poems

Merry Christmas Princess.

Merry Christmas Princess.

11/12/17

Freezing, screaming obscene lashes of pain, vicious and beaming.

Waves both high and low crash face to “where’d the air go?” gasping billows, tearing cold like flesh has gone to bone filled stress.

Bones ache to breaking point as frozen gloves glow with frost mites. Hold tight the end’s in sight.

Day to night just breath and fight. Hold the reins and fain duress to the chimney breast creaks in duress and the hooves slowly come to a rest.

HoHo the jingle with a crimson chest and the lights shine twinkles as parents caress the last hair from eyes of their duchess.

Darkness falls to cocoa and destress, sleep falters as the barriers to imagination become less and less.

Merry Christmas Princess.

© 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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poems, Short poems

Serene dreams.

Serene dreams.

01/12/17

Tonight you’re serene like a sleepy dream on the leaf of a Christmas pine, in time with the melody of a forgotten rhyme.

The spirit friend rests with his head on your chest and I must confess I feel quite blessed.

I’ve acknowledged my harsh words like a flightless butterfly I mourn the reasons why and I cry.

Like tonight without cocoa or where the wind blows the outdoors with a runny nose, when I’m at the cinema alone with lovers in the new row.

I push them backwards part habit and part for the show. Part the expectation that everyone’s shallow.

But tonight, tonight you’re serene like a sleepy dream on the leaf of a Christmas pine in time with the melody of a forgotten rhyme.

© G.P Williamson 2017

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poems, Short poems

Rumour

Rumour

24/11/17

This rumour that I’m not well has left me sick.

Otherwise plagued with accuracy on the right track with black magic in candlelight I can’t hit back.

She smiles because yes – she’s all that.

Milky skin at Christmas I reminisce, the cocoa swirls I digest as she sits both free and congested in my chest, a heavy invisible would I’d not spend a day without and yet I must.

For the alternative, the alternative is to trust.

© G.P Williamson 2017

 

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poems, Short poems

Angelic Candles

Angelic Candles.

24/11/17

blangels

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Angelic Angels.

Demons floating blazing by.

Spinning, twirling, screaming high.

Closer ultimate faces of change.

Smiling, laughter, cackling, deranged.

Fire pit burns not far below

Through angel eyes is the Christmas window.

It may be sparkly, loving and warming.

The cold and the snow with the eggnog before me.

Be aware what you see may be calming, disarming.

To another conflicting and gone without warning.

© G.P Williamson 2017

 

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poems

Out with the old..

Out with the old…

Those several posts previous were obviously from my older notepads. I think I’ve found everything now that I’d written pre 2016 but there’s still some suitcases I’ve not been through. For now though… some more recent writings, opportunities, failings and successes.

Out with the old…

Creasy Bear.

Christmas time.

Endless trees.

The smell of pine.

Rolling hills covered in snow.

Cotton candy three feet below.

Every family this year.

Appears not quite just linear.

At first engaged my needle of hope.

With children in need and how they cope.

Then like dawn I opened my eyes and a crisp clear new morning was realised.

They aren’t the standard two point four, because and I should have known before, they are so much, so much more.

Merry Christmas to all you’re my candle – Goodnight. Merry Christmas to all like a family – alight.

© G.P Williamson 2017

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poems, Uncategorized

Aindrias Séamus Ó Broin

Aindrias Séamus Ó Broin

22/08/15

It was no life of PI, although one could be deceived, if they took these facts and made them make believe.

I’d say it started with a rumour but that would not be true. It started in a little town as most good stories do.

A row of houses down one side of the road. It’s name etched in my mind like every story I have told.

A pub was around the corner, “The Golden Lion” was it’s name. Another at the other end who’s name was not the same.

Daylight brought the gobby lads and Kirby into play. The safety of community alive with light of day.

Darkness locked the doors where everyone seemed to hide. We locked away our fears from the noises left outside.

The hooligans brought havoc, fanatics at their best. More than once we took them in with knives still in their chests.

My story has begun as a three feet tall young lad. I dreamt to be a gardener like my super strong granddad.

It wasn’t meant to be as I watched his wife pass before. Gone was any trace of the man I’d known before.

I heard the music play as I’d listen every night. Beneath the sobs of sorry I pleaded, It’s alright.

We made a pact I wouldn’t share the tales that he had told. That he could trust the feeble mind of mine at nine years old.

Christmas came and what it held was not at all that clear. All we wanted was not there. No space for Christmas cheer.

Half a family rhyming like poetic injustice. We floated by like a paper that’s listless. Useful for nothing but sorrow filled witness.

We spoke of the future but not believe it we could. He couldn’t envision a life as he should. He tripped in the darkness an accidental nightmare and just like my Nan he no longer was there.

An egg cracked the silence or a heart or a soul. I couldn’t quite fathom but I wasn’t quite whole. A secret I promised I’d never quite share. Yet he wasn’t here and I wasn’t quite there.

© G.P Williamson 2017

 

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