poems

Every door – short.

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Every Door

30/10/17

Every door within his mind was locked to spectators and himself.

If his name was “Which direction?” the answers didn’t come.

Looking through the keyhole at the memories of his mum.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

 

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poems

Fire butterfly

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Fire butterfly

30/10/17

The fire in the theatre was made of solid gold paper,

a fabric stronger and cheaper than his determination to succeed.

He awaited her breath and with his death with every inch of being that he had left.

The slow transition from confident to demi God in human form,

From solid gold statue to paper mache farm.

It took it’s toll, he metamorphosed like a reverse butterfly from trapezing on high to waiting to die.

The fountain of youth, the kickstart off the block.

With always a quip or a borderline joke.

To the massive old oak with the strength of owl eyes.

Once filled with nature now twice as wise.

The general direction had become unforgiving.

He’d not quite give up this life he was living.

Time took his emotions.

Tamed the fear inside.

The freaking out family and the love that he hides.

When all is said and done, the phoenix cries out.

As the lights of the living turn themselves inside out.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

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Graphic, poems

Lake feet

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Lake feet

30/10/17

She stood in the lake and pondered.

What kind of man he’d be?

Fishing with the sticklebacks on boats just made for three?

Crying over whiskey on nights out with the girls?

Hold her with the strength that a soldier shows his girl.

Sing her deep sweet songs with his fingers in her curls.

She stood in the lake and pondered the kind of man he’d be.

She waited day and night for him to set her free.

© G.P Williamson 2017

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poems

It all stopped after that call.

It all stopped after that call.

29/10/17

It just stopped after that call.

Hunger, thirst, anger, pain.

I couldn’t feel at all.

It just stopped after that call.

The petty conversations, the friendships, that picture in the hall.

That wooden rocking chair.

The birds they used to call.

It just all stopped after that receiver fell.

The sudden click of nothingness.

My thought’s they turned to gel.

The holidays, the seasons,

like you Autumn came and fell.

It ended without merit.

Ended without rhyme.

Ended like a poet who’s just run out of …..

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

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Short poems

Audience likes to dislike – short.

Audience likes to dislike – short.

30/10/17

There is a demographic.

A group that hears too much.

A place for the addicted.

You can hint but you can’t touch.

It’s okay to fear the reaper  but don’t you call him by name.

The audience is energetic as long as you play their game.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

 

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poems

In the doorway.

In the doorway.

29/10/17

I could live a thousand years she said, with her head laid on the cross.

She arched her back and read my dreams straight from my mind.

She held red roses to her chest, her other hand held mine.

I found the church deceitful and the mourners chose to stand.

She recited all my tear drops whilst that hand was in my hand.

I felt the rainbow capture the figure in that old doorway.

Capture for eternity, capture so she’d stay.

She captured all my promises like needles in the hay.

The tears stopped falling fluidly her hand had turned to ice.

The figure in the doorway moved his hand and rolled the dice.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

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poems

Did the coffee speak?

Did the coffee speak?

29/10/17

There was another time over coffee when she looked into his warm brown eyes and felt the flicker of caffeine or some other drug touch her soul, and she was blissfully unaware her true love watched from the corner of the room.

She forgave herself his presence in ways that he could not and moved into unity with a trifle job and a dessert life. A model woman and apricot wife.

He’d wave sometimes to the shadow he tried to grasp as he followed it from shore to shore to shore chasing her memory.

© G.P Williamson 2017

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