MATTHEW WILSON - POEMS

Matthew Wilson has had over a hundred and fifty appearances in such places as Zimbell House Publishing, Horror Zine, Star*Line, pellbound, Alban Lake and many more. He is currently editing his first novel and can be contacted on twitter @twitter94544267.

                         "Drunk on Summer Fruit"
 


I do not think I would like to live so long
I am not so selfish as to dance when the music’s stop
Nor linger when the fruit of summer time has rotten
I would not like to see my loved ones wilt and drop.
 
Time is a surprising gift I do not feel I deserve
Though there is time for dances in the sun
The chance to kiss a girl and have some fun
Before the winter comes and the joy is done.
 
No I do not like to think of greying hair and worse
The pains of wrinkled hands that did much labor
That lost their joy and beat their wife and child
That mislaid the love of life and found no favor.
 
Too many days would take the gleam off the few
Familiarity and boredom are things worth than death
When I could fit in so much living in just one summer
Still young enough to enjoy its beauty with each breath.
 
 

                                 "Perils of Prometheus"

 
 
Aphrodite has poisoned her husband’s wine
She has set his guards upon my scent
This little fool who thought she loved
Running for his life from heaven sent.
 
I have taken shelter from the storm
Cowering in the cold of a mossy cave
Planning my next step to save my neck
To save me from stupidity and waiting grave.
 
I know that history pages shall forget me
The briefly living think I had no start
No chance of escape from Aphrodite’s hate
The queen of beauty who removed my heart.
 
I will save my fragile kind from her cruelty
I will leave the gift that sealed my doom
The fire that once belonged to Gods alone
I give it man to walk safe beneath the moon.
 


                 “Memories Not Owned By Time”

​ 
 
Time cannot have my possessions
I will snatch them all from its stream
My heart should be their place of detention
Like a miser hoarding the gold of his dream.
 
Time and tide devour the good of men’s keeping
Memories of dead friends gone to God’s garden
Sneaking in like thieves when men lie sleeping
Stolen moments to make the widows heart harden.
 
I will walk the world to reclaim every crayon sketch
An image of days before that shall never read again
Penned by my children who would throw and fetch
Now sleeping beneath winters ground in freezing rain.
 
In time that time and tide I despise shall claim me
I too shall go and play when my great work is done
But first I hold memories of dead loved ones inside me
Before I go to God’s garden and play in that beautiful sun.