45 For 50 Part Ii-Poetry Collection

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45 Poems for 50 Years

Forty-Five For Fifty

45 Poems for 50 Years


© Tim Wilkinson & Wayne Wilks

17 to 50

Seventeen to fifty is such a large spread,

Too far, too distant to settle my head.

If love could make real, what everyone said

I’d never again be alone in my bed.

Seventeen to fifty too far and so close,

So easy to love yet real as a ghost.

So pretty and young, far better than most,

Impossible to have, to her I now toast.

Seventeen to fifty, a love I can’t have,

Her beauty and innocence cause me to laugh.

A radiant smile and memories passed,

Are all that I have of her and our past.

© Tim Wilkinson & Wayne Wilks 2009


All the single people

the sad lonely hearts

the love starved souls

the broken and marked

God really does love us

He tells us thus so

He just sometimes forgets

To let us all know

He helps us and holds us

He watches and groans

But he’s often too busy

To make himself known

So cry if you can

And whish if you must

But don’t whine to me

For in God do I trust

No choice do I have

No respite in sight

For only alone

My life is a fright

© Tim Wilkinson & Wayne Wilks 2009

American woman

Shopping malls, cell phones and diamonds

Painted faces and lips a bright

Empty souls and hates delight

Giving less and asking more

In silent rage, the world’s great whore

© Tim Wilkinson & Wayne Wilks 2009

Anonymous Caller

I listen close and try to hear,

The sounds I know will soon be there.

The ringing ends, the message clear.

The call complete and at my ear

My words are short and quite direct,

Their purpose plain, their goal descript

My mouth now moves as I inject,

My response to them from off my lips

The subject heats as I converse,

Knowing well my words and all my verse

I speak of love and things much worse,

As I describe my pleasures first.

I speak of things that some call sick.

I lay them out quite hot and thick,

Until the time I hear a click.

I then hang up. I’ve done my trick.

I often wish the caller could be,

Someone other than who I see

For well do I know that the callers is me,

When I playback the message on my answer machine.

© Tim Wilkinson & Wayne Wilks 1990-2009

Autumn Wine

Autumn wines born of spring’s best

Aged and seasoned through years unrest

Tasted and savored when put to test

In sleep and death do finally rest

© Tim Wilkinson & Wayne Wilks 1990-2009

Cold Dark Rooms

Cold dark rooms, void of all light

Empty of love and all that is right

Shadowed and bleak, containing no warmth

Veiled from the world from whence they come forth

Tattered and worn with cracks in the walls

Visibly scarred from all of my falls

Dripping with wet and moldy from years

Rusted and tainted from all of my tears

Battered and worn and likely well used

Jilted and cursed and deftly abused

Those who profess, to love me most high

The very same ones just watching me die

Deceiving my mind betraying my trust

They do as they please, I as I must

Cold dark rooms void of all light

Empty of love and all that is right

Of the rooms that I speak no walls bear a mark

For the rooms just exist in the core of my heart

© Tim Wilkinson & Wayne Wilks 1989-2009

Don’t Cry

Nilly, Nilly please don’t cry.

He’s off to his to war,

You’ve said your goodbyes,

And nothing, nothing more.

He made his way across the sea.

A very brave man with a flag in his hand,

To a bloody battlefield where death is free,

To fight for our freedom, our nation, our land.

He’s seen his first battle and watched his men die.

He killed them like cattle And afterwards cried.

He stood there just watching, with hardly a mind,

Shooting and killing those people like flies.

They came from behind,

later he died.

While rockets roar and airplanes fly,

The answer is war the question is why.

Nilly oh Nilly.

Oh Nilly, don’t cry

© Tim Wilkinson & Wayne Wilks 1975-2009


The cave of the robbers is open, exposed,

Just waiting around for me to write prose.

The names of the visitors, etched and composed,

On the face of the rocks for pictures they posed.

The faces of the robbers, their names and their loves,

All but forgotten, a memory that was.

The reasons they hid there, the things they did hide,

The passions that swept them, the days that they died,

All lost and replaced by graffiti and date,

With tripe such as this,

“Trojans rule, class of 88”

© Tim Wilkinson & Wayne Wilks 1984-2009


Here kitty, here kitty, here kitty come.

The master is back the locks are undone.

Hurry but hurry, to the door and be fast.

Slip through the crack, in bolt, in a flash.

Run around, run around, romp and now play.

The master is back, the world is ok.

© Tim Wilkinson & Wayne Wilks 1984-2009

In search of God

In darkest gloom and shade of night,

When all is wrong and nothing’s right,

We hide with wine and in sex delight

In search of a God who’s not in sight

In deepest grief and blameful shame,

When innocence’s dead and we’re to blame,

We cast out truth and play our game,

In search of a God without a name.

In hungers grasp and voids of will,

When all is lost in lust and thrill,

We seek to fill our empty tills,

In search of a God who’s not in, still.

