Graphic, poems

Car lady

Car Lady


I don’t recall which came first the impact or the thud.

I don’t know if I couldn’t see first or I couldn’t hear but

I remember the blood.

It’s fabric.

The way it’s cells marshalled all over my leg,

led by little red and white generals heading to a pointless funeral.


It’s the little things you remember when shock hits.

She was wearing a cream bra. I could see it through her loose fit.

She’d tried to steer away, her lip she’d bit.

I can’t not see her – In my head she sits.

Her eyes are blue and catch mine briefly.

I spin after the impact and leave the ground beneath me.

There’s a crunch and she’s gone as the car spins and nothing rhymes anymore.

I want to go back to seeing her face the way it was before.

Their was a bloody mist of rain where I’d fell.

Scattered raindrops of  me everywhere.

Quite poetic for a major injustice.

Six months later I’d still be on crutches.

They wanted me to sit because I couldn’t stand.

People stopped to watch.

It wasn’t funny. It wasn’t planned.

They pulled her out.

I can still hear the screeching metal.

Smell the rubber and see the flashing lights.

It wasn’t quite day and it wasn’t quite night.

Therapy was offered.

I explained I wasn’t bothered by anything apart from her lack of movement,

like she’d somehow lost a light.

They told me it would pass in time,

but she still talks to me at night.

Copyright G.P WIlliamson 2017


Bucket of peas.

Bucket of peas.


I ate a bucket of peas which left me feeling green.

Betwixed I watched a poor man sell his soul on paper.

I was somewhere inbetween.

There was a bounty on his head.

He didn’t notice. He didn’t care.

I wasn’t him. I wasn’t there.

We watched him, my friend and I.

Watched him dance until frenzied. Fiery sparks jumping from feet to night from light to fight like fireflies ignite with no respite.

Tantalizing eccentric, magic in their metric with thick air, electric.

Charismatic in eulogy and divine of wake.

I nicknamed him Christ, my friend said he was fake.

I ate a bucket of peas which made me feel green.


© G.P Williamson 2017


Holy Gun

Holy Gun


A euphoric freedom screams through each person yet emanates from the church behind us.

Church is too specific although it could be what it once was.

It’s a religious building which explodes with intensity when empty like today.

When the organ is playing solo,

A duet to an absent kind.

Father to an absent queen and second fiddle to a fool.

They stand united in their thousands heads turned towards their holy gun, the sun.

The apocalyptic fireball from which we base at least in part our very existence.

Time changes light alters and things move which are bigger than I.

Swarms of people buzz off whilst packs of humans lie like dogs in their own homes.

The rest become insignificant in the night where the silent din is deafening.

It’s coming from the church.


© G.P Williamson 2017

Parenting, poems

Popped Kaboom’s

Popped Kaboom’s


I breathed in as you exhaled.

It was like a thought bubble had bloomed which filled the room when all my feelings popped kaboom’s.

Tiny crackles, major pops.

Icicles on stickledrops.

Like sticklebacks but always falling.

Raindrops shouting, snowmen calling.

Waiting in parks because the ice cream man’s here.

Dancing in puddles and knowing no fear.

Best friends holding hands as calender sheets fall.

January, February, March as he leaves to join the war.

My thought bubble pops and I’m aware once more.

She’s twenty, at the kitchen table, holding his photograph and trying not to cry.

All I can do is watch.


© G.P Williamson 2017


Six word story.

Six word story.

(The idea behind a six word story is that each person comments to create the best or most interesting and most often than not they work as prompts for future works. However I’d noticed I was commenting a fair bit on one post so I put them together and got something……different.)

Six word story.

Together they never forgave each other.

Bludgeoned to ecstacy in chaotic wonder.

Last night they cried mercy, eternally.

Forget me not remember me always.

Death was the release they longed for.

A long release pained every crevice.

Each popcorn bit, a silent scream.

Memory blanked from depth’s just discovered.

He stopped my pain, squeezed throat.

Reiterate my start, unblock my heart.

Beach house blinds the graveyard neighbours.

Standing on stones, blood red rivers.

Many women died within his eyes.

Together they danced, entwined in tomorrow.


© G.P Williamson 2017

poems, Short poems

Just a quickie.

Just a quickie.


That creche behind your eyes where future children lie.

That cozy fire reading stories flickering night sparks whilst you play with her hair.

That memory of yearning for tomorrow whilst surviving the todays.

Let’s bring that forwards.

Forwards in all ways.


© G.P Williamson 2017


Tipping point

Tipping Point.


Oh my macho inadequate friend.

Your confidence overpowers rationality, although it’s pretend.

You’ve always done better, earned bigger, won to no end.

My dear fabrication your stitches are weak.

The light shows clear through.

They unwind as you speak.

You’ve trained more than everyone.

You’re simply top notch.

I can’t bear to listen.

I can’t stand to watch.

It will last for a moment your pyramid of cards.

Beautiful in time, for a second at large.

Then like getting stacked because you played the wrong hand.

They’ll tumble like you, straight down to the ground.


© G.P Williamson 2017