Short poems

Heart of the home.

Heart of the home.

24th June 2018

Thigh high raised skirts, hot legs on brick walls so tall it hurts.

Two wafers at a bad church, I want to nibble the equivalent fibble.

The groups can’t interact for unmentionable counteracts and I’m humdrum, I fail to react.

Sunstroke teasing, eye pleasing, fate deceiving, watching those good legs weaving.

I’m still habitually believing.

He said she was needy because she text “I miss you.” after a year together.

I think he’s lucky, our weather is too hot and clammy or too cold and withdrawn.

The perfect temperature is the heart of the home.

© G.P Williamson 2018

 

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poems

The hurts from church.

The hurts from church.

24/06/2018

She couldn’t sleep for the hurts from church.

Splinters had dug deep from where her nails made skin weep.
She didn’t believe in herself.

She was in deep.

She sat stoney eyed amidst a hundred sheep who’s pain collide.

He stood in the pulpit.

Prompting their suicide unknowingly.

Another puppet of a mediocre society.

That night after prayer and hymn, evening song and lashing, the damn burst.

She grabbed a pen and started to write.

“I couldn’t sleep for the hurts of church”

© G.P Williamson 2018

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poems

Bottled it.

Bottled it.

23/06/2018

He took the death from death and bottled it.

Bare handed he’d grabbed, left a scar that scabbed.

When it fell off it left a hole through the garden, through the ground, the earth, the planet, the ozone layer and into Eden.

The scab of death was fate deceiving.

A bottled death in a quartz jar held right by a dead man’s hand, the prized grip of a gypsy fighter.

The goo bubbled black for a million years and caused the death of  a million seers, mystics and idle mages.

He kissed a girl with petal lips and the ink turned to purple quick.

He smiled deaths heart a while as the earth healed thick.

He took death from death and bottled it.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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They still mourn.

They still mourn.

24/06/2018

A thousand monks couldn’t heal her.

Kneeling in prayer, filling the air a cloud of fire and love for the world to share.

Scooped up, segregated and sliced part by part.

fed to her mind, body and heart.

Kept her in limbo, no wish to let her go.

Diana for queen.

Where did that time go?

The world mourned.

Parliament scorned as the public sadly grieved, unarmed.

We knew loss like we felt the reasons of price and cost.

It was too much.

Worked on and through adventure restrained.

Still nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Feeble reality, a world that will never be the same.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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poems

When I die.

When I die.

23rd June 2018

When I die a deathly death of dark all hallowedness and that veil falls all clear and proud, I want you to scream.

Scream until the crows of hell themselves all run and hide.

Scream until the graves turn on their sides.

Scream loud like every Harley that’s ever kicked up dust.

Scream like a second husbands lack of trust.

Like the Eiffel tower doesn’t rust and through the rain and sleet and snow, through every tale that death can show, through every diseased town you have to go.

Stand tall.

Stand tall and scream until the fire in the gates of hell perspires, that’s where my eyes are.

When I die a deathly death of dark all Hallowedness and that veil falls all clear and proud, scream me up a motherfucking shroud!

Balm me in your fury.

Warm me with your aggression.

Shower me in might before I leave a great impression.

I’m coming back on Monday in the reflection that you’ll miss.

I’ll reach right out and claim you in a possessed silent kiss.

© G.P Williamson 2018

 

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Short poems

It was there in our eyes.

It was there in our eyes.

19/06/2018

Couldn’t hide it.

It was there in our eyes.

Unique obsession.

Our obsession.

Like the answer to the ultimate question.

Sore, raw and on the top of our tongues like painful trepidation.

On an expedition and the country was my self expression.

The expanse and growth intense.

Reluctance by chance and choice.

Hypnotised by sight and by voice.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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