Dotty daughter


Dotty daughter


She’s four years old and introduced me by name to her hair styling shop.

She tells me so proudly the currency is lollipops.

I smile as she cocks her head to one side. “I think purple for your hair” she cries.

Twenty minutes later and I’m covered in flies, a horror story zombie with dark red eyes.

Five minutes more and I fear it’s too late.

She’s mixing a palette and my face is a state.

Five minutes more and I’m running for the door.

“Come back dad! your hair and back and arms need more!”

I’m a man’s man, a super daddy.

An hour in I’m wearing ear rings a necklace and she’s calling me Sandy.

© G.P Williamson 2018      <——– hit for my Instagram!

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

Short poems

The cold of death.

The cold of death.


There’s not always growls and howls where the stalkers prowl.

rustled bushes, bulrushes, ivy dances in midnight crushes.

Smell of tomatoes where the water meets cold toes, shoes thrown.

Where home-grown ropes are sewn.

Where moral justification is two-tone.

Below the scaffolding of a crimson dome.

It was cold there, underwater.

She’s another innocent man’s daughter.


© G.P Williamson 2017


The sun shone on the weatherman

The sun shone on the weatherman.


The sun shone nice today on the weatherman.

Like the whole eclipse perfected the spin, together, as it should be.

Rainbow’s dotted daisys to raindrops where sky fallers dance.

Their was laughter.

Songs of the birds chirrups where hiccups laugh so much it hurts.

Where memories of the wedding make the church burst.

A thousand white balloons and not one hearse.

Not one sad dace to slow down an insane race.

She grimaced at a sour Gargamel Smurf sweet.

We chased with water sprays the growing pains of the nation’s never ending selfish media tirade.

We grew as people and I forgave myself.

The sun shone nice today on the weatherman and I let the battery on my phone run out.

We are here not there.

A shoelace tid itself and a four year old smiled.

So did her parents.

All for a smile.


© 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



A year gone by – December 2014

A year gone by – A competition entry.


A year gone by

I watched myself, watch her watch me watch whilst she screamed.
A lip biting, silent sound of release and exhalation.
In that one moment at that final push was the quiet sound of revelation.
A radiant light lit the room.
Poppies grew an inch and glowed.
Sunflowers turned in respect and admiration.
soldiers knelt in prayer.
I turned older and younger all at once alone with my pride.
Inside, outside and beside myself as my daughter hit the bed between the legs I’d loved many times before and I was born a fresh and a whole in one moment.
As complete and innocent in body and mind as the day I was born.
Daisy’s sighed to the mild wind in release of a breath and I was completed tenfold.
My title “dad” not even four letters but filled with an emotionally dictionary of words all lost in the moment of feelings, reaching a never ending crescendo of love.
Love pure, crisp and clean.
New dew mornings camping in the woods.
Crispy clean sheets.
An unexpected win for life, over joyed, overwhelmed, over love and beside myself.
We relayed the carpets.
Reorganised our finances.
Rewrote my story.
Redecorated the home.
Rearranged our jobs.
Rejoiced in love.
Refuelled ourselves.
Rekindled our passions,
And after one candle lit dinner’s night as the baby slept,
I watched myself, watch her watch me whilst she screamed.
A lip biting silent sound of release and exhalation.

Copyright G.P Williamson.