The radios echo & other love goals.

The radios echo and other love goals.
29th July 2018

The radio goes and it’s my voice.
A debate, some farce or other.
There’s a time we could have bothered.
We never did and it’s all over.
You sigh through a candlelit window>
Where’s that time go? I should know and we don’t.
Bespoke fonts and trained daughters.
Loving wives and guilty fathers.
Nothing happened, the plans weren’t watered,
So nothing grows, nothing alters.
I understand the illusion, nothing’s right we couldn’t believe in,
So no start, no grieving.
You’ll smile that kindness wide too.
Vulnerable to hide looks and know you did the right thing.
Spark up a Hamlet and stroll home alone as some poor soul starts to sing about love’s goals.
© G.P Williamson 2018

Short poems

Tore my house down.

Tore my house down.


And there we’ll go to another wedding, another baby shower, another “Isn’t this fun?” another happy hour with statue faces, airs and graces, elongated gestures and food you can’t take where nothing’s out of place and there’s nothing I want more than to scream “What a f*cking bore!”

Take me out of this race I can’t help the faces, I run backwards and trip “Just get a grip” as I cry mercy and quit because you know what? I’m not over it. I never will be. When you left you tore my house down and chewed up the foundations.

Please fly with the angels and play with the daisy’s.

Goodnight baby.

© G.P Williamson 2018


Heartless woman

Heartless woman.


She lay half broken.

Legs akimbo with her skirt rucked up and her heart beside her on the floor.

Dragging herself to her knees she clutched the useless meat in both hands and stared in bare hope and anguish.

“Pump you b*tch!” She mentally called to a world that had never listened before.

I’m not your tortured soul.

Your bit of rough.

Your friday night.

I’ve had enough!

I’m more, I’m me.

I’m the cure, I want to be free.

“Pump! Pump for me.” She squeezed once for hope and once in vein then in anger again and again.

The blood was red the meat was thick she thumped it hard, pounded it quick.

Flowing tears with empty mind.

A life that flashed before her eyes.

It hit rewind with every slow torturous minute.

Replayed every regret, tear and grimace.

The empty nights holding her stomach with dreams of what could be.

The emptier nights holding her stomach dreaming of what was, and the worse nights clutching her heart for what should have been.

A black tar filled hole resided in her chest where a sliver of her soul still yearned to burn.

We never quit as teachers but we never seem to learn.

She stood up empty and cold as remnant of her heart lay strewn across the floor.

She turned towards the light.

No choice but to walk away in defeat.

Several moments later…

… That heart began to beat.

© G.P Williamson 2018


How fragile life is.

How fragile life is.


More nervous because everything’s fine again.

I can shine and then go against his plan with tiny army men.

Waged war with a pen, threw myself at that wall and it hurt again.

The only blazing equation for this sanitary station as the O.C.D’s raging is to hand all my pages in!

I’d love to make believe I’m safe every night as I sleep.

Love to speculate the hands of fate, turn and everyone makes it before they get out.

That each has a turn at fame and riches, quality of life and fun filled bitches.

I’d love to believe any lie that keeps me high on the deceitful cloud nine, insisting my world is fine.

Instead I cry and cling tight to a ghostly image, I rage fight as truth and science pack my nightmares tight.

So hard to trust it when you know how fragile life is.

It can start and stop with a kiss.

A broken heart or a heartbeat missed.

It can live or die on a thistle or nettle.

It can traverse the universe like something special.

It can die in an eye blink of “why’s”, denial and tell me lies.

Make the world safe again stop the cries.

It’s so hard to trust when you don’t know where the knife is.

It’s so hard to trust when you know how fragile life is.

© G.P Williamson 2018


Jam Jar memoir.

Jam Jar Memoir.


Oh there’s now a stone cold rage that plagues the actions of yesterday.

I pray the crowd in the clouds comes forth holds hands, chants, heals the remorse.

I’ve missed the full force.

I’ve not connected in so long.

Losing you – was wrong.

I embrace, saving grace, the calmed, whiter, purer place.

Humming with clarity, unity, without society’s futility.

A place for me, belonging.

A new ship in a place we can’t swim. I dived right in.

A thousand notes in a Jam jar in a dusty corner of an old attic.

Reminiscent, all that’s left of me in a bespoke dynamic, an idea from the web that keeps me alive right here in your head.

© G.P Williamson 2018


A name is a title.

A name is a title.


There’s so much that needs to come out from recent events all jumbled and cluttered.

Scattered magazines of my mothers.

My child holding my thumb.

Paying the rent and memories of mum.

Mostly it’s fairness and expectation.

Hard work and piss poor delegation.

I had to stop until the anger was wasted.

I know deep down it’s all about Tracy.

I never used your name before in something public.

It feels good to bring you to life.

A hundred ways a metaphor.

Only one god damn knife.

© 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