poems

The radios echo & other love goals.

The radios echo and other love goals.
29th July 2018

The radio goes and it’s my voice.
A debate, some farce or other.
There’s a time we could have bothered.
We never did and it’s all over.
You sigh through a candlelit window>
Where’s that time go? I should know and we don’t.
Bespoke fonts and trained daughters.
Loving wives and guilty fathers.
Nothing happened, the plans weren’t watered,
So nothing grows, nothing alters.
I understand the illusion, nothing’s right we couldn’t believe in,
So no start, no grieving.
You’ll smile that kindness wide too.
Vulnerable to hide looks and know you did the right thing.
Spark up a Hamlet and stroll home alone as some poor soul starts to sing about love’s goals.
© G.P Williamson 2018

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poems

Not the same you see.

Not the same you see.
12th July 2018

When you’ve lost so much you’re waiting to lose again.
Another time frame.
Another place.
Another girl.
Another face.
It doesn’t matter, it leaves a trace.
A fire love.
A chain of command.
An authority figure that stands and demands.
“You’ll not get close to me!”
“You I’ll not let in!”
A sergeants voice and a wide eyed grin.
A little girl hides inside with tears in her mind.
“I’ll get hurt again!”
“I’m sorry!, please tell me a different story.”
You’re there in between willing yourself to just be.
These people might not be the same as Lee.
When you’re alive but not free.
Suicide, suicide, suicide, see?

© G.P Williamson 2018

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Short poems

that heavy sigh laugh.

That heavy sigh laugh.

08/07/2018

It’s been a while since I sighed that heavy after laughing so hard your stomach aches.
Laugh we used to have sigh, aye.
It’s been a while because I filed it inside a cry.
It gets too close to laugh, I don’t know why.
I pretend as I look at the sky trying to glimpse a memory.
It’s been a while.
I relive the end daily.
Remind me of that laughter, This teams banter gives me a time I’ve draft.
Maybe I’ll resign up at last and yet it couldn’t replace our old chats.
There’s a fear in that.
I’m not awkward I’m malnourished.
The unpublished memory of the you I cherished.
I know what I have and what I’m scared to have.
It’s been a while since I sighed that heavy sigh laugh.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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Short poems

Suicide reality.

Suicide reality.

08/06/2018

It’s been six years this year.
You never said goodbye.
No adios, no see you later.
Just vanished after everything like you so often had before, days turned to weeks then a message at my door.
You were no more.
You were no more.
I still find it weird.
Still expect you to just turn up demanding pizza and helping yourself.
I went to your funeral, it didn’t help.
You weren’t the type to kil yourself.
It’s been six years this year.
You never said goodbye.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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poems

They still mourn.

They still mourn.

24/06/2018

A thousand monks couldn’t heal her.

Kneeling in prayer, filling the air a cloud of fire and love for the world to share.

Scooped up, segregated and sliced part by part.

fed to her mind, body and heart.

Kept her in limbo, no wish to let her go.

Diana for queen.

Where did that time go?

The world mourned.

Parliament scorned as the public sadly grieved, unarmed.

We knew loss like we felt the reasons of price and cost.

It was too much.

Worked on and through adventure restrained.

Still nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Feeble reality, a world that will never be the same.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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Short poems

No Rewind.

No rewind.

19/06/2018

A light goes out behind their eyes.

That’s what it’s like to watch them die.

It leaves a mark right here inside that shimmers and lights then fails to hide,

And it leaves other things inside.

Be good, be strong, love, be kind.

We don’t live forever, there is no rewind.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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Short poems

My supernatural apparition

My Supernatural apparition

08/06/2018

I’ve tried remorseful apologies.

Forgiving eulogies and bagpipes with a twenty-four gun salute.

I’ve tried candles and wire.

Our old songs and no sunshine.

A few old lines at a time with fire.

I’ve tried the demonic press, the Ouija and a thousand rounds of pure duress to the back and the head and I confess.

My love for you has beyond transgressed.

Of this leaves the deepest impression,

You’re my favourite superstition.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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