Selected Poems by Matthew Wilson

January 12, 2018

 Photo Source: Wikimedia Commons

 

 

 

Souls for the Reaper

 

 

They hanged Helen for envies sake

this brief queen of Troy

whose beauty knew no equal

a prisoner of such little joy.

 

So many deaths were at her feet

this ruler of a distant shore

captured by her victims families

where only friends remained before.

 

I watched them cheer for rope

they laughed and hung her up

making great fires to burn her

handing out goblets from which to sup.

 

They hanged Helen for envies sake

so I waited till night for more

to cut her down and lend my magic

and with her beauty make another war.

 

 

 

Gifts of Dead Gods

 

 

I have been the keeper of these treasures

the cursed remains of a dead kings spire

the rubies he used in his demented pleasures

his jewels that escaped his enemies fire.

 

Broken are the golden shields of Zeus

snapped is the lance of dead Thor

who failed to keep enemies from the gate

the last to fall upon the bloody shore.

 

Bent are the goblets used in better times

toasting glory of one eyed god victory

betrayed by their lesser favorite son

who wished to give their name to history.

 

I have been the keeper of these treasures

now the Olympus mountain is done

no more shall winged beasts fly over it

carrying their dead souls toward the sun.

 

 

 

The Murderer of Marlowe

 

 

Envy made me a murderer of Marlowe

to whom the muse speaks so free

when I should be the writer of all ages

when immortality should be my destiny.

 

Marlowe was the teacher of Shakespeare

rising that Stafford lad from the gutter

to one ladder rung beneath his talent

who would've left life without a splutter.

 

I have printed bad verse in his name

spread lies about his religious station

so whispers would ruin his good name

reviled as a criminal throughout the nation.

 

Envy made me a murderer of Marlowe

getting him drunk I used my blade

now the world will know my stories

no more to hide behind his shade.

 

 

 

Song of the Traveller

 

 

A stationary soul is a terrible thing

wasting in stagnant sceptered places

when the world would have it singing

warmed by new and smiling faces.

 

Men must travel in their early years

before grey stains their fading hair

to sing and love as travellers do

to live a life without a care.

 

A traveller walks the woods of Robin Hood

beneath the beams of Shakespeares home

to live as free as only birds can

to have no restrain on where to roam.

 

A stationary soul is a terrible thing

when old men resent their youth

wasted time they could have travelled

to uncover love and beauties truth.

 

 

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