poems

Tiny pictures (Short)

Tiny pictures

17/06/2017

My body flakes away aimlessly in tiny reflective mirrors, cascading in all directions tiny pictures of who I used to be.

Confusing themselves with memories I’ve yet to have.

Gravity holds no place here the only way is outwards.

Like failing grasps of a broken heart desiring the neediness of a new freedom.

Flaking away, giving my all until found or worse.

There’s no me’s left to give, perhaps this is just a reflection of a poem I used.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

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poems

Real fantasy

Real fantasy

17/06/2017

When there’s no fear during an argument anymore.

When the passion fails to rise.

When her opposing voice matters not.

It’s then, then you’ll capsize.

Sink for the sake of it because swimming isn’t worth the bother,

beneath the waves you’ll find that secluded kind of other.

She’ll suck you of your senses, pacify your thirst.

Remove the blood from your very veins unless you get there first.

She’ll cater to your every whim and you will set her free.

She’s real and all your favourite dreams,

She’s also fantasy.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

 

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poems

Rare Silence

Rare silence

27/06/2017

Fish tank bubbles quietly as you cough in the other room.

Our girl’s back moves softly as she sleeps against the couch.

A door opens elsewhere and a stranger is gone,

Somewhere in the distance and my stomach churns for bacon when coffee is my saviour.

A lone tissue stands unmoving from the box.

Otherwise everything is still and the day is golden.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

 

 

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poems

Power of listening

Power of listening

15/06/2017

You watched my lips move and nodded along.

You listened intently to the words of my song.

Like a chorus of comparisons a lyrical line you tuned in on.

An atmosphere, a paradigm.

How things have altered, became the rythme.

Praise be the forces that make us stable.

Thankyou to luck, to dedication.

To a passionate ensamble.

Thankyou to the dice on the right side of the gamble.

Now it’s laid out where I see half of the table.

I just hope it plays out to be solid and stable.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

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poems

Movement

Movement

12/06/2017

What’s our obsession with movement?

Day turned to night.

Dark turned to light.

The earth moved beneath them.

They ran to one another.

Immersed in heaven they fell in love.

Can’t they just be still and chill?

Have a beer and watch T.V.

Eat pizza and listen to music whilst speaking Italian.

Everything is better in Italian.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

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She wrote “I love you”

She wrote “I love you”

12/06/2017

She wrote I love you on his hand with her fingernail.

Traced his life line back to birth and beyond to find another him.

A him from another time in another place.

She caught him a whim because she could.

So easily with just a line, a stroke of her hand and he was hers as they both wanted, unfaltered.

They shared books in life stories, broken hearts and house warmings.

Death and loss with ghostly partings.

Holding hands where none depart.

Excalibur might hold the strength of total unity but the ground provides unwavering solidarity.

Where he was her sword she was his world.

The clocks ticked backwards and they got younger as her eyes stopped time.

Every fibre of her clothing bristled with energy, the chemical energy made manifest that he knew too well.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

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Spinning penny

Spinning Penny

22/06/2017

Ever heard a penny spin endlessly before coming to a flat stop?

That’s the longest death rattle, the silence before the drop.

Ever heard the silence tell you all of it’s bad dreams?

When she refuses to explain, the silence doesn’t talk, it screams.

Ever heard the rainbow come to a stop?

A plane cease to land?

An uneaten lollipop?

It pours with unheard trophies.

Soundless unclanging landings cushioned like the softest bed which you’ll never get to sleep in.

Ever heard them tell you “your friend has passed away?”

They think it was an accident.

He died yesterday.

The silence is the same.

The quietness profound.

When your partner dies.

The emptiness resounds.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

 

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