In blackest sleep and moods of ill,

When life is blue and sunshine kills,

We run and dodge and hide away,

In search of a God who cares Today!

© Tim Wilkinson & Wayne Wilks 2009

Jewel Box

A box made of jewel, a room filled with fools.

A script full of spite where everyone’s right.

Soft beauties do sing, sweet lovers they dance,

Where everything’s possible, there’s always a chance.

A box made of jewels, tears filling pools.

Stories written right with power and might.

Everyone’s beautiful, in all that they do.

Where everything’s funny, even me and yes you.

A box made of jewels, a house filled with rules.

Tales full of light and of demons and fright.

They lust and they lie, through life they do prance,

Where all of us cry, hearts pierced with a lance.

A box made of jewels on stage with delight.

Lines from a poet, a priest and a fool

Windows in coffins, in earth buried tight.

Where all of us lay, our deaths out of sight.

© Tim Wilkinson & Wayne Wilks 2009


Larry the one legged seagull.

on the beach met I and he a good lad.

If luck would have had it to make Larry a lady

No choice would I have but to call her my Peg.

And if he just a lass, no lad there instead,

No fact does it change, him still having but one leg.

Larry the one legged seagull.

Often visited me, alone by the shore.

There we did share both bread and ripe cheeses,

Each perfect new morning and each old lovely eve.

He stood there beside me, balanced with ease.

Never once did he quiver, no not even once when he sneezed.

Larry the one legged seagull.

Joined me each day, alone in the dunes.

There in the sands the waves we both watched.

By no mere chance twas that he and I did not dance,

For he had just one, that one legged stance,

And I had but none, not one joyful glance.

Larry the one legged seagull.

Gave me a visit, alone in the surf.

There we would stand, our toes deep the in sand,

Till one lonely day, one simple caw we both heard.

Then off he did fly with no shrug nor a word.

On one leg apiece they leaned on the other,


Together they danced, as one two legged bird.

© Tim Wilkinson & Wayne Wilks 2009


Does ever she think of me, when I’m not around?

Does ever she miss me, when she’s not in town?

Does ever she know, that I’m so in love?

Does ever she wait, alone by the phone?

Does ever she see me, late in the night,

Whenever she turns, or casts out the light?

Within all of her dreams, inside of her thoughts,

Is she nearly as sad, or ever distraught?

Does her heart ever pain, while she lays in the dark,

Her soul ever ache, shiver or start?

Her heart does it break, when she’s all on her own,

While she is away, and I sleep alone?

Does she think of me now, can she read of my mind?

Whenever were separate by space and by time

If ever she could, would I know what she’d see?

Are there ever but thoughts, of her and of me?

Could my feelings be wrong or my affections unfounded?

As my thoughts are of her, my emotions unbounded,

What more can I say, as I sit her right now,

Writing this poem, just wondering how.

How to bring you to me, and to keep you somehow,

To say that I’ve loved you, and do even more now.

© Tim Wilkinson & Wayne Wilks 1976-2009


Men have lived more primitively than I,

In cave and cleft and mountain high,

Yet upon my word I must declare,

From monkeys paw we rise?

Of certain Satan’s most lofty lie

© Tim Wilkinson & Wayne Wilks 2009

Little Green Bottles

Please serve chilled, luke warm will not do.

Don’t open that bottle with so little ado.

For lancers and riders and knights upon steeds,

To Portugal go to die for our greed’s.

In bottles of green and of red and of blue,

Their spirits return to me and to you.

Rosy red cheeks and a pink little nose,

For the blood that they split into us it now goes.

© Tim Wilkinson & Wayne Wilks 1984-2009

Lovely Lucy

Lucy, Lucy, my lovely soft Lucy

The brown of your back

The cool of your nose

How you always tickle my toes

Illusions I see,

Just dreams of the past

of things that can’t be

Of things that can’t last

The times that we shared,

The trails that we bared

The mists of my mind

Hide things we once cared

We drank of the same

And shared our one bed

We walked through the woods

Till day was but dead

Nothing can change

While you live in my head

And live you will

Until I, I am dead.

© Tim Wilkinson & Wayne Wilks 1988-2009


Oh Momma sweet Momma why did you leave me

Oh Momma sweet Momma come lay by me head

Oh Momma sweet Momma time is a wasting

Oh Momma sweet Momma soon we’ll be dead

Oh Momma sweet Momma the wind is a howling

Oh Momma sweet Momma the dead are a weeping

Oh Momma sweet Momma cats are a screeching

Oh Momma sweet Momma please hold me in bed

© Tim Wilkinson & Wayne Wilks 2008


The trees wept, spilling tears of yellowish green,

The wind cold harsh and blowing, the day haggard and mean.

Morning just born, the day yet to be written,

The skies spoke forlorn, he yearned to be smitten.

Another day, a bit more thunder,

A few more hours, a few more stumbles.

