Kites and Ghosts

Kites and Ghosts.


I stopped writing when we went to war.

Did battle day and night.

Stopped writing when the weather died.

The kite she dropped mid flight.

Red and sturdy on a backdrop of grey. She dropped to the earth, with a clatter she lay.

Still by the sidewalk in the middle of the road.

What had I done? How you would I hold?

They vanished in my minds eyes as reminders of my life.

Hollow little ghosts with a hollow little wife.

I could talk but couldn’t see.

My fingers through thin air.

I could listen, couldn’t hear like a cloud kissing a bear.

I fused a tangled daydream with the memory of a kiss.

Tied a noose of solitude and kissed goodbye to this.

How I stopped writing when we went to war.

The soldiers all heroic.

How I silenced the horns, the bugles won’t play, all broken, empty, stoic.

© G.P Williamson 2018

Short poems

Just Stay (Short)

 Just stay (Short)

14th February 2018

Just stay.

Stay out of the way.

Arguments come, they go.

Relationships fray.

Just stay.

Uneven carpets in uneven halls.

Cracks in broken, damaged walls.

Foundations strong, the cobbles sore.

Just stay.

Stay out of the way.

From eternity, just stay.

© 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

Scribblings and squabblings

Lord of the wedding rings.

Lord of the wedding rings.

15th January 2018

At first I figured he’d be a jeweller or a mad alchemist. The literal finder of that elixir which turns everything to gold. In face he was just a guy who spent the majority of his life in the shed banging pieces of metal together.

The ring from Lord of the rings must have been a wedding ring. Only marriage could cause that much trouble. He’d lift his head often and raise the rag to the light until it sparkled with perfection. Then he’d hit it agin for good luck like married men do the mistress.

You can spot them anywhere in their hoops and pearl necklaces. The upper class, the latter up the former. The bigger the hoop the bigger the required fulfilment. “Bitch!” He shouted under his breath a million times, until the air was fraught with tension, arguments, silent treatment and threats of who gets custody of the cat.

Several slammed doors and two broken plates, some torn clothes later and all was forgiven.

Back to the shed he’d been driven.

This we teach our children in a song we sang titled. “Dad’s lord of the wedding band”

© G.P Williamson 2018


Quiet before the storm.

Quiet before the storm.


The polite sentence requests a responce both calm and sensitive.

No adequate reply is given.

Safety is forbidden.

The night turns darker when accidents occur.

Bed ridden.

Unwalking, painful seizures.

Untalking, non speaking.

Victims of regular unthinking.


The polite sentence turns tense a new context part ruffled.

No adequate reply is given.

Safety is forbidden.

A tantrum thrown the hidden threat of repercussion shown.

The body language of potential violent undertone and….

….an adequate answer showing.

What once held no desire – now glowing.

An optimistic inspiration, a reason to start chasing.

Running to rescue the things we were misplacing.


© G.P Williamson 2017


lyrically incorrect.

Lyrically incorrect.



You were the change I expected.

The change I reacted to, moved with.

The change I wanted more as I had more to give.

Time to live, excited.

Forth right, reignited.

Came a flame for ions, smoke filled and ember burned and then the tide turned.

You changed pace, altered tides, changed positions and changed your mind.

No desire to travel, no dream of the big picture.

I’m left with the nine year itch on a six year suture.

Goodbye to the futre.

Rude and offensive that sh*t’s your shield, your great defensive.

That’s the description she gave of me.

Five years ago my wife to be.

Perhaps I should pull up my big boy pants and jog on.

If it wasn’t for my angel she’d be whistling goodbye to that train I’m on.


© G.P Williamson 2017



I’d run

I’d run


I’d run after you if I thought for a second you’d acknowledge the race.

Stick to the rules and just run in a straight line so we could meet at the end.

It doesn’t matter who wins as long as we’re beside each other and together….

Who am I kidding? You gave up ages ago, I’m running solo.

There’s three times three lanes to this and I never wanted her to have to compete let alone keep up.

We will see you at the finish line.


© G.P Williamson 2017