Show me success.

Show me success.


Signal my sensible sign.

Show me shadows.

Show me sunlight.

Show me success.

Show me the death rattle of a broken man,

bottle it or jar it. Label and farm it.

Grow the darkness from the airtight, lip tight distressed moonlight.

Water them with blood grow them to coffin roots with off shoots of dead men’s boots.

Show me rainbows where leprechauns grow pots of gold.

Show me poisoned toads with croaky throats and dragon toes.

Show me a flare.

Show me a signal to my sensible sign.

Show me shadows.

Show me sunlight.

Show me success.


© G.P Williamson 2017


Food War.

Food War.


It’s not what you think.

Well, more to the point it is actually.

Specifically it’s exactly what you think.

It becomes who you are.

You are what you eat, right?

Too fat, too thin, too round, too masculine.

Two thousand five hundred and calorie counting.

Burns four eighty an hour trampoline bouncing.

Food saver, underscore, highlight what are we here for?

Will it hurt me? Will it not.

asphyxiate, choice and rot.

Allergic reaction with no known cure.

Constant battle, my food war.

How much is too much my image no crutch,

Unless I’m perceived as too thin then I’m remarkably crushed.

Positive, efficient, every way magnificent.

Don’t believe the hype the greys are ever-present.

I just smile the seven seas through the tunnel to the present.

Eat to full capacity, eat with all your heart.

fulfillment is a constant quest why should you be set apart?

punishment for things you never did to begin with?

Fighting battles with demons who can’t possibly win?

The answer doesn’t matter.

It comes from within.

Give light to the shining and right war will begin.


© G.P Williamson 2017

poems, Short poems

Phantom Writer

Phantom Writer.


Thankyou guys who helped me most.

phantoms, spirits, long dead ghosts.

Write through me I am the host.

Visible scars, invisible delusions.

I see through it all with disastrous conclusions.

That envelope will come,

all pristine and clear.

A rejection of detection year after year.

If I’m ninety-six when the cheque comes through the post.

My job will be complete and that I will then toast.


© G.P Williamson 2017


The Unicorn

The unicorn


She breathed fire in a mysterious turn of events.

She glowed the coals of a thousand soul’s who’s embers lit up roasting homes.

They dreamt of cocoa, morning coffee, Halloween and sticky toffee.

Inhaled as her chest moved quick.

The cloud in sparks, hooves clickety tick.

Shining like pure silver after the Autumn fall.

Gone like a shot into the night sky, a miracle to us all.


© G.P Williamson 2017


The strongest woman

The strongest woman


There was a fluid world in her tears.

He watched them fall and splash to smithereens like dinosaurs obliterated in a world of screams.

Each tear held sand, molecules and elastic bands.

Things that hold and give and vanishes, broken plans.

Dreams since childhood, stood up loves. Pure doves and strength beyond love.

Strength so strong the knuckles white as the body shakes with frustration.

In a tear, solitary, like a nation.

Stamping in unison, clapping, waving their arms and raving, rioting like a bad equation.

It doesn’t add up.

Voices raised until the screams crescendo into a seizure of bliss as another tear falls but hurts too much to miss.


© G.P Williamson 2017



I may believe in Christmas Eve.

I may believe in Christmas Eve.


I may believe in Christmas Eve.

The silky touch of holly leaves and every season in between.

I may believe in snowy tomorrow’s, carrot noses and borrowed clothes.

The squelch of wet trainers on the mat.

Yes I may believe in all of that.

I may believe in the love of ghosts, spirit echo’s and the smell of burnt toast.

Faith in the family both here and gone.

Belief for you, for everyone.

I may believe in curled up covers,

T.V nights and naughty words.

I may believe the good die young,

that time will till,

that I’ll right those wrongs.

I may believe I earn my credit.

I’ll progress if I work hard or that morality keeps us steady.

I may believe all sorts of silly stupid things.

I may believe I’m through being the puppet and you can’t take my strings.

I may remember who I am with passion.

Where I came from with emotion and who I’ll become with hope.

I may habitually joke and laugh, sarcasm may navigate a less sturdy uncertain path.

I may occasionally find bubbles in the bath.

I may be the light on dark days, may stand tall with lost strays and may not see the colour for the greys.

I may be fearless in the pursuit of happiness but I’m still dreaming. Awake or not freedom calls.

I’m feeling.

I may be the pilot of my own flying time. I may soar from mountain to cliffhung tree.

I may be me but am I free?

I may attain peace without over thinking due to a miracle pen with invisible ink in.

I never saw that coming.

I may believe in wedding rings and unity in when she sings.

A dancing place a one way course.

Crossing the line on a galloping horse.

I may believe in an unending purse.

Macclesfield rules and the crying boy curse.

I may believe in where I lived in stately homes and farmers with pigs.

I believe that Wales is home with white picket fences and garden gnomes.

I may believe in hikes and camps and firelight nights with the smell of damp.

I may believe in tenderness, love compassion and no stress.

In all of these I may believe and I may believe in Christmas Eve.


© G.P Williamson 2017



Thief by nature

Thief by nature


He wasn’t a thief by nature.

Steady job.

Hospital porter.

Generous, caring,

fathered a daughter.

Well known as dad.

Not your typical bad lad.

He wasn’t a thief by design.

Enjoyed a laugh with the boys.

Chess player’s, fresh donut’s, messy kitchen, victimless crime.

Their wasn’t much he couldn’t turn his hand to, but his eyes they didn’t shine.

Now when they married, nor when they dated and dined.

It was surreal, a unique love, sublime.

He wasn’t a thief by nature, but her….he had to have.


© G.P Williamson 2017