Oblivianic love

Oblivianic Love


He makes her cry as she sleeps with dry eyes.

Internal dialogue Why? Why?

Cascading mountain too heavy too daunting.

Memories floating, cackling and haunting.

Awake dear princess you’re almost free.

Chained and shacked where you’re supposed to be.

Lost to kingdom come.

To Oblivianic love.

From lust to confusion which was never enough.

He was her perfect.

She was his dove.

He was infatuated.

She was in love.

© G.P Williamson 2017

Tom Orrow

Tales of Tom Orrow – Knew

Tales of Tom Orrow


Tom Orrow knew he wasn’t man enough for her type of unorthodox endeavors.

Call him holy but an affair although his usual substance couldn’t drown the pain any more than whisky dulled the ache.

She may pretend her man doesn’t exist with the distraction of other men but he knew he beauty both inside and out and for that reason he couldn’t touch her.

The alcohol warmed him.

Tom Orrow wore steely glazed eyes of frosted glass where others forgave, kicked a door and were bypassed he wore steely glazed eyes of frosted glass, forever like oxygen it was subconscious and all encompassing.

He didn’t dance, he didn’t sing, he never bought them expensive things.

He didn’t have to.

A perk of those eyes men feared and women admired.

© G.P Williamson 2017

Tom Orrow

Tales of Tom Orrow – Empty

Tales of Tom Orrow – Empty


Tom Orrow knocked on where connections used to reside.

Where fragrance still wept and constellations collide.

Tom Morrow was dull as the knocking wore thing as echos hit home at a place deeper within.

Tom Orrow returned down that straight garden path.

It seemed once and for all she’d had the last laugh.

Tom Morrow took the engine as all good men must and took his place with the demons and the ghosts of distrust.

She’d heard the revving, she’d felt the roar like all those times her motor soared.

She was bemused like catching a scent.

Could it be him? What are the chances?

She placed the brush beside her book and walked the halls – just a quick look.

He did not care all was clear.

The ghost of a memory was stood right there.

© G.P Williamson 2017


Tom Orrow

Tales of Tom Orrow – Beauty.

Tales of Tom Orrow – Beauty.


He read her like a painting.

Fondled her like braille.

Told her like a fable and recalled her like a tale.

Spoke of her in beauty.

Her totality, her love.

Christened her in kisses and baptised her like a glove.

A chat amongst the punters.

Eye to eye that coffee-house.

Intensity a burning line desire without doubt.

She says she’s only human, but only she can put those fires out.

Tom Orrow called her daily.

He wrote, E-Mailed he paged.

He grew within the years where she never seemed to age.

© G.P Williamson 2017

Tom Orrow

Tales of Tom Orrow – Touch

Tales of Tom Orrow


Tom Orrow wrapped her photograph around the brew he loved so much.

Bubbles through the looking glass, you can look but you can’t touch.

Tom Orrow craved the memory of the memory of her touch.

Even such an echo made the hearts of angels clutch.

Tom Orrow is and was a solid man, is and was combined.

Alas he was but still a man who held it all inside.

Tom Orrow forgave the humour of them leaving. The irony of her touch.

Tom Orrow lost reality in craving for her love.

© G.P Williamson 2017

poems, Short poems

At night.

At Night.


Lightening climbs.

Igniting flames.

The lovers looks.

The dancing game.

Smooth and suave.

Swift in motion.

Allowed to drive.

The air a cushion.

Flying together.

Eyes alight.

Becoming one.

Alive at night.

Passion killer.

Brought the crunch.

Broken down.

A different bunch.

Group of guys.

A solid team.

Divided up.

A broken dream.

Tattered edges.

Torn inside.

No other choice but stand and fight.

© G.P Williamson 2017



poems, Short poems




She wasn’t who she thought she was.

She was worse and that made all his woes better.

He wasn’t who he thought he was and that she never regretted.

She laughed when he said he could go all night.

He cried when she waited a month just for his return.

Together they’d go forever.

In torment devouring each other from within the one soul they shared,

Fictionally – for a writer is always alone.

© G.P Williamson 2017