"wilson" poems
A Year ago, in the same date
As A Stranger I entered this beautiful Garden Hp
A Beautiful flower (Elsa) drags me with her pure heart
Wise words (from wolf, Sir Poet,Jack, etc.) kept me to know the life’s secret
Sweet buds (Smiriti, Aarvie,) enjoys me with their great writes
Love Birds (Brandon &jane;) echoes me their beautiful rhythms
My Beautiful Bros (ryn, Joe, pradip,spt, Mufiq) supports me and admires with their strong writes
My Sweet sisters (Donna, pax, nimah, Vicki) fills my heart with their pure poems
All my new friends (Eddie, patty, gray l, tropica, wepping willow, Mysterious , Jimmy, its gona make sense, packin heat ,Poetry journal,Dark n beautiful, Wilson, Rose, James, Margaux, Asim, etc) gave me beautiful space and spirits..
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 1:31 AM UTC
Wilson and Pilcer and Snack stood before the zoo elephant.
Wilson said, "What is its name? Is it from Asia or Africa? Who feeds
it? Is it a he or a she? How old is it? Do they have twins? How much does
it cost to feed? How much does it weigh? If it dies, how much will another
one cost? If it dies, what will they use the bones, the fat, and the hide
for? What use is it besides to look at?"
Pilcer didn't have any questions; he was murmering to himself, "It's
a house by itself, walls and windows, the ears came from tall cornfields,
by God; the architect of those legs was a workman, by God; he stands like
a bridge out across the deep water; the face is sad and the eyes are kind;
I know elephants are good to babies."
Snack looked up and down and at last said to himself, "He's a tough
son-of-a-gun outside and I'll bet he's got a strong heart, I'll bet he's
strong as a copper-riveted boiler inside."
They didn't put up any arguments.
They didn't throw anything in each other's faces.
Three men saw the elephant three ways
And let it go at that.
They didn't spoil a sunny Sunday afternoon;
"Sunday comes only once a week," they told each other.
15k
A lone tree stands out
Against the stormy sky
On the far side of
The lawn in our garden
Surrounded by snowdrops
Quite a pretty picture!
Keith Wilson March 2017
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 5:29 AM UTC
Passed a neglected garden of late.
It seemed in quite a sorry state.
Some men came to make some notes.
But seemed to give it little thought.
Up on high the grasses grow.
Beneath the windows row by row.
The other plants just cry with pain.
I guess we'll never grow again.
They have taken up our space on the ground
Like an advancing army I'll be bound.
They are taking our water Oh my.
As they journey to the sky.
Perhaps it soon will be resolved.
And peace will reign.
Once again
Keith Wilson Windermere. UK. 2016.
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 2:08 PM UTC
friendship buds and blossoms.
just like a summer rose.
friendship brings an abundance.
of happiness and joy.
friendship cant be stored away.
with being shared it grows.
friendship is sustaining .
as autumne leaves do fall.
nurse that friendship gently.
its worth its weight in gold.
keith Wilson 2015
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 10:04 AM UTC
My dear summers dream was to the taste cream
Pass me the triple beam the microphone fiend
Back on the scene simplicity is your complexity
So amazingly like grace I be rockin' the place
Like we Studio 54 shut down the doors
Once the bubbly pours and the **** adores
Ya mental **** ya sentimentals and these new aged millennials
They too satirical I make miracles flow potholes
Creatin' mass mayhem your an inconvenience
Cuz of ya hesitance my presence is known
Without even being shown paragraphs of stone
Hard to crack waxing tracks like a shark attack
Felonious acts we never back down
Til my soul drown in the core of the earth
Royalties since birth new my worth they tried to mirth
At my pain tryna change the game cuz all these cowards
Saying the same thang got dang got dang
Time to chess box like Wu Tang leavin' a stain
On ya reign no tears though I'll be on solo
Rippin' up instrumentals ya know how we do so...yeahhh
From the Sunny to bees that make the honey
Sticky icky like my spliffs be call me smokey
Puttin' fire to mother natures forests check the creases I
unleashes
Rap game mafiaso so so better back back
Or else get dropped lika Domino so here we go!
Here we go!
With the ghetto jams love girls with the derriere's of Pam
Got **** once again it's time to slam
Mics harder than Shawn Kemp ya flows shrimp
That's why ya girl calls me Mr **** no limp
Slick as Rick hello young world tilt and a whirl
Catch the swirl of Qatar Pearls on the neck of ya girl
Suckas better know I'm coming with a blow
Harder than Bowe combined with a super glow
black Saiyan raps slayin' turntables layin'
So I can get wicked lyrics Pickett
like Wilson
Flows in unison formation
of words
Herds a violent surge
feel the purge
We high rising no disguisin'
knockin' out Suckas who jivin' ain't none survivin' ?
