Short poems

Just be.

Just be.
27th July.

Lets fake it for a while you and I on this road of death.
No end in sight of a beautiful beginning.
A place that can’t be the won’t.
Can’t end the stopping point.
A short hunt without prey.
Aimlessly drifting.
Drifting away.
Just be, just stay.
Only a hand touch away.

© G.P Williamson 2018

 

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Parenting, Short poems

The moth died.

The moth died (and the innocence of youth)

9th June 2018

The moth died.

You killed it dad.

He was my friend.

You made me sad.

Never purer words had I just heard.

She had much to learn about this world.

The moth died, it was my friend.

It’s never coming back again?

It’s gone, it was the end?

I couldn’t even fake pretend.

Yes it’s gone baby, I gave it a headache.

Why dad? Just why? She said disgusted.

Four years old and she just learnt what trust is.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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poems

Bottled it.

Bottled it.

23/06/2018

He took the death from death and bottled it.

Bare handed he’d grabbed, left a scar that scabbed.

When it fell off it left a hole through the garden, through the ground, the earth, the planet, the ozone layer and into Eden.

The scab of death was fate deceiving.

A bottled death in a quartz jar held right by a dead man’s hand, the prized grip of a gypsy fighter.

The goo bubbled black for a million years and caused the death of  a million seers, mystics and idle mages.

He kissed a girl with petal lips and the ink turned to purple quick.

He smiled deaths heart a while as the earth healed thick.

He took death from death and bottled it.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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poems

They still mourn.

They still mourn.

24/06/2018

A thousand monks couldn’t heal her.

Kneeling in prayer, filling the air a cloud of fire and love for the world to share.

Scooped up, segregated and sliced part by part.

fed to her mind, body and heart.

Kept her in limbo, no wish to let her go.

Diana for queen.

Where did that time go?

The world mourned.

Parliament scorned as the public sadly grieved, unarmed.

We knew loss like we felt the reasons of price and cost.

It was too much.

Worked on and through adventure restrained.

Still nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Feeble reality, a world that will never be the same.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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poems

When I die.

When I die.

23rd June 2018

When I die a deathly death of dark all hallowedness and that veil falls all clear and proud, I want you to scream.

Scream until the crows of hell themselves all run and hide.

Scream until the graves turn on their sides.

Scream loud like every Harley that’s ever kicked up dust.

Scream like a second husbands lack of trust.

Like the Eiffel tower doesn’t rust and through the rain and sleet and snow, through every tale that death can show, through every diseased town you have to go.

Stand tall.

Stand tall and scream until the fire in the gates of hell perspires, that’s where my eyes are.

When I die a deathly death of dark all Hallowedness and that veil falls all clear and proud, scream me up a motherfucking shroud!

Balm me in your fury.

Warm me with your aggression.

Shower me in might before I leave a great impression.

I’m coming back on Monday in the reflection that you’ll miss.

I’ll reach right out and claim you in a possessed silent kiss.

© G.P Williamson 2018

 

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Short poems

No Rewind.

No rewind.

19/06/2018

A light goes out behind their eyes.

That’s what it’s like to watch them die.

It leaves a mark right here inside that shimmers and lights then fails to hide,

And it leaves other things inside.

Be good, be strong, love, be kind.

We don’t live forever, there is no rewind.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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Short poems

My supernatural apparition

My Supernatural apparition

08/06/2018

I’ve tried remorseful apologies.

Forgiving eulogies and bagpipes with a twenty-four gun salute.

I’ve tried candles and wire.

Our old songs and no sunshine.

A few old lines at a time with fire.

I’ve tried the demonic press, the Ouija and a thousand rounds of pure duress to the back and the head and I confess.

My love for you has beyond transgressed.

Of this leaves the deepest impression,

You’re my favourite superstition.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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