Take my hand

Take my hand.


He flies like the skies high rise have head tilted stunted stuck upwards position eyes as he flies by.

Motorised neurons hypnotised by synthetic mesmerised, demonized splinters we’ve all kept inside and still he flies.

Flies as love, seasonal gifts and Christmas float by, a black twilight and an eye for a shamanic eye.

Signalling, wonder and bespoke imagery from a tower top the fuse pops, lights sparkle as the show stops and my world comes to land like a unicorn in the promised land.

I can kneel but I can’t stand.

If you’re ever stuck for walking – come take my hand.

© G.P Williamson 2017

Short poems

Only at night – short.

Only at night – short.


Play the hand that warms you.

Taunts you.

Calms you.

Play the hand that conforms.

Surrenders to charms.


Isn’t alarmed.

Play the hand without spite.

Submissively airtight.

Be gone by daylight.

It’s alright – the beast only comes out at night.

© G.P Williamson 2017


Oblivianic love

Oblivianic Love


He makes her cry as she sleeps with dry eyes.

Internal dialogue Why? Why?

Cascading mountain too heavy too daunting.

Memories floating, cackling and haunting.

Awake dear princess you’re almost free.

Chained and shacked where you’re supposed to be.

Lost to kingdom come.

To Oblivianic love.

From lust to confusion which was never enough.

He was her perfect.

She was his dove.

He was infatuated.

She was in love.

© G.P Williamson 2017

Short poems

Starlet – Short.



I couldn’t make out her eyes between the stars and then she was there waging war on Ra and Pluto whilst Mars collided with a rogue drone.

They all fell like hippies in a carpeted van with green paint and a rented tent beneath the stars where her eyes never left.

© G.P Williamson 2017


The Creator

The Creator


He watched the creator silently by a stream he’d made to see if it was enough.

He’d given them his life, he’d given them his love.

Would the people be in order?

The colours catered for?

Would they pass the judgements?

Would they go to war?

Would a famine kill them?

The glutinous, the poor.

The cosmos and the ether,

The chemicals, the plains.

The mountainous, the beaches and the in between terrains.

Each blade of grass each breathable note.

Filled with emotion protected with his cloak.

No gender specific no better or worse.

Yet he had to fin had he passed this course?

On his knees his lord set sail and told him bluntly “you were destined to fail”

“But why father? Look at all I’ve done. The humans have only just begun”

“Because I can’t let you go  – you’re my only son”

So we’re destined to fail each and every one.

© G.P Williamson 2017

Tom Orrow

Tales of Tom Orrow – House

Tales of Tom Orrow – House.


Tom Orrow built a house of love from determination and faith.

Nobody lived there.

They said it wasn’t safe.

Tom Orrow drove a car with sleight of hand and misdirection.

They never reached an accurate destination.

Tom Orrow never had a grave. He had a clay statue with a chalice not a cup.

unfulfilled the rain destroyed his tomb.

Baptised in mud and dust he was a man from which to learn.

© G.P Williamson 2017

Tom Orrow

Tales of Tom Orrow – Knew

Tales of Tom Orrow


Tom Orrow knew he wasn’t man enough for her type of unorthodox endeavors.

Call him holy but an affair although his usual substance couldn’t drown the pain any more than whisky dulled the ache.

She may pretend her man doesn’t exist with the distraction of other men but he knew he beauty both inside and out and for that reason he couldn’t touch her.

The alcohol warmed him.

Tom Orrow wore steely glazed eyes of frosted glass where others forgave, kicked a door and were bypassed he wore steely glazed eyes of frosted glass, forever like oxygen it was subconscious and all encompassing.

He didn’t dance, he didn’t sing, he never bought them expensive things.

He didn’t have to.

A perk of those eyes men feared and women admired.

© G.P Williamson 2017