Blueberries on the table stand
waiting for some hungry hands
One by one they disappear
There must be more than this here

Maggie's handing them around
They disappear without a sound
Some eat them one at a time
Others three or four or nine

The plastic bottom is starting to show
as Maggie takes another row
They didn't last all that long
and we'll be sorry when they're gone

It's sad to say
that Keith's writing skills
of which there were many
have passed away
No more little tales
stories
and poems
So many differents parts of his life
to enjoy, and enjoy
like being a 'Gardener'
falling into hedges
without knowing why
Bless him, wherever he may be

Do I go or do I stay?
Mainly stay is the right option

It's a stormy March morning
with gale force winds
and periods of rain
The early tulips
are taking a battering
but the azealias are standing up well

March is coming
quietly
a bit foggy
but still dry

It's a dull cold March morning
No sign of spring

It's a dull dark morning
not a bit like May

Breathe out the bad stuff
The fear anxiety depression
And all the nasty evil thoughts
Breathe in the good stuff
Wisdom and light
From a clear clear sky
No clouds
And inner peace and calm will come
Just as a bubble bursts
All the nasty stuff
will disappear

My cat was killed two years ago
How it came about I'll never know

It was a dark and stormy night
I should never have let her out of sight

She must have seen the door ajar
And crept out to wander far

A speeding car was deemed her fate
The wind played tricks, she left it late

I miss her purr and friendly bite
Her life was taken in the stormy night



Keith Wilson  
Birthwaite Nov 2015

I am a pen
Safe in a warm hand
I can write poetry short stories
Even novels
And I am always put away safely
Ready for the next time.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2017.

An  inanimate  object.

I'm  a  picture  hung  on  a  wall.
Hope  I'm  secure  I  might  fall.
People  stand  and  stare.
Like  the  horse  that  stands  up  there.
They  never  mention  my  lovely  frame.
They  think  I  am  just  fair  game.
Sometimes  they  move  me  all  about.
I  just  cry  and  sometimes  shout.
It  gets  so  lonely  sat  up  here.
Never  get  food  or  a  nice  cool  beer.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.

An  inanimate  object.

I'm  a  lovely  tree  in  summer.
Pure  emerald  green  leaves,
sweeping  down  towards  earth.

I'm  in  a  quiet  corner  of  the  park.
Away  from  the  maddening  crowd.

Spring  is  nice  when  flowers
grow  below  my  trunk.

Winter  is  cold  and  dank.
With  snow  and  rain  streaming  down.

In  winter  they  call  me  skeletal.
With  my  curled  and  twisted  branches.

At  least  I'm  sheltered  here.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.

An  Inanimate  object.

I,m  a TV  set  you  see  tuned  in  to  BBC.
Sometimes  they  like  the­  soaps.
ITV  gives  me  the  goat.
They  stand  and  curse  and ­ swear.
Ten  oclock  news  is  somewhere  there.
Im  left  in  a ­ corner  all  alone.
Till  the  family  come  back  home.
Then  t­hey  stand  and  fight.
I  was  much  better  off  when  Black  a­nd  White.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK  2016.

In sixty six months
I'll be ninety
and in a hundred and eighty six months
I'll be one hundred
"Not long is it?"

Keith Wilson, November 2nd 2018, Windermere

It's all mind games
You sit there
and say
you can't do it
to your self
but when
someone says you can do it
you can
Can't you?

A lot of meadows and wildflowers
have disappeared
these days
with the onset
of farmers'
new working techniques

I went to mingle at coffee morning
with mixed feelings
All I could hear were voices
echoing along the passageway

There was nothing really of note
We seem to be going through
an unsettled spell
at the moment

As  the  saying  goes.
Money  is  the  root  of  all  evil.
Money  as  never  interested  me.
As  long  as  I  have  enough  to  get  by.
I'm  happy.

It  was  the  same  at  work.
The  lads  fighting  to  get  the  overtime.
I  just  wanted  to  get  home.
To  my  wife  and  kids.

People  here  say  why  don't  you  sell.
Some  of  the  bits  you  have  around  the  flat.
But  they  give  me  much  more  pleasure.
Than  money  ever  will.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.

The monsoon season has arrived
Rain rain rain, rain again

A massive large hare
came into the garden
this morning

It's a close muggy morning
with a little rain about

Sad  to  hear  of  the  passing
of  Muhammad  ALI.

One  of  the  greatest  boxer's
of  our  time.

Henry  Cooper  knocked  him
down  once.
But  he  was  saved  by  the  bell.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.

They  call  my  flat
a  museum.

Because  of  all
my  stuff.

But  as  a  keen
collector.

I  can  never  get
enough.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.2017.

But  I  can  sit  and  dream  a  while.
About  her  and  her  perfect  smile.
Yes  I  can  see  her  in  my  dreams.
And  watch  her  dance  among  moonbeams.
Her  golden  silken  hair  all  free.
And  then  she  comes  and  walks  by  me.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.2016.

I  walked  under  clear  blue  skies.
My  feet  making  footprints  in  the  golden  sands.
    
I  shaded  my  eyes  and  peered  across.
At  inky-blue  mountains  stretching
Endlessly  beyond  the  vast
Expanse  of  water.

Seashells  scattered  at  random
Lay  embedded  in  the  soft  sand
Showing  off  many  beautiful  colors

I  sat  for  awhile  and  dozed  fitfully
Listening  to  the  soft  murmuring
Of  the  gentle  incoming  tide.

