In the sea you bury yourself in the suns rays pretending the heat doesn’t get to you.

Your warm escapism always told such lies.

The pages crisp up and brown off as the leaves turn a new autumn morning to parent a new story without warning.

Your glory empties the seashore of all the love we had before.

Tied to a vast plain where the thirst kisses the rain where we were meant to renew,

Again and again and again and…

© G.P Williamson 2017

poems, Scribblings and squabblings

The man who’s imagination has no limits. – Long! – Share your creativity.

I was reading through some word prompts on Reddit, someone had simply typed for half an hour without editing anything and then shared it. They’d challenged people to do the same. As much as it’s easy enough to write about something and share it. It’s actually much harder to not give yourself any barriers. Something too gory? too mature? too soft or sappy? There’s always something people are embarrassed about sharing and I find the act of writing extremely freeing of feelings when I write without barriers and let my imagination run free.

The man who’s imagination has no limits – Long!


The man who’s imagination has no limits plays guitar bareback on a flying rhino whilst he plays Quidditch, eats constellations for breakfast and burps rainbows into bubblegum words, aries, virgo, Scorpio, fits random words into seemingly ordinary sentences. A pretext so you won’t notice alienated appendages.

The wrist with three hands that play flute, xylophone and a one man band. The quicksand that defied lies and flies to heliumated skies that make hearts rise, until the sun itself cries fireballs of hope and glory, spreads fiery ink to every horror story.

The diamond ruby that rotates with freight the bigger the fear the faster the starry night. The man who’s imagination has no limits takes a black box and fits within it. The daylight with a rubber skeleton, chatting teeth, a copy of Who framed Roger Rabbit and a rubber chicken. Then a black box to put the black box in.

Sewn closed with that model’s pantyhose and locked the door to where teenage boys metamorphose. Waiting in line for show time as front of house staff mime. Walking drones, ghost faces where white paint hides demonic shadows. Night time in the froze cold.

People up and leave the clothes stay. Ghost emissions from a failed day. Up tight, creased and upright, air holed in the cold night and they begin to march eerily as I cling on to reality.

I write, a notepad on an old figure, a stick dad. Butterfly pieces chip off and fly making the sky sad and I’m glad they’re free. Stip, step, stomping up a chair like tree. Virgo, Virgo, Aries, free! Mummy, daughter, baby, me!

The man who’s imagination holds no limits escapes from the coffin where his demons grimace. Run’s through a wall, down a hall ten pins a million faces like a bullet cannonball. Every relinquished anger melts away in candlelit beauty whilst the pain harnesses the energy of the Athame acutely.

Transmogrified curls to spectral swirls as you kiss my skin and it burns and burns. Eyes on needle pins like cocktail olives, glass piled apples and blood wormed oranges, faces of fruit made wonder grimace and scream as they pull me under.

Poltergeist meets Exorcist in a fantasy about a boy. Child’s play an Omen to my new puppy’s chew toy. I babysit a crimson rainbow in my heart, an explosion of such unity the whole world blown apart.

The man who’s imagination holds no limits can’t fall apart. The car always starts, replaced parts, pumping hearts, grey brain membranes to veins from mind darts. Arrows take us back from bows that over react to where that show starts. Stood in ghost queues with a note pad as the curtains pull back. Pitch black with bright white lights that knock your eyes back.

A scouser’s overheard “fifteen quid for this what’s the crack lad?” As a car lifts up and takes off of it’s own accord leaving stilted bricks and chased by securicar. We’re at the stage door. I paid doubloons to get in. It was pirated and my feet stuck to pink ink as I was swallowed whole.

I emerged on a football field where I couldn’t score a goal. I went around the whole team floating aimlessly like a ghost in a day dream. I sang, I waved, I grabbed centre stage, nobody understood they couldn’t see that I was caged.

We play games on phones we use to communicate, despise the levels we take too long to make for fake cash – originate. We share with friends who we love to hate.

The man who’s imagination has no limits taints daydreams for a living. Fractures inaccurate memories of stagnate loves, takes hardworking mothers – rough. Swears the innocence of truth by the holy book. Aspires for perfection by hook or by crook. Unless you beg for mercy he won’t even turn his head to look.

