Short poems

Fondled by voice.

Fondled by voice.

24/04/18

“Oh that’s not the dark stuff princess” he said sliding the pad from beneath her tapered finelly manicured fingers and turning his back to her.

Something about the way he said “Dark” was more concerning than the way he said “Princess.”

© G.P Williamson 2018

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Short poems

Casio 1980’s

casio

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Casio – 1980’s

22/04/18

My grandads memory stood there showing me how his old Casio watch lit up when you pressed two buttons at the same time and I knew they were real once more.

I saw him as I learnt nothing.

Felt him as he brushed past my arm and again I learnt nothing.

As pleased at this conundrum as I am. I’m plagued by whatever we’ve done.

Where is he?

Where’s my son?

© G.P Williamson 2018

 

 

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Short poems, Uncategorized

Far away

Far away

22/04/18

I came here long ago from a land far away.

Where the rivers run wild and the women tend to stay.

I came here long ago when the steps were brushed and polished.

When coal filled up the bunkers and the window ledge with dollys.

I came here long ago when affection was the word “wench”

When the neighbours knew our daughters through a brew over the fence.

I came here long ago before the internet was born.

When the coal burned up the chimney and a tanned hide was the norm.

I came here long ago when we didn’t always win (but we were scoring)

If I knew then what I know now, I’d send them back a warning.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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Short poems

Cloak it.

Cloak it.

21/04/18

I didn’t take the cloak off.

I tried to keep you hidden.

Broken little pieces tied with an unbilical ribbon.

I didn’t let the seeds grow.

Didn’t water the plants.

Couldn’t tame the cactus where the thorns sprung themselves out.

I hurt myself with memories of what I could not achieve.

Building on the demons in a world of make believe.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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poems

Make believe in teddy bears.

Make believe in teddy bears.

21/04/18

I try to make believe you know as mad as that doth sound.

She says her teddys talk to her and I hope that you’re around.

They teach her things she tells me and so often they are right.

She wakes with deeper knowledge almost every night.

I try to make believe and there’s no way I could ever tell her.

I’m just a naive hypocrite. An innocent kind of fella.

With walls of stone in Jericho a placebo for a whim.

I only believe in facts, I’m dying here again.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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