Beautiful bird.

Written with my four year old. I was asking her what she wanted me to write about for her and she was telling me.

Beautiful bird.

3rd March

She’s a beautiful bird.

How high can she fly?

A him or a her?

Do we know why?

What’s in her name?

Who will she be?

Called Odessia to you or to me.

Where oh where did you find that name?

Pinkalicious Rose said it couldn’t be the same.

Where will she fly?

What will she do?

Back flip flies and reach the sky too.

Reach very high with colorful rainbows as she laughs but never cries.

She does lip flips, nose flips and eye flips too.

She flips all the body parts but hasn’t got a clue.

She’s pure imagination that could only come from you.

© G.P Williamson 2018


Pocket Roses.

Pocket Roses.


She hands down pocket poses like love struck roses.

The fairy dashes.

Crimson ashes from fireside flashes where the cauldron whirls.

She reacts in favour at the suns birth.

Fairy dust, a pinch of trust all falling to the green earth.

Kisses softly in meeting, bounces, settles and takes root.

Off shoots of a new family tree.

A meeting in a million unity’s.

New blood for a climax in a land over an ocean away where they dream of pocket poses like love struck roses.

© G.P Williamson 2018


“You are my world”

You’re my world.


She seethes a groped etiquette of disrespect until the punishment has been dealt and met.

She weaves transpondent memories with tearful eyes which begs and please.

She smiles a happy pleasured tone.

She’s on her knees.

That is her home.

Intertwined her hair in fist.

The bare white teeth the blood red kiss.

Crimson lips of fake despair.

The healing tongue, how she repairs.

It’s her choice to be ridiculed, vulnerable.

Pretend it hurts.

Her coy expression, twirling curls.

Pet names for a naughty girl.

Her actions scream “You are my world”

© G.P Williamson 2018


Grab it and whisper.

Grab it and whisper.


The foolish bard drinks merrily the poison of desire.

No recollection of a future.

No marriage to impress.

No children who’d enquire.

My walked paths held holed shoes in my souls truth.

The whole truth walked in the souls earth.

What is this coat worth?

To grab it and whisper. “I’m sorry I kissed her”

Now you’ll claim die on the twitch of an eye on what else would I lie?

You’ll not trust as much as I said as such and now it’s just dust.

Goodbye to your touch.

For all that I had and all that I loved I wish I’d held on for the greater good.

Here take it – take my blood.

© G.P Williamson 2018

Short poems

My Fusion (Short)

My Fusion (Short)


Your clothes came off with cataclysmic audacity as you were born a new to my favourite fantasy.

Doorway shadows, no fear all care. Blankets of light through wavy hair.

Forgone conclusion.
Waking illusion.

Wish I could die inside this delusion.

© G.P Williamson 2018


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

Tom Orrow

Tales of Tom Orrow – Knew

Tales of Tom Orrow


Tom Orrow knew he wasn’t man enough for her type of unorthodox endeavors.

Call him holy but an affair although his usual substance couldn’t drown the pain any more than whisky dulled the ache.

She may pretend her man doesn’t exist with the distraction of other men but he knew he beauty both inside and out and for that reason he couldn’t touch her.

The alcohol warmed him.

Tom Orrow wore steely glazed eyes of frosted glass where others forgave, kicked a door and were bypassed he wore steely glazed eyes of frosted glass, forever like oxygen it was subconscious and all encompassing.

He didn’t dance, he didn’t sing, he never bought them expensive things.

He didn’t have to.

A perk of those eyes men feared and women admired.

© G.P Williamson 2017