The  tranquillity  was  finally
Interrupted  by  an  excited
Yell  from  a  small  boy  fisherman
Who  had  hooked  a  minnow.

As  it  grew  cold  I  walked  on
With  a  clear  and  refreshed  mind.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.

I love my little garden, Lord
Which you have given to me
I thank you for this haven
Where you can set me free

I pray each night to give me strength
To sow more wondrous seed
And for you to bless the pretty birds
Who fly right in to feed

I bless you for my sight and smell
To enjoy the flowers so
And all the bees and butterflies
Who gently come and go

So bless my little garden Lord
It gives me peace and joy
For I have prayed each night to you
Since I was just a boy

Keith Wilson
Windermere, UK 2016

I love my little garden Lord
Which you have given me
I thank you for this heaven
Where I can feel so free

I pray each night to give me strength
To sow more wondrous seeds
And for you to bless the birds
Who fly right in to feed

I bless you for my sight and smell
To enjoy the flowers so
And all the bees and butterflies
Who gently come and go

So bless my little garden Lord
It gives me peace and joy
For I have prayed each night to you
Since I was just a boy

Keith Wilson  Windermere. UK.  2017.

My  paper  man  retires  soon.
The  thought  of  it  fills  me  with  gloom.

I'll  miss  him  so  on  Monday  nights.
The  time  we  put  the  world  to  rights.

We  talked  of  war  and  peace  and  drugs.
Of  bygone  days  before  the  thugs.

He  came  in  wind  and  rain  and  hail.
With  a  treasury  of  fascinating  tales.

He's  seventy  now  it's  time  to  part.
But  I'll  hold  him  close  within  my  heart.

He's  worked  so  hard  he  deserves  a  rest.
In  this  mad  world  he's  been  the  best.

The  years  will  pass  I'll  not  forget.
His  happy  smile  will  linger  yet.

Happy  retirement  Mr  Brown.
A  true  friendship  I  have  found.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.

On my walk this morning
just as day was dawning
I spied a mossy rock
which had been forgot

Behold, it was covered
from head to toe
with a host of fully ripened
wild strawberries

Nature at its best!

Nature  never  ceases  to  amaze  me.
This  week  I  saw  a  pair  of  mallard  ducks.
They  were  bathing  in  the  puddles,
outside  my  window.
They  were.
Splashing  and  thrashing.
Playing  and  spraying.
Having  a  rare  old  time.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.

Now in the new year
Hope it's a good one
and peace reigns across the planet
Too many wars
and rumours of war

Happy  New  Year
to  everyone.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2018.

I  was  stood  on  the  edge
of  a  precipice.
When  a  loud  clap  of  thunder
came  down  from  a  red  sky.
Then  it  turned  black
black  as  the  night.
There  was  certainly
a  lack  of  oxygen  in  the  air.
So  i  made  my  way  home
in  the  driving  rain.

Poetry is a pain
there is little gain

We sit there for hours
talking about the flowers

When all is said and done
winter has not gone

It was a lovely frosty morning
especially fine
for November

It's a dull dark dank
November morning
Flowers dying back
It looks like the onset of winter

Remembering the fallen
from France to the middle East
Red poppies and crosses
are all that we see

Saw  a  obituary  in  the  newspaper
of  a  long  lost  friend.

I,t  hit  me  off  the  page.
Like  an  arrow  through  my  heart.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK  2016.

The ambulance
outside again
It seems an early morning ritual

Tommy was sat in the trenches
trying to write his poetry
but was distracted by the rats
scampering by
all the time

But with all the bullets and shells
and not forgetting the vermin
it was pretty hard
trying to write poetry

0rrest  Head  a  majestic  hill.
Covered  with  a  regiment  of  trees.
Whispering  in  the  summer  breeze.
A  golden  retreat.

View  from  the  top,  breathtaking.
Lake  Windermere  lying  calm  and  serene.
Mountains  beyond  standing  tall.
Basking  in  sun  and  shade.
Quite  a  wonderful  place.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.

Only four of us today
We can have some tea and don't have to pay

Poems are ready to display
Who will start to read today

Poems on love, poems on war
Poems on strangers at the door

Minds are working oh so fast
From the first poem to the last

We put them up on a screen
Where all our poems can be seen

I heard a man putting ladders up outside
Probably to clean the gutters
He suddenly appeared at my window
"Hello" he said
"I'm Father Christmas
I'm just practising"

Is there anything in the theory
that we have had past lives?
I once visited a small town
for the first time
I swore I had been there before
I knew every nook and crannie
This was very strange to me

I like being on time
but I am usually early
and have a boring wait
Being late isn't an option
I always end up early

Sat  on  a  bench  today.
Taking  in  the  suns  rays.
Surrounded  by  a  host
of  spring  flowers.
So  peaceful.
Hope  it's  here  to  stay.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.

As I strolled through the park
A very small boy was having a lark

A very small boy on a very small bike
Flying past nearly in the ****

As I came back from the store
He was going faster more and more

He flew past me like a bat out of hell
I jumped off the path and nearly fell

As he disappeared from sight
I wondered would he be all right

People ask
"When are the leaves coming on the trees?"
It's usually mid to late April
then we can plant the early potatoes
and prepare seed beds
And hope there are no late frosts
(That's England)

The sun has gone now
Perhaps the weather
is going to change

After the blazing hot weather
nothing of wind to blow a feather
Supersonic rain came
in heavy downpours
The pollen from the plants
adding to the petrichor

I heard the pheasant
yesterday
but
could not see him