Short poems

Home – Where the heart is.

Home – Where the heart is.


I’m home – Where the heart is.

Where the start begins and the buried rests.

Where time stops and stress is caressed.

Where the unplanned becomes extraordinary.

Where if you’re back late we extra worry.

Where the colours paint their own story in scarred knees and fallen leaves, autumn days and broken dreams.

Tear filled chalice. Captured presence. No such malice.

Treasure our difference.

© G.P Williamson 2018




Ice skating, dancing doves.

Ice skating, dancing doves.

10th February 2018


Like a sea-saw with give and take, equal weights where the roundabout turns at the hands of fate and we trust adults because, you know, it’s not too late.

We “Heads, shoulders, knees and toes” kiss trees and hug rainbows, watch fairy’s dance and…where did the time go?

Ice skating, dancing doves. Christmas eve, hot chocolate mugs.

Spicy aroma, not alone.

Family noises, a warm log fire home.

Like a sea-saw with give and take,  a bouncy trust continues late. When you can’t stand your hand I’ll clasp. We’ll “ring a ring a rosy” until our last.

© G.P Williamson 2018


Christmas eve the repeat performance.

Christmas eve the repeat performance.


It’s time again number two child.

More confidence than I had then and less wild.

Same problematic chores with new angelic faces.

Aiding broken wars through achieved goals and the faith of old souls.

Died in battle on Christmas eve.

Resurrected to a new god for us all to believe.

A christening, holy water on an empty space.

A new freedom, a new face.

If I could do it all again with the same results.

I’d start the scars now, thankyou.

Thankyou very much.

© G.P Williamson 2018

Scribblings and squabblings

Lord of the wedding rings.

Lord of the wedding rings.

15th January 2018

At first I figured he’d be a jeweller or a mad alchemist. The literal finder of that elixir which turns everything to gold. In face he was just a guy who spent the majority of his life in the shed banging pieces of metal together.

The ring from Lord of the rings must have been a wedding ring. Only marriage could cause that much trouble. He’d lift his head often and raise the rag to the light until it sparkled with perfection. Then he’d hit it agin for good luck like married men do the mistress.

You can spot them anywhere in their hoops and pearl necklaces. The upper class, the latter up the former. The bigger the hoop the bigger the required fulfilment. “Bitch!” He shouted under his breath a million times, until the air was fraught with tension, arguments, silent treatment and threats of who gets custody of the cat.

Several slammed doors and two broken plates, some torn clothes later and all was forgiven.

Back to the shed he’d been driven.

This we teach our children in a song we sang titled. “Dad’s lord of the wedding band”

© G.P Williamson 2018

poems, Short poems

It truly is not fair.

It truly is not fair.


One reel of lights, four boxes of baubles, a packet of icicles some snowflakes and four reindeers.

Five three meter lengths of tinsel, three packets of lamette and a Robin made of real feathers, which the children love to stroke. Yet you, you look down at me as the only memorable bauble like I’m some kind of irrational joke.

You sit there innocent on your string as the corals rage on and you don’t say a thing.

You just watch, a reminder of every wrong that was ever caused me. Each self defence moment gone too far, each family argument, each war. every fallen brother I can’t help but miss and the true loves of last year, week, lifetime for which I still ache to kiss. Then you turn slightly in the gentle breeze and I capture my image alive on my knees and I freeze.

Out of more etiquette than respect I Aikido bow. I believe only in myself and sometimes, sometimes even I don’t know how.

This year may be the best year yet and still I’d miss that I’d never have.  I wonder where the Angels keep you and who that you call dad.

© G.P Williamson 2017


Out with the old..

Out with the old…

Those several posts previous were obviously from my older notepads. I think I’ve found everything now that I’d written pre 2016 but there’s still some suitcases I’ve not been through. For now though… some more recent writings, opportunities, failings and successes.

Out with the old…

Creasy Bear.

Christmas time.

Endless trees.

The smell of pine.

Rolling hills covered in snow.

Cotton candy three feet below.

Every family this year.

Appears not quite just linear.

At first engaged my needle of hope.

With children in need and how they cope.

Then like dawn I opened my eyes and a crisp clear new morning was realised.

They aren’t the standard two point four, because and I should have known before, they are so much, so much more.

Merry Christmas to all you’re my candle – Goodnight. Merry Christmas to all like a family – alight.

© G.P Williamson 2017

poems, Uncategorized

Aindrias Séamus Ó Broin

Aindrias Séamus Ó Broin


It was no life of PI, although one could be deceived, if they took these facts and made them make believe.

I’d say it started with a rumour but that would not be true. It started in a little town as most good stories do.

A row of houses down one side of the road. It’s name etched in my mind like every story I have told.

A pub was around the corner, “The Golden Lion” was it’s name. Another at the other end who’s name was not the same.

Daylight brought the gobby lads and Kirby into play. The safety of community alive with light of day.

Darkness locked the doors where everyone seemed to hide. We locked away our fears from the noises left outside.

The hooligans brought havoc, fanatics at their best. More than once we took them in with knives still in their chests.

My story has begun as a three feet tall young lad. I dreamt to be a gardener like my super strong granddad.

It wasn’t meant to be as I watched his wife pass before. Gone was any trace of the man I’d known before.

I heard the music play as I’d listen every night. Beneath the sobs of sorry I pleaded, It’s alright.

We made a pact I wouldn’t share the tales that he had told. That he could trust the feeble mind of mine at nine years old.

Christmas came and what it held was not at all that clear. All we wanted was not there. No space for Christmas cheer.

Half a family rhyming like poetic injustice. We floated by like a paper that’s listless. Useful for nothing but sorrow filled witness.

We spoke of the future but not believe it we could. He couldn’t envision a life as he should. He tripped in the darkness an accidental nightmare and just like my Nan he no longer was there.

An egg cracked the silence or a heart or a soul. I couldn’t quite fathom but I wasn’t quite whole. A secret I promised I’d never quite share. Yet he wasn’t here and I wasn’t quite there.

© G.P Williamson 2017