Nicotine stained pillows of mediocre loves. That’s just one of the many things he does. It transpires that after hours of lies from an ancient book, he was just reciting old lines from an oath he took. He couldn’t explain himself but he could write his own book.

The man who’s imagination had no limits found holes in his life like a bad dentist couldn’t fill it. Churning chips to molten lava in a bid not to be his father. Matrix style encompassing the whole to re emerge, re ignore. Spite the poor goals, broken jaw bones like ember ridden hot coals.

From where did you think the soul grows? Imaginations fills all  holes.

Where fate, religion and belief take hold! A candlelit dinner for two and conversation about imagination gave me, gave me you. A deal for two.

Set yourself just half an hour to write with freedom, no judging no warnings no holding back or point scoring. No rights and wrongs no too tame or too gory. Just write – share with me your story.


© G.P Williamson 2017


Scribblings and squabblings

What is Art?

What is art?


An actual blog post…for a change.

I’ve been thinking a lot about art recently and synchronicity…but mainly art.

Synchronicity doesn’t take much thinking about really as it’s what we decide to make of it. It’s automatic like viewing a
scene in a book we don’t usually question what color the walls are in a scene with two lovers arguing we just see it. Synchronicity
is no different. We see a feather and interpret it as some kind of message or nothing at all. It’s automatic.

Yet art…what is it? Seriously I know zero about art and from all the people I speak to who know something about art it seems
the information goes right over my head or in fact that they don’t really know what it is either. Yet the one thing that crops up time
and time again is passion… I’ve heard several people this past week say some kind of variation to “I have to do it”, “It’s a part of me” or
“the painting wanted me to.”

I even found myself having written “It wasn’t supposed to be a sci fi short story but it’s the way the story wanted to go” in an E-Mail to my friend.

Looking back I knew exactly what I meant and yet trying to explain what I meant to someone else? almost impossible.

What brought me to this over balanced thought process?

I recently started a new job basically running warehouses again for a major supermarket. There’s a lot more to it than that of course but it’s basically
my old job jazzed up a bit with better pay and more benefits. The training is great and the team are functional. I’m enjoying the new learning curve and
the potential isn’t bad either.

However as soon as I told those close to me I heard “You’re an artist! why are you working again?”, “but, but…your books?”, “Gary…are you sure? I mean…what about
your writing?” and others which made me feel great and a little confused. An artist? *raises eyebrow*

If anyone reading this knows me you’ll know my writing isn’t planned. I don’t take notes and write out a poem and then edit it forty times before I blog it. I grab a pen
on the fly and throw on the page what enters my head and then carry on with whatever I’m doing. Later I type it up and put it online…usually a lot later. I have more than twenty
these past few days that never seem to hit a pc due to time.

I’m totally self assured in my passion for what I do. I give a hundred and ten percent to being a father, my job and my writing. Time seems to be against me on many fronts and I’m sure
loads of authors feel the same. I have an autobiography that’s ninety percent complete and just needs editing…don’t you just love editing?

Another two poetry books ready to hit the pc which haven’t been completely typed up yet, my supermarket job and my little girl who’s teething (yippee!! Teeth! coochy coo!) for about a week
until the sneezing and snotty nose starts and the worry kicks in and then the watery eye due to tooth pain. Then someone mentions meningitis and my brain explodes into fragments of “what if?”
travelling twice the speed of light in all directions until someone qualified says “she’s just teething. She’s fine” and my mind settles again into “why haven’t I finished that book yet?”

So an artist? Thank you. I am honored (I think..) However no…I’m a guy who jots down thoughts, tells stories, writes because he feels it, see’s it and yes I’ll admit…needs to write.
As much as I’d love to be of the kin that says “I write for you and all the people who love my work”….it’s not true. I write because I love it, the stroke of the pen, the sound of certain
words strung together, the release of feelings hitting the page and mesmerisingly – never knowing what is going to hit the page until I stop writing! That feeling is magical and if I didn’t have
the medium of the internet to share my notes. I’d write anyway.

With this update given I owe a couple of you apologies..and these guys….these guys are artists.


