poems

Seven story building

Seven story building.

23/03/2018

A top a seven story building stands a seven story man. With seven story windows and a bible in his hand.

A seven story crisp packet blows way down below the street.

Where a seven story drop awaits beneath his feet.

A seven story inpact awaits with a patient curse.

Amidst a seven story ambulance the police and a nurse.

A top a seven story building stands a seven story man.

From a seven story building a bible hits the ground.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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Short poems

Fighting for forgiveness.

Fighting for forgiveness.

23/03/2018

They forgave me evidently when I couldn’t forgive myself.

Why wouldn’t they? Surely it’s a pain to find someone else.

I may have my queries but I love what I do.

I love in my loving and of that few people do.

I care open hearted. I’m honest – empathic.

So feeling too much comes a special kind of dramatic.

It’s like capping a thermometer but not stopping the heat.

Like Rocky Balboa beating his meat.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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poems

A name is a title.

A name is a title.

23/03/2018

There’s so much that needs to come out from recent events all jumbled and cluttered.

Scattered magazines of my mothers.

My child holding my thumb.

Paying the rent and memories of mum.

Mostly it’s fairness and expectation.

Hard work and piss poor delegation.

I had to stop until the anger was wasted.

I know deep down it’s all about Tracy.

I never used your name before in something public.

It feels good to bring you to life.

A hundred ways a metaphor.

Only one god damn knife.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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poems

Kites and Ghosts

Kites and Ghosts.

23/03/2018

I stopped writing when we went to war.

Did battle day and night.

Stopped writing when the weather died.

The kite she dropped mid flight.

Red and sturdy on a backdrop of grey. She dropped to the earth, with a clatter she lay.

Still by the sidewalk in the middle of the road.

What had I done? How you would I hold?

They vanished in my minds eyes as reminders of my life.

Hollow little ghosts with a hollow little wife.

I could talk but couldn’t see.

My fingers through thin air.

I could listen, couldn’t hear like a cloud kissing a bear.

I fused a tangled daydream with the memory of a kiss.

Tied a noose of solitude and kissed goodbye to this.

How I stopped writing when we went to war.

The soldiers all heroic.

How I silenced the horns, the bugles won’t play, all broken, empty, stoic.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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Short poems

A thousand shades of dust.

A thousand shades of dust.

23/03/18

I never knew I’d make it.

I guess that you didn’t either.

I rushed a thousand lovers, none of which were mine.

I never knew I’d make it.

My lonely was unjust.

Drinking til all hours in the clenched fist of mistrust.

I never knew I’d make it before I turned to dust.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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poems, Short poems

I fear you won’t get read.

I fear you won’t get read.

23/03/2018

I fear you won’t get read.

Like the unmarried woman.

The weak man, the honest government employee.

Shamed in a stereotype of mediocrity.

I fear you won’t get read.

The untouched in a kinky bed.

The feta cheese that didn’t make it.

The garden we never raked.

Half done and all completed sat on a spinning pebble by God’s great feet.

I fear you won’t get read.

An eye for an eye and I’m seeing red.

28th March and twenty six years on.

I still see how you bled and still feel how you’re gone.

I fear you won’t get read.

What have I done?

Four years and an umarked grave. The only grace in a button called save.

Still tomorrow IS guaranteed, is the type of illusion which we need to believe.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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poems

Macc Canal

Macc Canal

23/03/2018

Saying what you mean.

Meaning what you say.

Stray dreams of grey dogs by park benches and squashed frogs.

How sticklebacks have mean faces on Macc Canal of all places.

Trust disgraced on the back of shoe laces hidden by my childlike self.

Pump up sneakers and no place to be.

I didn’t say trainers – Americanize me.

I dream a dream of time gone by.

A glare a peak and then I fly.

It is too much to watch them die.

I still understand but don’t know why.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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