poems

The Darkest wood (504 words)

The Darkest wood.

9th February 2018

 

The arch of the pen.

The beating of life.

The rattle of death.

The essence of night.

You dance like Ivy creeps through the forests veins, entwining, circling, blood fuelled lanes.

Pumping, jumping, my eyes they strain. Beating bosoms, crimson rain.

Fireside wonder, echo’s of memories frozen friends and long gone babies.

Crackling timber, ginger embers.

Golden logs and why we remember.

The weight of your legs where you once lay across me.

The weightlessness, emptiness of wherever it is you may be.

Night air circles metaphors like spirals dance through closed doors and watch me sleep.

Gatekeepers, guides and perception dwellers.

Florence Nightingale, Elvis and dirty old fella’s.

I sigh glass and razors as you ignore my dreams.

My messages were muted and unheard were my screams.

I tried to forget, to distract, not to feel nor over react. I tried, I’m good like that but alas….

The cover’s came back and there you stood all big smiles and blood boiling.

Hard wired, lung fuelled desire with my skin crawling.

Red fingertips to dark lips. All warm humour and coy hips.

Until those slender fingers slip and held tight. Falls my grip and I’m ready with eyes locked.

You smile with your lips half cocked and the show stops.

Your skin falls like apple peelings, thick wedges dropping like meals and I scream a poor warning from a living dream at the edge of my story.

Tasting like heaven as the darkness and glory vanishes both the lady and me.

I’m blinded by the light you left in that empty space, the silence is deaf.

I’ve started naming my fingers as they tap out your name.

There’s marks in the keyboard that are one and the same.

They say I’m obsessed because I kept your shirt.

I sprayed it and saved it and bagged up the dirt.

I framed it, tamed it and displayed it.

I scratched out the Voodoo eyes. Remade the coffin and restitched the eyes.

The potato grew with cursed hex stew a common plus a new boys clue.

No one knew. No one knew.

Not even you. Not even you.

I knew. I knew.

The pebbles stirred, the matches blew. The spirits wailed the mountains knew.

Echo’s passed in solid murmurs. Loving magic against the world.

Unnaturally supernatural, perfectly imperfect.

Summoned like an astral wonder, you’d be the treasure I love to plunder.

They mistakenly believe hair colour matters, eyes or height and all the patter.

There’s only one thing that kick starts the fun. “Do I want her, is she my next one?”

The character I take from head to toe. I dress her, bless her and mess her up slow.

Tangle her hair, speak softly and whisper. Take hold of her throat and forcibly kiss her.

Make her late for work with a mark on her bum.

She’ll still rise to the top she’s a powerful one.

I digress I simply got carried away.

I create the girls.

It’s the only way they stay.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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Short poems

Last night – You.

Last night – You.

02/02/18

I had a dream last night I could move things with my mind and there you were your hand in mine. We had some food the waiter rhymed.

We dated, mated, ate our crimes and there you were your hand in mine.

We lived and died same age one breath, melted rings of metal flesh.

We turned to ash our eyes they met. A dusty, darkened, blackened mess.

I looked beyond to search your mind, our love, your care, what could I find?

Hollow, shallow, different lines.

I dropped my head what do I find?

Your hand somehow entwined in mine.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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poems

Memories of Love in 2015

Whilst unwell and looking for Lemsip (My saviour) I discovered this old notepad I’d at one stage partially filled. Queue some more old scribblings I never got around to sharing.

Memories of Love in 2015

20/06/15

Down a little muddy path between two tiny little towns.

A woman by a stream can often be seen or found.

She drank some men quite merry in her younger more physical days.

She once had herself a business in more physical kinda ways.

It’s said her eyes still glisten if you know what I mean and if you’re ever passing by you might glimpse her by the stream.

She was a blacksmith’s daughter. His grip was like a vice.

Her mother had passed early in the deathness of the night.

Down a little muddy path she drank some men quite merry.

Until her husband found her and she was not quite ready.

She had two other sisters, because there’s always three.

They still walk amongst us circling that old bare oak tree.

Two sets of calves shine through the night bypassing any kind of worry.

Dancing to forget the reasons they are sorry.

If you look real closely, nothing much will change.

But you’ll glimpse three pairs of legs around that oak tree stage.

I watch them joined in misery, I feel them joined in love.

Some kind of enigma sent when the world needed their touch.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

 

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poems

The Unicorn 2 – Death of a superstar.

The Unicorn 2 – Death of a superstar.

03/11/17

The unicorn.

He had an arrow in his side.

Broken, blunt, red, but wouldn’t die.

He rolled to a lie, heavy sigh.

Demonstrative wings, a gasp of breath.

A Pegasus flew by to mark his death.

Forwarding the rewards like a growing snowball,

Cascading downhill with the force of a twenty eight ton hurricane.

We called it love and it flew away like angel dust on a winter’s day.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

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Footprints to the grave.

Footprints to the grave.

30/10/17

They said she counted footprints.

That’s how she got his name.

From the final path he took from the cabin to the grave.

 

The castle billowed softly in the shadows of the scene.

His demons a flesh like beauty that could never cease to be.

He flew like the future’s past, from a world he’d never see.

Regretful of that final choice and all he’d never be.

 

They say the only way is up when you finally hit that rock bottom.

They couldn’t find his memory, when they asked he told them “I’ve forgotten”

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

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poems

Fire butterfly

firebutterfly

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Fire butterfly

30/10/17

The fire in the theatre was made of solid gold paper,

a fabric stronger and cheaper than his determination to succeed.

He awaited her breath and with his death with every inch of being that he had left.

The slow transition from confident to demi God in human form,

From solid gold statue to paper mache farm.

It took it’s toll, he metamorphosed like a reverse butterfly from trapezing on high to waiting to die.

The fountain of youth, the kickstart off the block.

With always a quip or a borderline joke.

To the massive old oak with the strength of owl eyes.

Once filled with nature now twice as wise.

The general direction had become unforgiving.

He’d not quite give up this life he was living.

Time took his emotions.

Tamed the fear inside.

The freaking out family and the love that he hides.

When all is said and done, the phoenix cries out.

As the lights of the living turn themselves inside out.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

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poems

It all stopped after that call.

It all stopped after that call.

29/10/17

It just stopped after that call.

Hunger, thirst, anger, pain.

I couldn’t feel at all.

It just stopped after that call.

The petty conversations, the friendships, that picture in the hall.

That wooden rocking chair.

The birds they used to call.

It just all stopped after that receiver fell.

The sudden click of nothingness.

My thought’s they turned to gel.

The holidays, the seasons,

like you Autumn came and fell.

It ended without merit.

Ended without rhyme.

Ended like a poet who’s just run out of …..

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

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