Ben Adams – I haven’t had time to read it yet! I’ve come accross a million and one reviews online about your book and the second I get a spare moment I’ll be throwing myself into the amazing world I
know you’ve created. I know because I’ve read all the extracts I can find online but not risked taking the book in the bath yet! I will say whoever wrote the review “2 stars because I don’t like the way
he refers to his ex wife as “my ex” throughout the book” was a legend though….and probably your ex wife. Had me laughing almost as much as your “sanctimonious self help book” line.

Find out what all the fuss is about here – www.benadamsauthor.com


Nigel I said I wouldn’t embaress you by putting this picture of you and I online…. I lied. So for that I’m also sorry….kinda.

Another reason art kept cropping up for me recently was because I was lucky enough to have an amazing art therapist as a child. A man who enabled me through the medium of art to speak about things which ought not be spoken about (no…not Voldemort)..
He allowed me the freedom to express lots of emotions in a perfect environment when at home I was for whatever reason surrounded by people who thought children shouldn’t have freedom of expression and their
emotions weren’t worth listening to. By the end of our sessions I was still a messed up kid but a messed up older, wiser kid with a can do attitude instead of a “I’m not worth it” attitude. This guy enabled me to find self worth or rather – his use of art did.

It was twenty years later my wife showed me a link she’d found online http://www.awol-studios.co.uk/residents/nigel-patrick-mottram and to be fair I was gobsmacked. One because I looked for him a few years ago simply to say thank you for all the work he did and couldn’t find him anywhere and two because he replied to my mail and we had a chat on the phone…a few months later we were sat in The Doric Arch enjoying a beer and reminiscing over old times. Turns out he’s an artist and in my artistically uneducated opinion, a damn good one.


His studio is open more times than not and
a simple hello will often prompt a four hour conversation on anything and everything from symbolism in religious studies to the potential of alternate realities. If you’ve not been to see his work – It’s worth a visit if you’re in the area and if you have a “Nigel” story to tell – feel free to comment.
His adventures always entertain me. Perhaps you’re an old client? a superior survivor or just someone who’s had the good fortune of a brief chat in passing. His interactions are always unique.

Finally amongst the many changes that have recently occured in my life albeit all great and positive, have for one reason or another meant less time writing. Has been the new (ish) communication with my siblings. New communication with siblings? sounds very formal Gary…that’s not right.
You’re quite right… it’s not right. However it has worked out perfectly. We were split up years ago (see more in my autobiography)… and didn’t get back in touch for around eighteen years. We had a lot to catch up on.. how had he coped with all we had to go through? What challenges had he met?
Well quite ironically he’s also become an artist..of the mind. He currently helps people via videoblog whilst also running his cleaning business. He aims to become a therapist. You can see what he has to say about the world right here.



what is art? I have no idea.

However with my love of the written word I couldn’t not put an excerpt from one of my favourite authors.

“May you have the courage to listen to the voice of desire. That disturbs you when you have settled for something safe” – Benedictus by John O’Donohue. http://www.johnodonohue.com/

My scribblings…they are my voice of desire. forever challenging, changing and growing.

Gareth Williamson.


I can’t be sad today! (Poem for Samm)

I can’t be sad today.

Tomorrow you are here,
In the thoughts of yesterday,
Each and every year.

I can’t be sad today

Tomorrow is profound.
In the thoughts of yesterday,
Each moment all year round.

I can’t be sad today.

Tomorrow doesn’t live.
Each moment is as precious as the life I’m born to live.

I can’t be sad today.

I don’t choose it so,
Neither should the person with nowhere left to go.

I can’t be sad today.

I’m inspired by a memory.
Forgotten like a dream.
Harnessed in a heartbeat.
That’s more than what it seems.

I can’t be sad today.
That world does not exist.
I refuse to be a burden to this life I chose, persist!

I am not sad today.
Each moment here’s a choice.
Listen to the echo’s of that inner deeper voice.

copyright G.P Williamson 2014.

Www.gpwpoetry.wix.com/gpwpoetry A poem provided for Samm (support after murder and manslaughter)




You can find more of my work on Facebook GpwPoetry.