poems

Confidence capsized.

Confidence capsized.

19/08/13

Confidence capsized only truth through a lovers eyes supporting viaducts that do not work.

No transport chain, no way to work.

Confidence abundant change the word, pick up the trident.

Shower the world with aqueduct tears.

For you, for the dancing for the cheers.

Same again and same again moody blues to numb the pain.

Meditation, witchcraft, therapy and a forced laugh.

Age old clouds in my head surely I’d be better off – wait a minute, time to sin?

Welcome old friend fate, let it win. Who’s to say it’ll have the last laugh?

You might feel stupid but you’re certainly not daft.

The glint in your eyes from power not cries you know that’s where the confidence lies.

It’s not in the lines nor all in a book it’s deep in the soul you’ll find in my look.

© 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

Height Asphyxiation

Height Asphyxiation

11/11/17

Like a reminder of my youth the noise doesn’t stop.

Magnified like a beam in the ant’s rays.

I’d turn the other cheek but the memory stays.

Boiling, kids screaming, running riot, unlistening demons rising like allergic reactions to crushed crustaceans.

Can’t breath, terrified of the asphyxiation.

I breath in a fake exhalation. All bad air and no reprieve.

Broken, frozen and deceived.

The screaming couldn’t get any higher and I wince as it reaches the top.

Like a reminder of my youth the noise doesn’t stop.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

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poems

Universe throat.

Universe throat

She couldn’t speak.

The universe lodged itself in her throat like a place she didn’t belong.

Like the southern border to a northern song.

Every hurt she held was a riddle to his wrong.

A candle rode her shadow in a place as dark as home.

Clutching to his memory so she’d never feel alone.

The planet turned a moment in a place it didn’t belong to listen to the innocence of another lovers song.

© G.P Williamson 2017

 

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poems

Food War.

Food War.

15/10/17

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

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poems

I don’t mind the pictures.

06/10/17

I don’t mind the pictures.

They’re easily faked.

The video’s I can handle.

It’s the sound I can’t take.

A voice of the absurd.

A thousand telling off’s I didn’t deserve.

My own voice, I try to swerve.

I am dumbfounded by the sound of diminished responsibility.

The reasons they gave for him sounding like me.

I’d say the reverse but wouldn’t it be perverse if his blood wasn’t the curse?

It dries quickly, too thickly and stains robes that turn grown men into bean poles.

Then they ask where the hope goes…

When he knows there’s no bottom to those souls.

That’s where my roots hold.

Grip tight, grow stronger.

Learnt to fight, follow the sun.

Daylight.

Flower power insight.

What’s morally right?

Choice of hindsight.

preconceived ideas all these years fraught off the tears from road blocks to broken locks, untimely clocks all the while not realising I say when this show starts and stops!

Hopscotch.

Sticklebacks.

Ringworm.

Over react.

Just don’t judge the show by the cataracts when the main act bleached his voice black.

I never really sounded like that.

I don’t mind the pictures they’re easily faked.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

 

 

 

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poems

Coast to Coast.

Coast to Coast.

28/09/17

Coast to coast.

Wasted drench coat in the heat I love the most.

Can’t feel beyond the dull breeze of tomorrow.

Where will all the rainbows hide?

Water down a children’s slide with no child in view.

All the things you fail to see are because they once were you.

I cannot give up forgetting to remember.

All of my dreams were born in September.

Coast to Coast

wasted drench coat in the heat I love the most.

Frost bite’s nightly.

We sleep alone in quietness the deafening bustle is unsightly.

I’d ignite a flame but the passion passed right by me.

Come to me, find recourse. Elaborate on the misgiving’s move on – clear remorse.

Too easy for the statue of liberty.

Cold stone hearted no emotion all cold and fool hardy.

Broken swords on open books from lyrical stories with souls on hooks, dangling gangly, wriggling in the open air all painful and full view.

One of which is me.

The other’s we’re through.

I can’t see your soul, what happened to you?

Masquerade the sad parade. Happy sad and start to fade.

Nightmarish dreams children’s screams.

Were you ever what you seemed?

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

 

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