Winter creeps across the land
where mighty oaks and birch trees stand
and insects hid beneath the ground
face certain death if they are found
by mice or rats...and foxes too
nature's food chain survival glue.

But up above then canopy
buzzards hunt by two or three
they square the ground on high patrol
in search of rabbit or tasty vole
life's bitter struggle is borne this way
the same tomorrow as yesterday.

And as the winter creep moves on
the weakest creatures now all gone
rats and rabbits...mice and voles
bed down for winter in food-stocked holes
yet o'er the land where we draw breath
there's barely sign of this fight with death.

©Joe Wilson - The winter struggle...2015

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

It’s two in the morning in this New Year’s Day poem
he’s cold-sober and hopeful for a good new year’s start
just six months ago he’d almost lost his way home
but she’d found him and led him back to her heart.

It’s an amazing thing, this love, he now knew
alone he was lost like an empty tin can
but this woman in his life was amazing too
she was vital to this mere foolish man.

He gazed across now at her so lovely face
and whispered “I love you,” she smiled. “I know.”
he isn't so much feeling the New Year’s embrace
as holding on tight and letting the old one just go.

©Joe Wilson – Holding on tight… 2014

He opened the binding of The Weeping Book
curiousity piqued, he needed to look
but how he wished he had never seen
the horrors therein that were so obscene.

The guilt of man along the passage of time
senseless slaughter without reason or rhyme
each page he turned ill had been done
by book possessed he ventured on.

The **** and pillage of those years before
children the victims of violent war
races were mixed, the one good thing
vicious hecklers of bigotry sing.

On and on through the pages now
the hurt caused pain behind his brow
saints and sinners all listed here
their sins for all to see quite clear.

He saw the vilest sins of history's pain
enslavement of those for other's gain
let loose man's done some terrible things
hope's voice is quelled by vicious stings.

The Weeping Book so perfect in name
from front to end it's full of shame
and he a priest of noble birth
would find before day's end, his worth.

No water passed his lips, nor food
his mind so troubled by soured mood
and then the page on which he gazed
revealed the future of a man gone crazed.

No change could he make to the book
transfixed at his poor fate he'd look
and as he pushed the dagger deep
as fate revealed he went to sleep.

The Weeping Book then slammed tight shut
till guilty man next came and put
his hand upon the tome's dark cover
then his sad fate he'd soon discover.





©Joe Wilson – The Weeping Book…2014

Scarred from the relentless passage of time
pitted with acid rain and covered with grime
forgotten by those who oft pass it by
gazed rarely upon by anyone’s eye.

A proud little monument in a field far away
with now faded words and a family shield
his nation had called and he’d gone off to war
though he and his friends didn’t really know what for.

And if you should wander and wonder at it
you’ll probably feel as if you have been hit
by the words that you see that are writ thereupon
“It is with such sadness that I bury my son.”

The last words they had came back home in a letter
“It can’t go on Father, it has to get better
the killing is awful, they’re young men much like us
Please kiss dearest Mother, and a Merry Christmas.



©Joe Wilson – His last words (25 December 1914)… 2014

I felt the smallest of glimmers of a poem
it was there near the front of my mind
then something more pressing needed doing
the glimmer just vanished leaving nothing behind.

Now I sit with my pen poised over paper
hopeful for its return like a friend
for it might show itself as it so often does
ideas in my head tend to follow this trend.

Then comes the rush as it all flows at once
I write with an amazing turn of speed
I have to get it down while it sits in my head
Till the last full stop satisfies that need.

All done now, I put pen and paper aside
leave the room with the ode in my head
later to return and juggle with the words
whether to use this or that one instead.

The glimmer of a poem just entered my head
this time I've made a note to remind
now I'll return my attention to this one
as I untangle these thoughts in my mind.

Joe Wilson - in ictu oculi... 2014

He walked among them and felt their joy
it was Christmas Eve but he had no employ
his job was lost, recession has a cost
his back was bowed from all he’d lost.

This year his children would have few toys
no in-line skates or games like other boys
his beloved wife would have little too
it broke his heart but what could he do!

And so he stood upon the railway track
knowing he couldn’t get it back
he heard the train from so far away
not wanting to face another day.

And while he stood and waited there
a star so bright he had to stare
his earthly troubles all slipped aside
a presence engulfed and he warmed inside.

He realised his dreadful selfish act
would worsen many other lives in fact
and hurried back to the home he shared
full of guilt for how he’d not cared.

He reached his door to find his wife
the beautiful woman who shared his life
and in her hand an envelope
contained an offer of work and hope.

The next day dawned and as he woke
inside his head a small voice spoke
patience my son, things do work out
retain your faith, remove all doubt.

That Christmas Day was good indeed
from children’s joy that filled a need
and from a faithful inner glow
brought about by Him we know.

©Joe Wilson – A star so bright… 2014