Short poems

The cold of death.

The cold of death.

07/10/17

There’s not always growls and howls where the stalkers prowl.

rustled bushes, bulrushes, ivy dances in midnight crushes.

Smell of tomatoes where the water meets cold toes, shoes thrown.

Where home-grown ropes are sewn.

Where moral justification is two-tone.

Below the scaffolding of a crimson dome.

It was cold there, underwater.

She’s another innocent man’s daughter.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

Advertisements
Standard
Graphic, poems

Kill your darlings. (Graphic)

Kill your darlings.

27/09/17

His eyes rolled back a clear two seconds after the bullet tore through his chest.

By through I mean into the front through the chest turning and churning and then just blowing the back clean out like a visual megaphone shout.

A megaphone rattled with a clear-cut reply – he’s out.

He was a father, a worker, a grafter, a soldier, an author, he’d fathered a daughter.

A warrior, a trooper, the main part of a group.

The class clown, the cheer us on one. the nice word for anyone.

The last penny guy.

The man I just watched die.

Stood there all helpless as back rolled his eyes.

Crimson hadn’t landed when I turned and disbanded.

Arms by my sides, huge weight realised.

The night train I’d ride without him by my side.

You’d meet me at Euston at the end of the bridge.

You knew what I needed – you’re humor always the best.

You’re eyes rolled back a clear two seconds after …. the bullet tore through your chest.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

 

Standard