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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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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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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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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Double death.

Double death.

17/10/17

If I close my eyes I can smell the cigarette smoke in your green woollen gat.

I can see the shine on your greasy black hair, half bald with the stresses of a young age.

I can hear you listening to her song, even if we disagree I respect she was your woman of gold.

You held her like the world’s last pearl.

She was your girl, your world.

I remember the black plastic lid of that record player with the broken hinge.

The headphones that covered both your ears and half of your head.

You falling down, us both ending up dead.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

 

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