drinking man
I chance, could not contain himself,
and he was violently sick. The storm
abated however, and all was well.

A crewman took on the task of
cleaning up after the apparently
bibulous gentleman and washed down
the deck, and in doing so, washed
the small stone through a gap,
specially there for the deck washing
purpose, and into the fjord whereupon
it sank to the very deep bottom.

Such are the mysteries of life, but
in that one pebble's journey you can
gauge the unpredictable future of
every man, woman and child and creature
on Earth.

Isn't life utterly bewildering?

It is unlikely that the ever-moving tides
in the fjord will not have moved it elsewhere
many times since it fell in off the ship,
out of the bag, out of the car, into the car,
into the bag, and off the shelf
in the first place.

How it arrived on the shelf is
a story for another day.

Utterly bewildering!



©Joe Wilson - The pebble of life...2014

Still here I lie in Death’s dark shroud
Just more than dust beneath the ground
And even as they left this place
I heard the raven’s awful sound.
For those above had known me dead
And brought me here in six-foot box
Where even as I could not scream
I felt the dread from Death who mocks.

And as the bugs then through me roamed
As earthly bodies, mine did rot
My soul did not depart this husk
Such was the punishment I got.
And all the pain I still could feel
As rats gnawed at my hands and toes
There’s more to death than we may think
When blood through veins no longer flows.

Way up above the raven calls
The last call they will hear
He makes it as the scythe now falls
For soon they’ll come to join me here.

For if in life they’ve conscience clear
Their soul will soar on Heavenly peal
Though if like me a sinner they be
They’ll die in pain, a living meal.
They severed my head from my body
In years it’s never been found
I could never beg forgiveness
For who would have heard the sound.

Two hundred years in this dark Hell
The bugs and rats long gone
Just dried up skeletal bones remain
And the soul of a less than holy one.
Once, time stood still for just a while
For one short moment I waited
But then I saw the Devil’s smile
For in truth, he is never sated.

And yet once more the raven calls
As someone meets their doom
In six-foot holes beneath the earth
They’ll lie forever in this gloom.

©Joe Wilson – The raven’s awful call…2016