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
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 1984-200
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…even more now.
© Tim Wilkinson & Wayne Wilks 1976-2009