January 16th 2018

It’s like the beauty of getting snail mail or the traditional feel of an old wives tale. A piece of heather, a lucky rabbits foot.

Peeling an apple in one go and then throwing it over your shoulder to make the initial of your true love.

They’re all good stuff, but are they enough?

What happens when you’ve tried all the achey achey oils and the wakey wakey pills?

Most give up leading to addiction or negative connection. The rest just make do with a good old breakdown of which there’s a few. If you’re picky you even get to choose.

But then, what if you don’t want to quit? Maybe you’ve done your breakdown, had your rock bottom. Felt the world has ignored you and now aren’t ready to be forgotten.

What of those who still have that splinter in their mind and can’t let go? I don’t know many things but I know these are the people we don’t forget.

The ones who say “I’m hurt yeah, but I’m not done yet”

The ones who fight through sweat. The ones with scars and broken jars of hearts and aces with a hundred faces of pain and regret and still they chant with stamping feet and mean glares “I’m not done yet!”

I’m not done being me, being to me your vicious problems and we’ll bring to you our war. We are survivors, legends and will be remembered.


© G.P Williamson 2018


It’s been a while…my desk has moved.

It’s been a while…my desk has moved.


Since I last posted we’ve had Christmas and the last trimester to wage war and battle through. (Ok so I’ve done more of the waging war and less of the battling through but we’re all getting there.) My desk has vanished and been replaced by a shiny new baby change unit the second which is cool but we’re all scared of scratching it so I’m only allowed my laptop on my knee at the moment. (Don’t be deceived I am definitely the man of the house) It’s just I’m the man of the house when she’s not here. You thought all my provocative dominating style poetry was a genuine handsome, amazing, charismatic, powerful and real character didn’t you? You’d be right of course but she’s the boss and she knows it.

In other amazing news I’ve finally got to the stage where I’m not concerned anymore about telling everyone I’ve written my autobiography. A book that’s taken me over four years to complete! It’s finished, it’s edited, it’s been read at least eighteen million times by me and it’s been sent off to several publishers. (I’m new to the game bar a bit of self publishing so hey, slap your advice right down there in the comments section or if you really want to help just share this post.) It’s called “Checkmate” and I’ve had four come back with great comments but not perfect offers. I’ve yet to look into agents but we’ve decided we’ll give it a year and see what happens. The important thing for me is “I loved writing it and it is accomplishment” I hope one day you’ll enjoy reading it just as much.

Poetry (loosely termed) will always be my go to for instant gratification (In a writing sense!) because of my love of art therapy. The instant buzz of releasing all those emotions over the page. However I do write fiction and short stories too, I just tend to have a rhyming bug. I think it stems from having a stutter as a child where I couldn’t get words out at all after being mute for over a year (more in my book.) So now I tend to think in rhyme when it comes to writing which then makes it easier to describe events which hold emotional connections. I guess it removes some of the emotion from it by making it funny. (More on Art therapy, Nigel Mottram and my old issues later) for new issues of my work…. keep reading.

So the next few posts although will contain your ample dose of snippets, therapy and poetry. They’ll also include some random short stories and weird symbolic ramblings. Wait until baby two terms up, I’ll be sleep deprived, holding down a full-time job and updating my blog….aren’t you lucky?

– G.P Williamson.



poems, Uncategorized

Aindrias Séamus Ó Broin

Aindrias Séamus Ó Broin


It was no life of PI, although one could be deceived, if they took these facts and made them make believe.

I’d say it started with a rumour but that would not be true. It started in a little town as most good stories do.

A row of houses down one side of the road. It’s name etched in my mind like every story I have told.

A pub was around the corner, “The Golden Lion” was it’s name. Another at the other end who’s name was not the same.

Daylight brought the gobby lads and Kirby into play. The safety of community alive with light of day.

Darkness locked the doors where everyone seemed to hide. We locked away our fears from the noises left outside.

The hooligans brought havoc, fanatics at their best. More than once we took them in with knives still in their chests.

My story has begun as a three feet tall young lad. I dreamt to be a gardener like my super strong granddad.

It wasn’t meant to be as I watched his wife pass before. Gone was any trace of the man I’d known before.

I heard the music play as I’d listen every night. Beneath the sobs of sorry I pleaded, It’s alright.

We made a pact I wouldn’t share the tales that he had told. That he could trust the feeble mind of mine at nine years old.

Christmas came and what it held was not at all that clear. All we wanted was not there. No space for Christmas cheer.

Half a family rhyming like poetic injustice. We floated by like a paper that’s listless. Useful for nothing but sorrow filled witness.

We spoke of the future but not believe it we could. He couldn’t envision a life as he should. He tripped in the darkness an accidental nightmare and just like my Nan he no longer was there.

An egg cracked the silence or a heart or a soul. I couldn’t quite fathom but I wasn’t quite whole. A secret I promised I’d never quite share. Yet he wasn’t here and I wasn’t quite there.

© G.P Williamson 2017


poems, Uncategorized

Universe eyes

Universe eyes


Their were stars in her eyes. Satellites of her mind.

One for freedom, one for love one for forgiveness and on they went tantalising and radiant.

Ever growing and ever present.

All of which shared the common energy of care.

Of all our interactions, subtle indiscretions and memorable moments the only one I recall in totality is thus.

She trembled at my touch.


© G.P Williamson 2017


I don’t know why


I don’t know why


I don’t know why they call it death, I’m still here.

I can still see you crying from where I am, with you.

Why can’t I hold or touch you?

Well it’s just like there.

I can ask all the questions but I don’t have all the answers.

There’s a belief, well a few actually, each tends to involve a magic birth and a kind of return, some speak of a whole new conjoined world.

Truth is I watch you cry and feel your tears, I remember every minute of every year.

I believe in you.

You’ll do great things now as you did before I left, and I’ll love you just as much if not more each day.

Come what may.

You don’t believe where I am now is a place I can stay?

Oh no, it doesn’t work that way…

I forgave my ancestors for the pain I’d seen.

So I get an eternity token it’s like a giant pinball machine.

This token gives three rolls of the dice, a card to draw, a stack to play then three balls more.

Each ball can hit a bonus or a replay slot.

It’s like recieving an extension on a life we haven’t got.

I forgave myself (Forgiveness is a regular theme) for the things I’d done and made people see.

So I got another token, that’s three plus three.

This process continues through a library of options but if I’m honest I wasn’t much good at owt else.

So I left with six balls and played them through, of that I lost four so then I had two.

That’s why I’m stood here watching you.

Ten minutes in eternity as the token’s sky blue.

I watched you grow, love and mourn.

I watched you win, grow and fall.

I watched you marry have kids and losses.

I watched you stand up like a boss.

I watched you teach them, watched them grown.

Happy for all the things you went on to show.

Life everlasting us having you would mean.

You’re my angel, my princess, my queen and went on to birth for the team.

I watched them grow.

I watched you lie.

It was nearly your time to die.

I watched them pull near, I watched them mourn, you were near the edge when my idea was born.

A hand in my pocked I discovered at ten minutes into eternity had nearly gone by.

I was lucky by comparison and a fool I was not.

I placed that last ball in a circular pot.

I released as it chimed to accept my last plight.

It spun to the left and rolled to the right.

Down a tube of existence, through nine birth’s of creation it landed on “Granted” to my exhileration.

Twenty more years you’d get with the team and I’d get to watch from here in between.

So back to your question, why am I here?

I can ask all the questions but the answer’s quite clear.



© G.P Williamson 2017