Short poems

lethality, a vicious fatality.

Lethality, a vicious fatality.

14th February 2018

Like a frightening form of greased lightning.

You stole my soul and birthed a pocket troll that made my whole world a completed goal.

Then another daughter to a father of a treasured feather lover.

Rekindled faith in human kind where a black mind resides behind the curtains of open lands in places I can’t find.

Unity the symbol of a snake eating its tail, ting yang balance and the relationship absails.

Pales in comparison to a million hues of colorful rainbows and there out the window like a stray balloon it goes…

I’ve tried every resource I’ve ever known.

You’re not lifting me up and that’s not home.

I’d turn two faced to a half mirror for a priceless artifact I can’t replace.

Drag that damn car from outer space with Primarks own make shoelaces but my children?

Touch once in the venomous tongue of evil and face the wrath of one movement, no pain just fast and lethal.

© G.P Williamson 2018


You’re old hat.

You’re old hat.


More respect than that I offered.

Two dishes, a whole meal. I opened my coffers and you spewed a pointless waste, an offer of two tastes which dictate the trust I misplaced.

You’re basically old hat, tit for tat, just another ten a penny slip and slide rat.

I gave you more credit.

I thought you were more than that.

Rude without wit.

Offensive without satire, cold without heat.

Passion with no desire.

I’d fumble with words if your coat I wanted to open.

I thought you unique.

You’re bespoke and broken.

Here’s a dollar at best you’re half of the token.

You want cold?

I’ve spoken.

© G.P Williamson 2018




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

poems, Short poems

Lost the indefinite version.

Lost the indefinite version.


Everyone’s okay and there’s nothing to hold, nothing to replace you.

Nothing in my soul.

Everyone’s ok and I can’t fathom the tree.

I’m looking up aimlessly, are you around to see?

They’re all trading tokens, you’re worth your weight in gold to me.

They’re all flying high and my weight’s a solidarity.

Begone the phantom humbug. I’ll put the jar back and turn that lid.

I’ll keep the feeling buried, for you’ll always be my kid.

© G.P Williamson 2017


poems, Short poems

It truly is not fair.

It truly is not fair.


One reel of lights, four boxes of baubles, a packet of icicles some snowflakes and four reindeers.

Five three meter lengths of tinsel, three packets of lamette and a Robin made of real feathers, which the children love to stroke. Yet you, you look down at me as the only memorable bauble like I’m some kind of irrational joke.

You sit there innocent on your string as the corals rage on and you don’t say a thing.

You just watch, a reminder of every wrong that was ever caused me. Each self defence moment gone too far, each family argument, each war. every fallen brother I can’t help but miss and the true loves of last year, week, lifetime for which I still ache to kiss. Then you turn slightly in the gentle breeze and I capture my image alive on my knees and I freeze.

Out of more etiquette than respect I Aikido bow. I believe only in myself and sometimes, sometimes even I don’t know how.

This year may be the best year yet and still I’d miss that I’d never have.  I wonder where the Angels keep you and who that you call dad.

© G.P Williamson 2017


Those two girls before me.

Those two girls before me.


I may have summoned the worst dug disgraces through hurt, worn the graveyard shift like a skin-tight shirt but what good is a blood stained rug, a cadaver of metamorphic good when love is your drug?

What use is the powerful alibi told straight faced with no lies, no perplexed pupils or two faced twitchy eyes when the whole world swallows up, cascades and crumbles and then dies?

Why do we rise this meteor through space on another’s imagination and still stand stoic without hesitation?

We’re germic warfare on the earth’s warm face. The acne fuelled puss, a volcanic disgrace. We take a pugs guts and make bagpipes for God’s sake.

Fisherman’s friends, empty and drawn forward on an empty boat that’s most haunted, pulled forwards through the dull waters and smiling back at me are both my daughters.

Those faces, those innocent wise eyes all previous lives and soul’s tied. All citizenship till the world dies. All open wide eyes from a place I can’t hide and no matter the hell hath no fury, blood curdling shame or horror story, no matter the morphic diseases that can’t cure me or the endless beating that last so long they start to bore me, I tell you what, you can even rip up my story because my heart,

My heart’s in those two girls before me.


© G.P Williamson 2017


Like me.

Like me.


Like me winter drifts through naturally.

Each year leaving its mark amongst its echo of memories.

Like me the sting sits warm as memories turn cold.

Reminders of curled toes, cocoa noses and ghostly pictures of spring roses.

Places adept at being close to our heart.

Another year over, another year starts.

Like me the snow cloaks, warms and protects at least once a year.

Until I set sail, curtail the emotional derailment in lieu of Christmas and all its merriment.

I guess I was never one for personal development.

Where’s the man who paints with his heart a family he can’t touch?

Where’s my own home? Photographic disasters, mistakes and a thankyou very much.

Like me winter drifts through crisp and clear.

Like me, just once a year.


© G.P Williamson 2017