poems, Short poems

Lost the indefinite version.

Lost the indefinite version.

02/12/17

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

 

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poems, Short poems

It truly is not fair.

It truly is not fair.

01/12/17

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

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poems

Those two girls before me.

Those two girls before me.

11/11/17

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

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poems

Like me.

Like me.

05/10/17

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

 

 

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poems

That’s not a man

That’s not a man

19/07/17

Bad mouthing – real mature.

Like the MCcoys man with a manicure and fake tan.

That’s not a real man.

That’s jelousy, I dare say it.

Admittance, that’s the stereotype of the person I wish I’d been,

Someone they’d seen, famous not just a ghost in the machine.

Write parrallels where truth’s smell and I can’t tell if I’m doing well as I slip deeper down one more step to hell.

No ego! Remove that voice.

It’s the curse that causes the hearse to reverse, back up and reverse again.

You should be the mature one.

There’s only memories of things you’ve done not photograph’s.

Each breath should be like your last.

Make it, make it last.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

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poems

Coffin Lid

Coffin Lid

24/06/2017

I can’t be the one to close the coffin lid.

I can’t because I’ll remember your eyes.

The way they used to look at me, and how they look at me now in my mind’s eye when I’ve not even thought about closing yet for fear,

fear of penetrating the cling film lid of your beauty.

Beauty which held a building, made a flat a home an apartment a womb, mind a soul and a family a tomb.

Beauty which would blossom if you’d let us live.

Forget it.

Instead we make beds for empty spaces, time killing eclipses where legs don’t run races.

Sweet goodnights with no kisses and two faces.

I can’t close the lid for it holding the rose we proposed.

The butterfly kisses on cake facet mixes and wall’s we affixed, painting’s transfixed of photo’s – we exist!

Before we betwixt, half way down the list where now you resist the touch of my kiss.

I can’t close the lid.

Rise from the ashes!

This family bashing is causing alarm our foundation is crashing whilst you’re just relaxing, doesn’t it mean a thing?

This wedding ring?

Your pheonix won’t sing to your last hopeful king?

Suffocating in style the cover’s worthwhile.

The writing does suffer as I watch all the others, Where I seem to smother you, still do not bother.

Aaaargh! I’d growl to the ether if the spirits were kind but this is not our first time at rewind.

I’m better off unable.

A dead horse in a stable.

I’m here to be used but I’d rather be intune to a respected connection a belonging with you.

I can’t close the lid.

F*ck you I’m past caring.

My daughter’s my heartbeat and that life I am sharing.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

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poems

Naughty word (Graphic Short)

Naughty word.

02/06/2017

I called him a naughty word because like a glove it fit so tightly.

Tightly like a hand clasped firm around his throat.

Squeezing the truth like verbal juice from caricature to fact into a hypothetical bible of purity.

Purity – the truth of the words rather than the words themselves.

I called him a naughty word because like a glove it fit.

©G.P Williamson 2017

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