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 11:09 PM UTC
I’m thinking now of my childhood
Of Dinky toys and a bright shiny trike
I travelled for miles going nowhere
On that beautiful three-wheeled bike.
It even had a boot on the back
Like a bread bin between the wheels
That I used to fill with books and toys
Only opened to best friend’s appeals.
The bike was bright red and I loved it
I raced round on it every day
Until that time when I was just too big
And the bike was taken away.
I missed that old red tricycle
It had been my companion for a while
But the two-wheeled cycle that Dad got
Soon turned my lips up in a smile.
It was a second-hand bike and quite grown-up
Hand-painted the darkest maroon
And I rode it for miles, this time with my dad
But it’s fun-giving days went too soon.
My next bike was blue, and a racer
Derailleur gears numbered ten
I wanted to ride out again with my dad
But he’d cycled his last before then.
My dad rode a bike for the whole of his life
Yet he never reached fifty-three
When I’m on a bike now, cycling along
I think of him riding with me.
©Joe Wilson – Riding a bike with my dad…2015
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 1:08 PM UTC
To know just where your're going
You must know where you've been
You must respect the history
The things others have seen
It's true in all things relative
Be it music, sports or life
If you don't know where you came from
You're just dancing on a knife
Gherig, Ruth and Robinson
May, and Mantle, Seaver too
Respect their contributions
And don't just say Ruth who?
Respect where things have come from
And the players of the past
Because you learn and make things better
It's what makes the **** game last
Jimmy Foxx, Bob Gibson, Kaline
Nestor Chylak and The Goose
They made baseball special
They gave the game a little juice
Orr, Richard and Gretzky
Gordie Howe and Howie Morenz
You have to know about them
You need the beginning to your ends
Bob Baun and Bill Barilko
Connie Smythe and yeah...the Chief
You have to know their history
They're what it is to be a Leaf
The game has changed immensely
Things can not go back in time
But to me...the old alumni
Made the game I know as mine
Respect the ones before you
The ones who laid the groundwork down
The ones who made it special
The non-pretenders to the crown
Elvis, Buddy, Harrison
Played the songs inside their heart
Lennon, Wilson and the rest
They all played a real big part
Every single generation
should learn from the one before
For if they don't know where they've come from
Then what has it all been for?
Nicklaus, Palmer, Bobby Jones
Sarazen and Hogan too
They pushed the gameright to it's limits
Now the pressure's upon you
The new breed are the teachers now
They're the ones to lead the way
When twenty or so years from now
You'll hear somebody say
"Respect who came before you
The ones who made us so **** proud
LIke Nash and , Perry and Taylor Hall
They played the game so loud
Pudge, Jeter, and Verlander
they brought it up a notch
They were there to stretch the limits
Not to just sit by and watch
Rory, Justin Rose and Mahan
Bubba, Dustin and the rest
They are the players of the future
They all respected the games best
So, to know where you are going
You must know where you have been
Respect, past through the future
And all that's happened in between.
May 4, 2012
May 4, 2012 at 4:49 PM UTC
When you are young.
The village seems only
one field away.
You can skip it in no time.
Middle aged it feels
two fields away.
And is getting a bit
of a bore.
When you are old
it seems like three fields
Almost Impossible to walk.
Keith Wilson. Windermere. UK. 2017.
Aug 27, 2017
Aug 27, 2017 at 8:14 AM UTC
Preface
**When the broad mind has opened, to gaze the stars that shinning in the unfathomable skies and the glittering Nature, its flowers’ fragrances given to taste the wealthy realms of her, as well as Earth's mysteries—that I ever think of to feel and by my thoughts that spread so deep to try to work with things that sounds of ‛creative’. Here I the ‛moody soul’ started his first journey, leaving his home a few years ago and his up-start was through Literature, Science and Arts and Fiction. Writings and paintings here I believed to be most powerful and that those more often need to convey by the Artist’s conscience and the intensity that gains moral knowledge and appreciation. Here the book has the pictorial paths of Quest and the wanderings, all by imagination’s boat, sails from the western Ideas and its enthusiastic flow. Some finds hope along and also hopelessness, God and Love vagabonding among these ink-stained pages.
Dreamt in the wandering world where no chains shall bind, from the dark veiled lands to the daring spark, no atoms that obscure the force calling light, to aim the glad precious moments of life, to embrace me with a silence and its whispering magic, where gate of hope’s always open to bliss, thundering words are always from roam, the nocturnal pleasure that I only know, and when all will run away as time—why I alone in the upward steps of solitude that caressing wild only wings?
