poems

The sun shone on the weatherman

The sun shone on the weatherman.

30/06/2017

The sun shone nice today on the weatherman.

Like the whole eclipse perfected the spin, together, as it should be.

Rainbow’s dotted daisys to raindrops where sky fallers dance.

Their was laughter.

Songs of the birds chirrups where hiccups laugh so much it hurts.

Where memories of the wedding make the church burst.

A thousand white balloons and not one hearse.

Not one sad dace to slow down an insane race.

She grimaced at a sour Gargamel Smurf sweet.

We chased with water sprays the growing pains of the nation’s never ending selfish media tirade.

We grew as people and I forgave myself.

The sun shone nice today on the weatherman and I let the battery on my phone run out.

We are here not there.

A shoelace tid itself and a four year old smiled.

So did her parents.

All for a smile.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

 

Advertisements
Standard
poems

Shots

 

Shots – from my life.

02/05/2017

Shots some, like the drink, from my life.

Pictures of a blonde baby, careless, slow aging. I’m putting magnetic letters on a toy board. Who knows? Maybe I spell my first word.

My hand sinks into our alsations fur.

It’s warm in the garden. I can smell his breath next to mine. Mixed with the lightest of green grass, safest here at home.

My sister’s crying. I’ve done her wrong. I witnessed feelings both weak and strong.

I hurt inside, I don’t know why. I cannot cry.

At nine I’m mostly a man in my mind. My grandparent’s both gone I learn if I search then I’ll find.

Discovered some answers, the truth of where I came from, looked up to my mum and then she was gone.

Flames, meditation and hypnotic regression released, destressing not exploding my obsession.

Children in a boat with very muddy coats. Mind’s alive with magic which keeps them all afloat.

Yellow are their rainproof’s with little sailors caps.

Some on straight some back to front some drippin in their laps.

There’s no water in the ocean for they float above the sky.

Balanced on a cloud within a twinkling of an eye.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

Standard
poems

There’s a case beneath my bed.

There’s a case beneath my bed.

28/06/2017

There’s a case of bad memories beneath my bed.

Inside there are:

The songs that remind me of you.

A photograph of my dog before he died.

That hospital letter.

The cinema receipt.

Our trip to London.

Why I won’t ride the train.

The smell of onions.

The first time you hit me.

The last time you hit me.

When I couldn’t stay.

Breaking my wrist.

Watching you go.

The taste of bleach.

A foot with three toes.

Being scared to eat.

It’s brown and is sealed down with two thick leather straps, a heavy buckle and a heavy duty chain, with a padlock.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

Standard
poems

One minute

One minute

24/06/2017

Can we take one minute to stop a war?

Do we instead need the minute’s silence to recall those gone before?

Shouldn’t a hand in a hand show you we’re all born from the same land?

Shouldn’t it be proper that we all have the freedom to speak and stand?

Can we take one minute to help someone less fortunate?

Can we look past our own fears, ego’s and regrets?

If we take one minute, together as a planet, then the best of our world hasn’t happend yet.

One minute to be the best poem ever written.

One minute to share all the love we’ve been given.

One minute to make time stand still and unite us as one race, the human race, forever.

Will you stand up?

Please.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

Standard
poems

Pain (Migraine)

 

Pain (Migraine)

(last week sometime…)

216am with fire in my skin.

Facially distorted, electric from within.

Unnatural jitters, constant and eager.

Clench a need to scream. Seek a place to run but there’s nowhere to leave.

My body’s a prison without any keys.

Kneeling by the bed I just pray for release.

Head exploding, pounding, rolling.

Ever decreasing circles whilst at the point of boiling.

A piranha quipped bow.

Talking in tongues where will the arrow go?

I’ve got a feeling it’s leaving and it’s off I regret.

To forget I’m the target and tap out before impact.

Oh give me rain, give me clear cold rain pouring in buckets, not even cascading just drenching in mountains, removing the pain.

Euphoric endeavours, realities collide.

Whatever the liquid tear pain to goodbye.

Show me the ocean with it’s tides and it’s fro’s.

It’s gangly motion with it’s high’s and it’s lows.

Smell the salty air, hear the seagulls sing.

Handle crispy seaweed, recall anything.

Sleeping bad when camping. The fur inside the neck.

The warmest of survival bags I haven’t forgotten yet.

Dew from on the bivouac,

Ice cold right down my back.

Cannot more the the home will break.

No time to react.

Build a sanctum in my mind.

A hit a castle, a home a place refined.

No coffee that strong and I’ve no energy to drive.

There’s drivel behind my mass of meaning or perhaps the other way is true.

I can’t tell for seeing double, and all I see is you.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

Standard
poems

It’s criminal.

 

It’s criminal.

30/06/2017

Cynical.

Unbiblical.

Tyranical animal.

Creative manifesting.

Disease digesting.

Whole body unravelling.

Shadow empowering.

soul’s glow, fire below from depths you can’t have known.

Written below the horrors that go

to a half written show where the tide will never flow.

Money won’t grow, business is shallow.

The skin peels the fabric the soul eats the mellow.

Conjoined at the heart,

New fire tears them apart and again they restart,

according to the chart.

Second guessing.

De stressing.

Disease digesting.

Creative menifesting.

Tyranical animal

Unbiblical.

Cynical.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

 

 

Standard
poems

Another caressed hand.

Another caressed hand.

15/06/2017

Today another day a heatbeat rang forth in time for the tenth year.

The tenth chime.

The dot a spring awoke to life not mine.

A woman questioned she’d answer that she wasn’t there and never saw me.

Never touched me and couldn’t adore me.

I wouldn’t belong, like the wrong words to a song, it wouldn’t stop me singing along.

I’d cure my obsession to belong with the Ilk.

Even though I’d never compare to silk.

Caress the wrong hand along the wrong line and I’m gone.

I won’t be found in time.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

Standard