Anton's Ideas

Anton Wills-Eve on world news & random ideas

Month: February, 2018


<a href=””>Imagination</a&gt;




Imagine being told you only have a week or two to live.

That’s happened to me three times in five years now.

Yet it’s never scared me, made me wonder a lot, yes;

But never caused tearful eyes, or any frowning brow.


Family and friends have been distraught, dejected,

And think my outward courage so admirably brave.

But then, they haven’t got my spiritual imagination,

They cannot understand why I don’t fear the grave.


If you think about it, I am really being  rather selfish,

Imagine believing soon you are going to know at last

What Heaven, and the God you love, are actually like.

Imagination is no longer needed, for human life is past.


But you still wonder, though, if in your time on earth

You were as caring and loving as you could have been.

You imagine God judging you, a weak, willing sinner,

While mercifully loving you, he accepts all he’s seen.


Keeping his word he balances the scales he promised

Would decide if your good deeds outweighed the bad.

For if they do, he’ll keep his word, making you atone,

For sins, your imagination knows have made you sad.


But a loving God never sends repentant souls to hell and

Only purgatory makes them wait a while to be with him.

Can you imagine having seen the most loving being of all,

Then being without him? There cannot be a state  more grim.


But the virtue of hope is now the one each soul’s imagination

Clings to. Regretting, in sorrow, any wrong they’ve ever done.

Knowing they fully deserve their short, unbearable separation

Until they earn eternity in the arms of their most beloved one.


Now, my imagination dwells on this answer to the mystery

Of life, and why we’ll not understand it until we are dead.

But by praying, believing and living as charitably as I can,

I love God more, awaiting Heaven with him as I go to bed.











<a href=””>Present</a&gt;


The operation, for the present, was the best hope I had,

Unless I wished, presently, to make my family very sad.

I told my dear wife and kids that as a present to them all

I’d be present when it was over and nought would befall


Me, nor angels be presenters of their last trump loud

Presenting me to Judgement before God’s holy crowd

For in His presence evil deeds would by them be heard,

With my presentiments of sinning, of my lies every word.


Yet my mind, saw no eternal visions of Heaven or of hell

I felt a present on a Christmas tree, wishing you all well.

Presently the anaesthetic left, assuring ear nose and eye

was back in the present tense,but it was not as tense as I.





<a href=””>Mnemonic</a&gt;




When age and memory start to fail,

Mnemonics are often used to hail

The return to their required places

Of old, forgotten words and faces.


So, if it’s my young grandson’s wedding,

I have to think of curtains and bedding.

Or, as my great grand daughter’s now two,

A double helping of gooey cake should do.


And for Choi Eum, my half-Korean daughter,

Just appointed a headmistress, I thought a

School photo of me, on parchment, would

Remind her I tried to teach her all I could.


For my dear wife, on our golden wedding day,

A special memory is being brought into play.

As I’m getting her a picture of us when young,

Before either could speak the other’s tongue.


Her face always reminds me of our life of love,

She know that I’ll always place her way above

Any  person who’s helped me when very ill or sick,

Just picturing her smile is my favourite mnemonic.



<a href=””>Insist</a&gt;


I’m having another biopsy later this week.

The surgeon tells me he just needs a peek

In my bladder, you should hear him insist.

He fears my cancer has spread to the cyst

That a scan has revealed, ok he said “shown”.

In my urethra a malignant tumour has grown.


It was my turn to insist, replying to his gloom,

“But already I have three cancers and no more room

For your surgery, chemo, injections and drips.

You know my spine’s a mess and think of my hips!”

But doctors know best and he’s afraid that I’ll die,

If I don’t let him stick a tube in me so he can eye


My urinary tract. And then it’ll be his turn to insist

That my name is placed on his next operating list.

All these investigations, will hopefully make sure

I will still be alive, though my quality of life poor.

In three days’ time I must decide,  ‘should I undergo

Surgery, to save or kill me, but which they don’t know.’


So I‘ve made my decision, and on this I really do INSIST,

I trust by my family and friends, I hope, I’ll be missed.

But my faith in God’s eternal love, so strong all my days,

Will insure my last words to Him will be prayers of praise.

And on ‘judgement day’, before Him, the joy I shall see,

When I die, will lead to purgatory and then Heaven for me.


Hair to the Crown


<a href=””>Permit</a&gt;

Hair To The Crown

“Your coiffeur stylist awaits your pleasure, M’am. Let us repair to the dressing room.”

“D’accord, Marie. On y va toute de suite.” Then majesty saunters somewhat regally into her boudoir. They have just hired for her the latest scissors and comb sensation from Vienna, Herr Cutt.

Marie takes charge as Herr Cutt has no French and Majesty refuses to debase herself by speaking German. But all have a basic understanding of English. “Majesty, the stylist would like to show you what he can do with your golden curls, falling so ravishingly onto your shoulders”, the handmaid declaims, and steps back as Her Cutt spends some time arranging a waterfall effect.

“Mon Dieu! You make me seem to look like a whore? Non! Changez it”. The cutter kneels to start again.

“Ich have eine idea for your ‘ead, Oh, queen. (This was pre-guillotine times) He toils again. But in vain. Marie is getting distraught.

“It is now five times you have messed up my royal lady’s hair, what sort of a fool are you? Just one last attempt, and if you fail you will be sent away without a franc.”

So Herr Cutt takes one last breath as he addresses the tresses and says, remembering a phrase he learned from the master hairdresser of Mayfair who taught him all he knows, “Oh, Gawd, Ducky, I suppose we’ll ‘ave to perm it!”