If I met Life as a strange stage of different senses—and I only say you to enjoy the aggressive fruits of my invention. Here it is for all of you can read and evaluate.**
Nithin Purple
Acknowledgement
**This book is dedicated to my parents of Love and support,
from where I got the powers to be inspired—to write and prove.
Special Thanks to Parisian Author and poet Roman Payne of
‛cultural book’ for supporting me as a writer of varying tastes. Also Writer, Wilson B Sanchez of New York, who first gave suggestions
and his valuable sparkling comments of self-improvable topics, which I always bother. Belated friend, poet and writer, Curtis Plaskon from France for his valuable support. Also Poet Timothy & Hilda from Virginia, to them I had good writing memories. And for all the Indians, this book is an open heart to read.**
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 3:06 AM UTC
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.
Mar 25, 2017
Mar 25, 2017 at 8:00 AM UTC
Wind blows its way right through my senses
All my thoughts have but slowly disappeared
One more large smoky glass of cheap whisky
One more sad lonely night that you're not here.
Loneliness set in as the door quickly closed
Using the back door now and keeping that one shut
It will stay like that until ever you come back
But I've a notion now that it will stay put.
Old sore wounds that somehow resurfaced
Caused a bitter rift long forgotten to return
And the memories and the tears from the last time
Hit the heart, exploded and then burned.
So I sit trying to write and supping whisky
As I wait to hear your key in the front door
I hope with all my heart that you'll forgive me
I can't bear to be alone here any more.
The wind is getting stronger now and I thought I heard the latch
But it was just some fighting creatures out in the dark
So I'll wait as I do each night with my whisky and my pen
Sitting here and waking up with the sound of the lark.
©Joe Wilson - Whisky and my pen 2014
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 12:32 PM UTC
If I were a cup of black coffee you take me just the way I am.
If this were a thanksgiving dinner you'd be the turkey and I'd be the ham.
I'm the water and you're the sea
I'm the sailor and what I really mean is; you complete me.
If this were a battery you'd be the positives and I'd be the negatives.
If I were a holiday you'd be the festive's.
If this were space you'd be the stars that form my galaxy.
If I were a driver in New York, you'd be my taxi.
If I a flower and you the bee, then it's clear to see that what I really mean is; you complete me.
One ways, u-turns, dead ends and yields, green lights, left lane merge and a squashed bug on my windshields.
If I were a Bic ballpoint pen then you would write out every sin.
If this were it, it would be the greatest love there has ever been.
Road signs and paper, fantasies and nature cannot help to say in such a little way that all I try to convey that what I really mean is; you complete me.
If I were a song you'd memorize my lyrics
If this were February 1990 it would be Hold On by Wilson Phillips
If I were a comic book, you'd be my nerd.
If you were a photographer I'd be your bird.
If I a cold night and you the book by a fire, then I'd be the Hobbit and you'd be my Shire.
If I a cup and you the tea then all there is left to say is...
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 12:00 PM UTC
Walking along on the shingle spit
At Keyhaven near to Milford on Sea
You can almost touch the Isle of Wight
Less than a mile away o'er the lea.
Crab-fishing next at Mudeford Quay
With Lizzie and Sam on the nets
When off flies my hat which then lands in the sea
Chase is given but I’m taking no bets.
Later, me new-hatted, we sit by a pub
Enjoying our lunch and a chat
And we laugh at the turn of events in the day
Particularly at the flight of my hat.
Wearily later to our lodgings we go
Chicken Cacciatore for dinner, by me
We then all collapse and nod off to sleep
This just always will happen by the sea.
©Joe Wilson – A Windy Day by the Sea…2014
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 10:50 AM UTC
The cherry blossom is
beautiful this year.
Thick pink clumps covering
all the trees.
Should stay nice for awhile
If the weather remains calm.
Keith Wilson. Windermere. UK 2016.
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 9:57 AM UTC
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
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 6:04 PM UTC
on the green
hole 8, and five over par
southern california sunshine numb
leaning on a putting iron
leaning on a fistful of xanax
i had given up on the game a long time ago
just didn't know it yet
my friend was strung out on speed and coke
"breakfast of champions", he said
he had been aimlessly whacking the ball for the last hour
"fifty bucks to whoever hits Brian Wilson" he suddenly yelled!
sure enough, there was Brian Wilson,
standing by the mexican food-truck,
waiting for a taco or burrito or God knows what
i felt xanax confident
so i walked over and shook his hand
i told him thank you,
and that his music probably saved my life
"probably" he asked?
