poems

How fragile life is.

How fragile life is.

31/04/2018

More nervous because everything’s fine again.

I can shine and then go against his plan with tiny army men.

Waged war with a pen, threw myself at that wall and it hurt again.

The only blazing equation for this sanitary station as the O.C.D’s raging is to hand all my pages in!

I’d love to make believe I’m safe every night as I sleep.

Love to speculate the hands of fate, turn and everyone makes it before they get out.

That each has a turn at fame and riches, quality of life and fun filled bitches.

I’d love to believe any lie that keeps me high on the deceitful cloud nine, insisting my world is fine.

Instead I cry and cling tight to a ghostly image, I rage fight as truth and science pack my nightmares tight.

So hard to trust it when you know how fragile life is.

It can start and stop with a kiss.

A broken heart or a heartbeat missed.

It can live or die on a thistle or nettle.

It can traverse the universe like something special.

It can die in an eye blink of “why’s”, denial and tell me lies.

Make the world safe again stop the cries.

It’s so hard to trust when you don’t know where the knife is.

It’s so hard to trust when you know how fragile life is.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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poems

Jam Jar memoir.

Jam Jar Memoir.

31/03/18

Oh there’s now a stone cold rage that plagues the actions of yesterday.

I pray the crowd in the clouds comes forth holds hands, chants, heals the remorse.

I’ve missed the full force.

I’ve not connected in so long.

Losing you – was wrong.

I embrace, saving grace, the calmed, whiter, purer place.

Humming with clarity, unity, without society’s futility.

A place for me, belonging.

A new ship in a place we can’t swim. I dived right in.

A thousand notes in a Jam jar in a dusty corner of an old attic.

Reminiscent, all that’s left of me in a bespoke dynamic, an idea from the web that keeps me alive right here in your head.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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poems

I guess.

I guess.

23/03/18

I guess I’m mad because there’s not enough time for me to watch your grandchildren’s grandchildren grow old.

I know that’s nature.It’s not wrong.

I guess I’m mad, but I’m strong. You don’t have any time at all and here we are twenty-six years on.

A father, a friend, a lover, a son. Figuratively speaking what have you done?

You have no time. The sun’s not shone.

I guess I’m mad time’s not like cake. I can’t make more.

My slices you can’t take.

It’s probably for the best. I can’t bake.

I guess I’m mad, each year it’s still too late for me to save you.

Too late to fight the good fight make the wrong things right to say “Look mum here’s my daughter, hold her tight”

It’s too late, and the world’s still not right.

We still squabble about power and fame.

Monopoly games the E.U and bullshit time frames.

We imprison dog dads and comics for saying “Fags” and good dad’s who lose their kids to matter of fact lies from drunk b*tches with sperm eyes and each time we don’t kill a pedophile or inprison a killer a part of me hides, dies and lays dormant at the bottom of a dark ocean of doom to spark torment.

I guess I’m mad because like these comics I talk sh*t to to get a reaction sometimes. Choose words that aren’t wise and believe free speech should smack you between the eyes and have poetical justice.

The choice to blur the rules, change Haiku’s to two four two’s and do things others dare not do.

With words fool, then there’s you. Raping and killing, abusing the woman. The thrill you still walk the line of your doing no time and they wonder why I’m anti establishment they’re half of the crime.

I’m mad you won’t be read.

Mad you’re in the land of the free.

Give me three minutes.

Come take a walk with me.

© G.P Williamson 2018

 

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poems

Nothing more

Nothing more.

23/03/2018

I could see the innocence.

I could feel your warmth.

I could sense your touch

But nothing more.

I could hear you stir.

I could see you move.

I could watch you wave

But nothing more.

I could see them light up at your presence.

I could feel our distance manifest.

I could not touch a feeling, claim a belief in or smile unless leaving and……nothing more.

I was a rich man gone poor.

Like the dot had stopped but the illness prevailed.

I was trying to love but the how had set sailed….and nothing more.

I could see your perfection.

Could claim adoration.

I held with intention….but nothing more.

I stand a dramatic pose to a man I despised.

A mirror I faced to a man of lies.

Tears of hate

but nothing more.

I hated and hated despised and negated.

Photoshopped memories to empty church gates.

Grabbed myself by the balls and kicked myself back into shape

but nothing more.

I praised my achievements.

grieved for believements.

Stood up to my demons and screamed “I am not leaving!”

But nothing more.

I love you forever.

I love you, you treasure.

I love you small fry.

I love that you’re mine

And nothing more.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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poems

Macc Canal

Macc Canal

23/03/2018

Saying what you mean.

Meaning what you say.

Stray dreams of grey dogs by park benches and squashed frogs.

How sticklebacks have mean faces on Macc Canal of all places.

Trust disgraced on the back of shoe laces hidden by my childlike self.

Pump up sneakers and no place to be.

I didn’t say trainers – Americanize me.

I dream a dream of time gone by.

A glare a peak and then I fly.

It is too much to watch them die.

I still understand but don’t know why.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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poems

There will always be an Autumn.

There will always be an Autumn.

07/12/17

There will always be an Autumn, come winter, rain or shine.

They’ll always be an Autumn where the seasons cling to your eyes.

I watched you reading Austin, I watched you with Shakespeare.

I watched you read by candlelight, the night was oh so clear.

There will always be an Autumn, come winter, rain or shine because the first came second in the verses on the line.

There will always be an Autumn with the passing of my time.

© 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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