I made a blog that no-one wants to see.
I might as well have stripped and posted ****.
I should’ve baked a chocolate cake for tea.

I twittered, face-booked, tumblred, endlessly,
but still it languishes in quietude.
I made a blog that no-one wants to see.

I promised video with poetry;
no cliché, hackneyed rhyme or platitudes.
I should’ve baked a chocolate cake for tea.

My blog is but a trickle in the sea
A place of literary solitude.
I made a blog that no-one wants to see.

I treasured all my followers, all three;
and yet, with heavy heart, I must conclude
I made a blog that no-one wants to see.
I should’ve baked a chocolate cake for tea.

When muskets shattered bones within the chest,
an era slipped from time; new shadows born
where history cast its cape on Budapest.

Their fate entombed in honour; doom the guest.
No haven in their valour, loudly worn,
when muskets shattered bones within the chest.

The sabre steel lies dormant in its quest,
its master slain in scarlet fields of corn,
where history cast its cape on Budapest.

One leader freed; damnation for the rest.
Thirteen there stood; thirteen then shot at dawn,
when muskets shattered bones within the chest.

These Arad martyrs, ever standing lest
long centuries erode the passion borne
where history cast its cape on Budapest.

Glasses do not kiss, by grief’s request.
Laid quietly the ghosts that gently mourn
where muskets shattered bones within the chest
when history cast its cape on Budapest.

memories made the weathered chair rock,
eyes wide with lacklustre - empty and deep,
as old woman walks 'round the block,

returning not home until nine o'clock,
night cuddles insomnia, hardly asleep,
memories made the weathered chair rock,

finger and thumb pinch 1920s frayed frock,
local teens see only the oddball creep,
as old woman walks 'round the block,

tears flow freely when stopped at the dock,
everyday starting here, ten minutes shall weep,
memories made the weathered chair rock,

girls grin as she circles a solo hemlock,
quickly in step, stride now mostly does keep,
as old woman walks 'round the block,

inside aged house, gaze freezes in shock,
relics of past - dusty, rotten in heap,
memories made the weathered chair rock,
as old woman walks 'round the block.

Close your eyes and go to sleep,
Earth benefits from those who dream,
So let it be.

There's more than you can keep
Collected in at the seams;
Close your eyes and go to sleep.

Only so much can seep
Through, and waste serene;
So let it be,

Known that there's more hidden deep
Than the eye can see and believe, so
Close your eyes and go to sleep.

You're more than you seem,
Never run out of steam. You have to
Close your eyes and go to sleep.
Let it be.

Old stars shine on long after life is gone,
Bright lights echoed through voids they leave behind;
Old remnants fade yet still their light lives on.

Born of old dust, born of a mothers son,
Born fated to repeat a mortal grind,
Old stars shine on long after life is gone,

One sparking flame igniting dreams anon,
Defying darkness drawn to drowned the mind;
Old remnants fade yet still their light lives on.

Bright stars that brightly burn oft' seem alone
Where lesser lights eclipsed are hard to find;
Old stars shine on long after life is gone.

Old stars must end when all their days are done,
But light once shone goes on to raze the blind;
Old remnants fade yet still their light lives on.

From dust to dust, from ash to ash, they shone
With fiery hearts fanned by a gift divined:
Old stars shine on long after life is gone,
Old remnants fade yet still their light lives on.

Did you really have to go?
I'm left behind and miss you so
It's been a long, long time

You said you had to go to foreign climes
But you're always on my mind
Did you really have to go?

You left me sad
And I feel bad
It's been a long, long time

Do you ever think of me
When you are far beyond the sea
Did you really have to go?

I dream of you both day and night
Although you're very far away
It's been a long, long time

Please come back. I need you so
A sun to shine and river's flow
It's been a long, long time


Keith Wilson
Birthwaite November 2015

Reglossing, rewashing, removing, returning,
she kept using the same cloth to wipe up this mess.
All of the same mistakes constantly repeating,
spools of half-hearted "I'm sorry's" unwinding,
foolproof promise to cover for her missed absence.

I persist reloading, rewinding, replaying
watching the film of our lives together, pausing
at moments where temporarily, I confess,
unpredictable happiness ceased repeating.
This trainwreck of a show carries on, blistering
slides that I want to swipe clean, but her name suppress
stained slates developing, deflecting, destroying.

I throw away the footage, romanticizing  
sheer ideas of finally making progress
forgetting her. But relapse results repeating
bad habits. There is not a remedy. I cling
to the seasons of the past, wanting to digress
reminding, rewinding, removing, regretting.
'Til the cloth clears again, chaos keeps repeating.

Listen to the slow steady gong of the death knell
From down the street at the old clock tower
The tell tale tolling of the old tower bell.

In the square, no one dares approach that well,
Where sick beat the quick, and sweet turns sour,
Listen to the slow steady gong of the death knell.

Sinking into the hearts a fear no one can quell,
Making the strong weak, causing brave men to cower,
The tell tale tolling of the old tower bell.

The streets are abandoned as dark spirits swell,
Beseting the village, all light they've devoured,
Listen to the slow steady gong of the death knell.

The people were running, scared as they fell
Yet, amidst all the chaos, marking the hour
Was the tell tale tolling of the old tower bell.

Dark and deserted, there the demons will dwell
Betwixt the spirits and shadows with chaotic power.
Listen to the slow steady gong of the death knell,
The tell tale tolling of the old tower bell.

10.21.15 11:16pm

Reglossing, rewashing, removing, returning,
she kept using the same cloth to wipe up the mess.
All of the same mistakes constantly repeating,
spools of half-hearted "I'm sorry's" unwinding,
foolproof promise to cover for her missed absence.

I keep on reloading, rewinding, replaying
watching the film of our lives together, pausing
at moments where temporarily, I confess,
unpredictable happiness ceased repeating.
This trainwreck of a show carries on, blistering
slides that I want to swipe clean, but her name suppress
stained slates developing, deflecting, destroying.

I throw away the footage, romanticizing  
sheer ideas of finally making progress
forgetting her. But relapses result repeating
bad habits. There is not a remedy. I cling
to the seasons of the past, wanting to digress
reminding, rewinding, removing, regretting,
until the cloth is clean, her faults keep repeating.