"yes" i said, and walked away
i told my friend to take some xanax and chill out
"xanax is just xanax spelled backwards" he said
and i could not argue with that
we never finished that round of golf,
but somehow i still feel like i won
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 11:34 PM UTC
Its as if
A solemn oath
To reminiscence
Had memories
Had dreams
Are you tired of me yet?
It just seems
A luxury given
Fluffed pillows
Explaining the simplicity of slumber
Had a memory
Your a dream
Are you gone from me yet?
It was fact
Actuality
Nirvana upon purple hills
Had memories
Haunted dreams
Are you done with me yet?
It was peaceful
A gloomy rainy day
A solemn oath
A luxury given
Fluffed pillows
Nirvana upon purple hills
Delicious night
Filled by yellow pills
Are you high off me yet?
Its as if
You were a memory
Within a dream
A haunted nightmare
So it seemed
Stuck in limbo
Or purgatory
No longer deserving your glory
Naive
Gentle
Kisses
Sweet and simple
Sent me flying high
Are you tired of me yet?
Leave me to runaway
I'm Wilson
Castaway
I am gone from you yet..
Nirvana on purple hills
Fought the fray
Are you done with me yet?
Roaming
To home im phoning
Airplanes
Night walkers
Street and sweet talkers
Getting high off me yet?
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 10:27 PM UTC
A stiff breeze
blowing the cherry blossoms away.
Petals floating into space
like tiny butterflies.
Keith Wilson. Windermere. UK 2017.
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 11:01 AM UTC
There is beauty in the flaws of your face
You are a warm light in the shadows
Your smile is a rare sight
Lips so soft
There is strength in your softness
There is loudness in your silence
Your silence speaks volumes
Your actions explain everything
--
Kevin Wilson
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 12:06 AM UTC
In life as in so many things
Mercy needs angelic wings.
Forgiveness, the rarest gift.
Could we all not better choose
Those who sadly, often lose.
Forgiveness, the rarest gift.
Mercy needs angelic wings
A darker soul yet sometimes sings.
Forgiveness, the rarest gift.
Those who sadly, often lose
Fail to see the hidden clues.
Forgiveness, the rarest gift.
A darker soul yet sometimes sings
A peace will fall as new day brings.
Forgiveness, the rarest gift.
And God will watch and study all
To see what madness will befall.
Forgiveness, the rarest gift.
A peace will fall as new day brings
In life as in so many things.
Forgiveness, the rarest gift.
©Joe Wilson – Lauds…(2nd morning)…2016
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 7:07 AM UTC
I never said you’d done it
though we both know that you had
the way you choose to think of me
so often leaves me sad’
I don’t know how I’ve hurt you
I never meant to charm
perhaps my easy-going ways
just cause you too much harm.
But we were drifting slowly
and then you suddenly perked up
the way a person might do
when they've found a more full cup.
But I never said you’d done it
I’d know that I had lost
and now you don’t believe me
and that’s too great a cost.
©Joe Wilson – Accuser accused 2014
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 5:43 PM UTC
He stays with us in winter storms
And when the garden's bleak
He hops around in sleet and hail
Appearing pale and weak.
But once the days begin to lengthen
And the worst of winter's gone
He perches high up in a tree
And begins his joyful song.
Keith Wilson. Windermere. UK. 2016.
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 12:59 PM UTC
Poor wee cat lost in the dirt
trodden on when wee and hurt
lived on worms and ***** things
insects crawlies all with wings
you fell lucky furry boy
found a family full of joy
hunted you until they won
took you in for love and fun
now you weigh a lot of pounds
your belly drags along the ground
but such a baby you're so sweet
rubbing all around our feet
"Dry me off then put some food
in my dish please don't be rude!"
I have to say that in my mind
a cuter moggie can't be found
If am born next as a cat
I'll be like Wilson soft and fat!
Mar 11, 2011
Mar 11, 2011 at 8:34 PM UTC
He lives his life holding a superstitious breath
And his mania is of other people’s or his death
If ever he encounters a funeral any day
He dives over a wall till it’s passed by his way.
He’ll wander round graveyards and look at the stones
And tell you the nature of the owner of the bones
For if flowers were growing he’ll tell you for free
The bones of a good person lay down underneath.
But if weeds there are growing they’d died in disgrace
For flowers could never take root in this place
He saw a white moth once fly into his home
So straight-away he said that to him death would come
And he totally refuses to call at his best friend’s flat
For he’s driven me crackers and I've bought a black cat!
©Joe Wilson – His weird mania 2014
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 7:08 PM UTC