Short poems

My mini Me.

My mini Me.


She lies like a mini me.

Spins webs of deceit with a sweet clarity.

Tries to stare me out just like I used to do to you.

Her strength is so admirable and yet she never knew, she never had anything she’d need to fight against or stand up to.

Yet here she is, a mini embodiment of both me and you.

© G.P Williamson 2018

poems, Short poems





She’s watching Mr Tumble.

She’s drawing on the wall.

She’s tapping on the door and dancing in the hall.

She’s sleeping like a baby.

She’s excited at the rain.

She’s every ounce of hope I’d lost.

She’s every reward I’ll ever gain.

© G.P Williamson 2017

Graphic, poems

Lake feet


Lake feet


She stood in the lake and pondered.

What kind of man he’d be?

Fishing with the sticklebacks on boats just made for three?

Crying over whiskey on nights out with the girls?

Hold her with the strength that a soldier shows his girl.

Sing her deep sweet songs with his fingers in her curls.

She stood in the lake and pondered the kind of man he’d be.

She waited day and night for him to set her free.

© G.P Williamson 2017

Parenting, poems

Beautiful banality

Beautiful banality


Ten minutes is a long time for a young girl to sit quietly and think whilst tugging her curls.

Buzzing on candy overload, not understanding.

How was shouting naughty?

That’s how you reprimand me?

I’m being told off in a thousand words,

I don’t understand three.

I’m not being noisy I’m playing keyboard.

I’m sorry it’s too loud I’ll use the guitar….

Can’t think for half a second’s quick space of none banality.

Hoped to rain an analogy of half decent quality.

Dad, dad, dad, dad, dad?

“Yes baby?”

“What’s a family?”


© G.P Williamson 2017


The Good Doll

The Good Doll


Dainty was the correct term despite the word being one I’d yet to learn.

I was five and small, my dress below the ankles was dragged along the hall.

The window wept sunlight warming my hair.

I was small but she was dainty.

Scarlet I called her because I knew no other.

We played by ourselves and played with our mother.


© G.P Williamson 2017




The Language of Children


The smiles are the same everywhere.

When you watch me and my daughter.

Tilted heads with tight lips as though you’re hiding laughter.


A close bond,

compassionate connections.

something we’re all looking after.


I see you as you watch us.

I feel your warm eyes within.

The chemistry pronounces something…….

……something which makes us kin.


Language is no barrier.

It matters not Italian or Pole.

There’s magic in a high five which makes all people whole.


There’s innocence in knowing

“I’m nearly 4 today!”

Everyone remembers,

wishing older every day.


Returning home from work.

A limp dandelion on the side.

“I got you a flower Daddy!”

She sparkles – eyes open wide!


I smile with cosmic flawlessness.

My ocean of pride is full.

It’s then they fail to pay me and I watch her eyes turn dull.


The shades of green turn softer.

Delicate meadows, now replaced with a simple kind of hopelessness.

A tear down her face.


She now doesn’t understand why the Theatre is off bounds.

Why she cannot dance with Elsa to the tune of Disneyland.


The language of children.

“I want to laugh and play”

Tainted by our adult world

which turns its face away.


I’m dissappointed in the aftermath.

But never in my girl.

She’s a special kind of perfect in a bitter, sour world.


Copyright G.P Williamson 2017



It’s the most wonderful time of year.

It’s the most wonderful time of year

It’s the most wonderful time of year.

I awoke to bright lights.
Diamonds sparkling in my wife’s eyes.
Toe to toe at the window pane.
Blankets of snow.
A clean finger through a window frame.

Chicken soup with a fusion of herbs.
Warm hands on hearts.
Touching fingertips to lips.
I love you.
Share gifts.
Unwrapping starts.

My angel gazes at the twinkling tree, her bottle and back to me.
Defiantly amazed.
Glittery eyes meet.
Photograph by a real tree.
Keepsakes for eternity.

Crunching icy steps to Grandma’s house.
New wellies.
A smell of frankincense.
Chestnuts crackle.
Children scream in play.
Oblivion on Christmas day.

Clean napkins.
Extending table.
Help dish up if you’re able.
Granddad mourns the same old jokes.
Silent prayers to long gone folk.

A solitary sprout, perhaps there’s two.
Pull the crackers!
Charades too!
Giving thanks for more than food.
A moment shared around the world.

A coal fire burns down memory lane.
Past and present unite in flame.
Sleeping warm all cosy and tight.
Merry Christmas to all and to all Goodnight.

Copyright G.P Williamson 2014.