One day baby, one day.

One day baby, one day.


One day you’ll read me when questioning your own sanity.

Your own reasons for doing things and think that I’m quite mad.

I’m not, you’re perfect. It does happen to other people.

You’re not alone.

You will be okay and I do love you.

Besides, of course you’re crazy.

I’m your dad.

© G.P Williamson 2018


Things my four year old said (Ongoing)

Things my four year old has said.


I literally have a diary just for her of random things she’s done or come out with that tickle me. However I’ve not touched it in a while and somewhere along the line little things she’s said got added to my poetry books in margins or above writing. It’s about time they had their own little space. I’m sure it will be added to frequently.

D: “Daddy I don’t like you”

Me: “That’s not nice baby, don’t tell mummy or daddy you don’t like them. It’s not nice”

D: “I like mummy”


D: “Marrying each other is like dancing because dancing is marrying and marrying is a dance”


D: “I didn’t dream daddy, someone took all my dreams away!”


Me: “What are you doing baby?” (She was pulling very scary faces and generally staring at me)

D: “My teddy’s teached me it”


D: “Dad leave Cbeebies on”

Me: “No, I want to watch something else baby”

D: “No you don’t you want to watch Cbeebies with me”



-G.P Williamson.





Beautiful bird.

Written with my four year old. I was asking her what she wanted me to write about for her and she was telling me.

Beautiful bird.

3rd March

She’s a beautiful bird.

How high can she fly?

A him or a her?

Do we know why?

What’s in her name?

Who will she be?

Called Odessia to you or to me.

Where oh where did you find that name?

Pinkalicious Rose said it couldn’t be the same.

Where will she fly?

What will she do?

Back flip flies and reach the sky too.

Reach very high with colorful rainbows as she laughs but never cries.

She does lip flips, nose flips and eye flips too.

She flips all the body parts but hasn’t got a clue.

She’s pure imagination that could only come from you.

© G.P Williamson 2018

Short poems

lethality, a vicious fatality.

Lethality, a vicious fatality.

14th February 2018

Like a frightening form of greased lightning.

You stole my soul and birthed a pocket troll that made my whole world a completed goal.

Then another daughter to a father of a treasured feather lover.

Rekindled faith in human kind where a black mind resides behind the curtains of open lands in places I can’t find.

Unity the symbol of a snake eating its tail, ting yang balance and the relationship absails.

Pales in comparison to a million hues of colorful rainbows and there out the window like a stray balloon it goes…

I’ve tried every resource I’ve ever known.

You’re not lifting me up and that’s not home.

I’d turn two faced to a half mirror for a priceless artifact I can’t replace.

Drag that damn car from outer space with Primarks own make shoelaces but my children?

Touch once in the venomous tongue of evil and face the wrath of one movement, no pain just fast and lethal.

© G.P Williamson 2018

Short poems

Home – Where the heart is.

Home – Where the heart is.


I’m home – Where the heart is.

Where the start begins and the buried rests.

Where time stops and stress is caressed.

Where the unplanned becomes extraordinary.

Where if you’re back late we extra worry.

Where the colours paint their own story in scarred knees and fallen leaves, autumn days and broken dreams.

Tear filled chalice. Captured presence. No such malice.

Treasure our difference.

© G.P Williamson 2018




Ice skating, dancing doves.

Ice skating, dancing doves.

10th February 2018


Like a sea-saw with give and take, equal weights where the roundabout turns at the hands of fate and we trust adults because, you know, it’s not too late.

We “Heads, shoulders, knees and toes” kiss trees and hug rainbows, watch fairy’s dance and…where did the time go?

Ice skating, dancing doves. Christmas eve, hot chocolate mugs.

Spicy aroma, not alone.

Family noises, a warm log fire home.

Like a sea-saw with give and take,  a bouncy trust continues late. When you can’t stand your hand I’ll clasp. We’ll “ring a ring a rosy” until our last.

© G.P Williamson 2018


Growing up.

Growing up.

20th January 2018

It doesn’t feel like I’ll be back this week.

You’ve grown to that point that rounded angelic figurine that’s about to peak.

Each fall, held wall, balance act sickness in free fall. He stands tall. Wobblers thrown, marked tears, accusations and irrational fears. If she’s a girl he has this plus another sixteen years.

He switches gears.

A father feels the gains and losses. Stands stoic with a cup he make believe’s a chalice.

He’s there when she can’t fall.

When she’s one foot tall.

When she can’t balance.

There when it’s “Pick me up” and “Can I sit on the side?”

There when those moments stop because “I’m a big girl now dad!” and a tear he hides.

The world’s growing up and expanding he’s not as needed as he once was, as much as there’s much love.

He fears the landing.

“Dad build a tower”

“Dad lets go out”

“Dad Can I have?”

She’s become demanding, Ipad raging, storytime with Cbeebies line by line. Educational needs “Don’t touch dad that’s mine!” learning to share. “That’s not fair!” and “Come here blow your nose there’s snot everywhere!”

“I don’t care!” It’s bedtime and I’ve repeated a hundred times to eat your tea.

Now she’s copying me cleaning my teeth “No baby, watch. Just like me”

“Dad I’m a big girl, will you read to me?”

“Of course baby, hug?”

“Goodnight dad”

“Snug as a bug in a rug”

© G.P Williamson 2018