Graphic, Short poems

Ghost pages and angelic faces.

Ghost pages and angelic faces.


The turning page got stuck halfway and lay there in mid air.

Held by ghost hands I’d not planned for a fine spectacle and quick sand.

I sank deeply and rapid like quitting a place that’s sliding beneath a bin lid. Foretold from a story that grows old.

Roots which hold folds in the memories alcoves.

It’s where the doves go to rest and coo.

It’s a turned page that got stuck halfway through.

The angelic faces are kind of creepy too.

© G.P Williamson 2018

Graphic, poems

Lake feet


Lake feet


She stood in the lake and pondered.

What kind of man he’d be?

Fishing with the sticklebacks on boats just made for three?

Crying over whiskey on nights out with the girls?

Hold her with the strength that a soldier shows his girl.

Sing her deep sweet songs with his fingers in her curls.

She stood in the lake and pondered the kind of man he’d be.

She waited day and night for him to set her free.

© G.P Williamson 2017

poems, Short poems

Open heart.

Open Heart.


There’s a slow-moving Irishman somewhere when I dream.

He’s strong with skin like the bark of an old oak and the mind of an agile sapling.

All grace and no shake in some wise old earthy way.

He doesn’t say much but what’s said is said with meaning.

It’s felt from the roots and goes twice as deep.

He holds humour of the man I’d like to be.

As much today it’s not too clear my memories,

My memories hold him dear.


© G.P Williamson 2017





I was thinking when the book opened of its own accord.

Ghostly hands that had no plans turned pages forbidden on my nightstand.

The lamp was on, the glow was dim,

those tapered fingers long and thin.

I didn’t see them but they were there,

moving softly through the air.

Cobweb faces swift and wanting, somehow calm and somehow haunting.

Halloween was nowhere near, though through some strange amendment I swallowed fear.

A sip of truth with ice-cold fury, burnt through my heart and there it warmed me.

All red and broken.

Cold and shook as ice-cold fingers moved that book.


© G.P Williamson 2017


Quantities of love.

Quantities of love.


Pure angelic quantities of love.

Sky gifts from night lifts.

Dancing ankles, changing shifts.

Flowing gowns through midnight towns.

Birds howl where the tides growl against rocks made for the soul.

Shoals move as one in the cool water.

fishes swim across her thighs as she’s lifted through the darkest sky.

Rain drops on smoking lips.

“Forever mine” she quips.

Cascading memories like fallen hair.

He’s drawn with her through tarnished lair.

An incomplete serenity gives rise to birth of unity.

Somewhere silenced the owls do howl.

Flowing gowns through midnight towns.

Quantities of love the ghosts allow.


© G.P Williamson 2017





Best ghosts ever

Best ghosts ever.


Interestingly she said don’t forget to be yourself, which is strange considering I was me or at least I presumed I was until she’d commented.

It was then I overthought her presence.

Fantasized about the situation and allowed my mind to run wild with unstoppable conclusions.

Illusions, falsities and make believe delusions.

Realities which could be if I believed and yet I didn’t believe.

I didn’t because I couldn’t remember who I was pretending to be.


© G.P Williamson 2017


She still watched you.

She still watched you.


You know, she’s there, sometimes, watching you like you’re the last thing she’ll taste.

You hear her creaking the floor where she treads softly or in the incline of the sofa as she sits.

Sometimes it’s just the cold breeze or brief sensation of cobwebs on your face.

Other times it’s where you can’t breath or sleep for seeing her image.

Ironic really, considering she’s harmless in the daytime,

Her power manifests from the darkness.

Which is ultimately the only time she could possibly possess you.

Sweet dreams.


© G.P Williamson 2017