The radio sang in that familiar tone,

Forcing a smile, he felt yet still so alone.

So trees can cry and skies can speak,

As life moves along, through yet another lonely week.

© Tim Wilkinson & Wayne Wilks 2009

My Sweet Lord

The Lord does not speak to me in glory blazing bright,

Yet in simple subtlety declaring what is right.

Nor does he hold me in deepest of night,

But meets me each morning with sunshine a bright.

© Tim Wilkinson & Wayne Wilks 2009

Not For Me

Yesterday and today are all just the same

Same ole thing, same ole time

Same ole game, same ole rhyme

I’ve heard of family, dreamt of them often

But they fade with the morning

I’ve talked of it but can’t recall just how it goes

Not for me it seems

I’ve heard of love, cried for it often

But it dries with the tears

I’ve felt it but can’t quite recall the feel

Not for me it seems

I’ve heard of friends, imagined them often

But they vanish as I focus

I’ve had one but can’t quite recall how it went

Not for me it seems

I’ve heard of children, had one once

But they leave as they can

I’ve held one but can’t quite recall the warmth

Not for me it seems

I’ve heard of mothers and of wives

But they don’t hang around

I’ve had some of each but can’t quite recall why

Not for me it seems

I’ve heard of life, slept through it often

But it slips away as I breathe

I’ve lived it but can’t quite recall the reason

Not for me it seems

© Tim Wilkinson & Wayne Wilks 2009


48 walking into time stepping into 49

Still doing nothing but dying

Lungs are failing, bones are ailing

Still feeling nothing but pain

Beds mostly empty, no one comes to see me

Still drinking nothing but wine

Sleep doesn’t come easy, dreams make me queasy

Still holding nothing that’s pleasing

Still living in need, still thriving on greed

Still smoking nothing but weed

48 stumbling through life, stepping into 49

Still loving nothing…

But time

© Tim Wilkinson & Wayne Wilks 2008


Who I once was, where did he go

Why did he leave me, doesn’t he know

With each passing year and each passing snow

The harder it gets the faster I row

I once was so loving, so full of life

Once I loved everything, saw God in it all

I once saw a future, once believed in a life

Once had a lover, once had a wife

I once had a child, once had a daughter

Once loved her mother, once kissed her breasts

I once breathed the air, once lay down beside her

I once found my God, I once was not dead

© Tim Wilkinson & Wayne Wilks 2009


Alone in the night, I sit by the tube,

Thinking oh her, of them and of you.

No one to hold me, no one to touch,

No one to cling to, or anything such.

Cool are my arms, cold is my heart,

Fearful too trust, yet eager to start.

I run from my hurt, I hide from her eyes,

Then only to beg, for her love and her lies.

One is so lonely, so somber, so quiet,

Never fulfilled, till I lay down beside it.

It hurts so inside, it causes such pain,

Never to change, till I love once again.

A love that is deep, a love that is long,

If only I knew, just where it went wrong.

I’d give up my life, my heart and my soul,

To find only one, with whom I could grow.

So from now until then, sad I shall be,

Just waiting on her, to set my soul free.

© Tim Wilkinson & Wayne Wilks 2009


Avenues of life, streets of strife.

Byways and highways, and curbs by the way

Angle white blurbs, and lines as their words.

Roads that begin then quickly dead end.

We whine through the turns and lean too far in,

Pausing within, beginning to end.

© Tim Wilkinson & Wayne Wilks 1976-2009

Pink Wine

Pink wine in my glass, I hold in my hand,

Tipped to my lips and into my head.

Dizzy and giddy, pink wine makes me feel.

Happy it makes me, with smiles that are real.

It keeps me afloat, it keeps me alive,

For a man without love, has no reason to rise.

No reason to live. no reason to stay.

With pink wine in my glass I survive yet each day.

Why do I love a glass of pink wine?

Because a woman who loves me is something I can’t find.

So my lover is made of white sugar and pink grapes,

not molded and formed of pink flesh and pink breasts

© Tim Wilkinson & Wayne Wilks 2009


The need of you, the thought of you too,

Inspires my soul within.

What fortune to know you.

Like warmth in the snow, like rain in a drought,

Your warmth glows a bright,

And eases my fright.

With closed eyes I see that beauty surrounds thee.

Knocking I wonder if I can come in.

Knowing I need she,

I pray the need of she is me.

© Tim Wilkinson & Wayne Wilks 1977-2009


The love of life has no reason.

The love of God has no ending.

But the love of you has me puzzled!

© Tim Wilkinson & Wayne Wilks 1989-2009

River Stones

The roughest stones in rivers wash,

In sand and foam and gravel toss.

Not till jeweled, polished and brightly sheen,

Are crystals clear and purely seen.

© Tim Wilkinson & Wayne Wilks 2009

© Tim Wilkinson & Wayne Wilks 1975-2009

ISBN – 1449508405 – EAN-13 9781449508401.


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