Short poems



A thousand apples on my tree and still I cannot set you free.
Beyond the sunlight breathing bright.
Through greens, reds, an archaic sight.
A taste of future blinding light.
How are you and how are we?
You worry most concerningly.
Play and heal.
Heal and play.
Die tomorrow, not today.
Celebrate the poor gods test.
Our time is now,
There’s not much left!

© G.P Williamson 2019

Parenting, Short poems

Rising to fly.

Rising to fly.

Your chest rises as you breath.
A tiny gust clenches and released.
Eyelids twitch and I,
I start to believe.
My sight traces your eyebrows and the full of your thinned hair and I know love.
I know care.
You cry like stuttering ducks at first flight, like a rainbow seeking light all fidget and fright and I,
I rock tightly.
What I want and need are somewhat the same thing.
Autumn leaves and purity, humour and to succeed.
The water rippling on the lake, the silk against your skin.
The water in your eyes, the drowning in my sin.
What I want and what I need are somewhat the same thing.
What is it you do not bring?
You perfect little thing>

© G.P Williamson 2019

Short poems

Her name was Charity.

Her name was Charity.

Her name was Charity.
That name stung more than the slaps that followed.
Her donation was my damnation.
She stung my throat going down and sin was born.
Words couldn’t ensnare your absence anymore than I could suture the thirst of my wounds.
Quenched by the undesired.
You’re hired.

© G.P Williamson 2019

Short poems

Like a glove.

Like a glove.

Atrocious indignities.
Beware looming obituary’s.
dogs fallen into sullen corners.
Cold waters, frozen daughters.
Minute b*tch from lone wolf.
Lack of trust you learnt the truth.
Strong pack.
Pack of lies.
No soul.
Fires behind those eyes.
Baptise you and your lack of love.
Stick to yellow.
It fits like a glove.

© G.P Williamson 2019

Short poems

Just a cover.

Just a cover.

They see a cover.
Just a book.
Don’t turn the page.
Don’t dare to look.
Assume on.
Take your place.
Amongst the others.
All walled up faces.
Blocked out and blocked up.
No gained perception.
No learnt to stand up treasure trove.
Open stove.
Crispy golden holding love.
All the things you’ll not begrudge.
Assume the mother.
perception other.
Dare not dare look beyond the cover.

© G.P Williamson 2019


Passive aggressive.

Passive aggressive

They light fantabulous these glorious aspiration hunters.
They light the stage and glow all paths.
A spotlight of future epitaphs.
They hone the night sky.
Bright light in a babys eyes.
They hold tight and record old lies.
Then clutch on like stalagmites.
Growing forth despite me, unwavering diligently.
Until a part of the soul, that’s frightening.
I light fantabulous then glorious apirations I hunt!
Passive aggressive.
A secular front.

© G.P Williamson 2019

Also writing under “Cursed Rider” on

Short poems

Diagon House! The poorly made spell.

Diagon House! The poorly made spell.

Black door ironically.
A 68 Metaphorically.
Good neighbours categorically.
Hidden rooms magically.
A new home – for family.
Poof! Diagon House!
Oh squeak! – I’m a mouse.

© G.P Williamson 2019

The I can’t fail house.

You feel like a new home that’s on the horizon.
Like a porch light I could see myself in.
Nestled down unquestioningly.
Diligently, cozy, refreshed see.
A homely home.
With scorpions and ropes.
Dark cabins and twisted jokes.
A new home for roasting.
A hot precipice, open air prayer kiss.
A tin bath and cigar, hell I could get used to this.
A lusty love with leaves and twigs,
I inhale,
If you’re my world I’ll set sail.
The oyster’s born.
I can’t fail.

© G.P Williamson 2019