Short poems

The Great Illusion.

The Great Illusion.
26th July 2018

Imagination the worlds greatest deceiver.
Love the worlds largest believer.
Faith, a fickle fact.
Friendship, don’t over react.
Fate, without reason perhaps.
Blue print? Don’t make me laugh.
Do pray for those days you could have made a change.
Let them know more are welcome.
They’re challenging, life changing and seldom.
This perception is our reality, internal clarity.
Taste the purity, the best, accept no less.
work smart, not hard, rest.
Duress is a test, a byproduct of stress.
This perception no less is our reality.
Speak internal clarity.

© G.P Williamson 2018



The hurts from church.

The hurts from church.


She couldn’t sleep for the hurts from church.

Splinters had dug deep from where her nails made skin weep.
She didn’t believe in herself.

She was in deep.

She sat stoney eyed amidst a hundred sheep who’s pain collide.

He stood in the pulpit.

Prompting their suicide unknowingly.

Another puppet of a mediocre society.

That night after prayer and hymn, evening song and lashing, the damn burst.

She grabbed a pen and started to write.

“I couldn’t sleep for the hurts of church”

© G.P Williamson 2018


They still mourn.

They still mourn.


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


Graphic – Am I writing right?

Am I writing right?


If you don’t bleed a little, feel a tickle.

Find a dismembered arm to pickle or be horrified with a nervous giggle.

Just a little.

Then I’m not writing right.

If you’re not scared you’re not all there, that these voices are real and really aren’t fair.

That it is your fault and no you can’t.

Then I’m not writing right.

If I can’t turn day to night, love to spite, oxygen to airtight then dammit I’m not writing right.

If you’re not on your knees for faith or pleasing, if I’m not painting pictures or it’s not me you’re releasing then I’m not fulfilling my prophecy.

I’m not writing right.

If I pluck out an eye that refuses to cry  whilst you dry your tears on a solitary candle.

If I manage the light to pass into night as you don’t awake tomorrow.

Am I doing this right?

I don’t know how to write.

This is enough come a voice from above that you say what you say if you write what you love then that is enough!

I think that’s how you write.

¬© G.P Williamson 2018 < — hit for Instagram.

Short poems

My supernatural apparition

My Supernatural apparition


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


The bad believer

The bad believer.


The darkness whispers gently and is gone into the silence as she sighs beneath me.

The love is rekindled like a candles warmth, relit as her fingers cup here, a mitt.

A glove of warmth.

What had once gone south has headed promptly north.

Gather around those “It’s not possible” preachers.

I bid you well but I can teach you.

Pull yourself upright on a hard rock with your back straight whilst I settle in my comfy life.

This they call sharing but the parable’s not fair.

The darkness whispers gently as intent ears prick the night sky and I wonder.

How shall I deceive them this evening?

¬© G.P Williamson 2018 <—- Hit for Instagram.¬†

Short poems

Synchronicity, Karma’s little b*tch.

Synchronicity, Karma’s little b*tch.


There was a synchronicity in the first place 28th March, two meanings on the one date.

I’d chalked it all up to fate.

Then country fiction, a dream I’d never seen coming. Had I got to awaken I’d of took off running.

All deers, foxes, rabbits and shrews.

All gorgeous greens and clear blues.

All for two days and a thankyou too.

One day I’m returning to buy you.

Then there’s you, where the bluebird sings.

I don’t know your song but your vibration lingers.

Quality is often found in the tips of your fingers.

© G.P Williamson 2018