poems

The Language of Children

trampontrampoline

The smiles are the same everywhere.

When you watch me and my daughter.

Tilted heads with tight lips as though you’re hiding laughter.

 

A close bond,

compassionate connections.

something we’re all looking after.

 

I see you as you watch us.

I feel your warm eyes within.

The chemistry pronounces something…….

……something which makes us kin.

 

Language is no barrier.

It matters not Italian or Pole.

There’s magic in a high five which makes all people whole.

 

There’s innocence in knowing

“I’m nearly 4 today!”

Everyone remembers,

wishing older every day.

 

Returning home from work.

A limp dandelion on the side.

“I got you a flower Daddy!”

She sparkles – eyes open wide!

 

I smile with cosmic flawlessness.

My ocean of pride is full.

It’s then they fail to pay me and I watch her eyes turn dull.

 

The shades of green turn softer.

Delicate meadows, now replaced with a simple kind of hopelessness.

A tear down her face.

 

She now doesn’t understand why the Theatre is off bounds.

Why she cannot dance with Elsa to the tune of Disneyland.

 

The language of children.

“I want to laugh and play”

Tainted by our adult world

which turns its face away.

 

I’m dissappointed in the aftermath.

But never in my girl.

She’s a special kind of perfect in a bitter, sour world.

 

Copyright G.P Williamson 2017

 

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poems

It’s the most wonderful time of year.

It’s the most wonderful time of year
15/12/14

It’s the most wonderful time of year.

I awoke to bright lights.
Diamonds sparkling in my wife’s eyes.
Toe to toe at the window pane.
Blankets of snow.
A clean finger through a window frame.

Chicken soup with a fusion of herbs.
Warm hands on hearts.
Touching fingertips to lips.
I love you.
Share gifts.
Unwrapping starts.

My angel gazes at the twinkling tree, her bottle and back to me.
Defiantly amazed.
Glittery eyes meet.
Photograph by a real tree.
Keepsakes for eternity.

Crunching icy steps to Grandma’s house.
New wellies.
A smell of frankincense.
Chestnuts crackle.
Children scream in play.
Oblivion on Christmas day.

Clean napkins.
Extending table.
Help dish up if you’re able.
Granddad mourns the same old jokes.
Silent prayers to long gone folk.

A solitary sprout, perhaps there’s two.
Pull the crackers!
Charades too!
Giving thanks for more than food.
A moment shared around the world.

A coal fire burns down memory lane.
Past and present unite in flame.
Sleeping warm all cosy and tight.
Merry Christmas to all and to all Goodnight.

Copyright G.P Williamson 2014.

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poems

Loss & confusion – A journey of self exploration, humour and stupidity.

feather

Probably should admit that I was wrong.
Different story but the same old song.
Being human and all has it’s disadvantages.
Falling for the wrong ideas stroke appendages.

I’d use another word for aspiration but couldn’t find one.
Don’t worry, I won’t the moment’s gone.
Dross and remorseful I swear.
Damn.

A glass eye in a round bowl forever looking at itself endlessly spinning.
If it’s looking at itself shouldn’t their be two of them?
How could it look at itself if there’s TWO of them…
Who are you?
A second thought.
Shut up.

Middle class honors degree V.S for safety’s sake a geek.
Like trying to compare a quazar to say – a square.
I took a shot and didn’t dare look.
It wasn’t there, I tried.
At least this time it was by the book.

I was mourning in my own addiction if I’m brutally honest.
Something I rarely am with myself.
An old habit of self destruction by any means.
Self harm doesn’t always come in a cutting form.
Don’t sound those horns I’m not crying for that type of alarm.

Although you should be concerned but not in that way.
I was hiding from reason, from memory. A far away day.
Riding a cloud of wonder astride an old rocking horse.
I blame myself, there’s no escape in remorse.

Nine months ago exactly if I’m accurate.
Irate, angry and hurt and yet hopelessly stagnate.
I couldn’t write about it. I tried it didn’t work.
How do I write about why I’m here and you’re not?

Throw myself into work it will all soon be forgot.
I don’t want you to remember – I already ask alot.
Perception is unified the marriage is existential.
Pain should be halfed not experimental.

I’ve always achieved great things in great ways.
I never lay with demons and fought strays.
I might not be the right fit but I’m on the same page.
Clarity unfamiliar in an honest old sage.

Bitter nights twist again the agony of youth.
Pictures of daughters brought down by brothers and fathers.
Pregnant women who corrode and fester their waters.
Worse – unborn sons and daughters.

Clipping and clopping that horse clicks against wood.
It’s countryside inside throughout painted in blood.
The motion is reckless I’ve rocked on past a dream.
There’s nobody to hear me and I cannot scream.

I’ll pretend that I’m angry at those for which I care.
Then justify my actions with why they’re not there.
It makes complete sense to take it out on the boss.
Then I can appear completely – useless.

The victim card is played and again it wears thin.
I’ll spit on my grave and delve deep down within.
I’d only come out for essentials and water.
If it wasn’t for the face of my beautiful daughter.

Her eyes hold the meaning, a meaning of life.
I cannot explain my meaning, nor can I explain my wife.
forgiveness lives in meadows the like I’ve seen alot.
There’s some wrong’s which I’ve made right,
and some which I cannot.

Beautiful swallow’s alive in green pastures.
Milking the sunday’s for each silly old actor.
Taking off for a journey to give an indication of redemption.
They aren’t flying up they’re flying into temptation.

Success is a mindset molded from fiction.
Alive on a page which jumps with trepidation.
Zero hour in conclusion and solid of mind.
Neither are real and neither do bind.

My friend the rag and bone man created gold from clay.
I offered him a sleeping place he said he couldn’t stay.
I saw him leave the cemetary where I had chose to lay.
He’d collected all my memories and he threw them all away.

 

Copyright G.P Williamson 2017

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