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, Uncategorized

Lets reminisce

Lets reminisce


Lets reminisce about the last time we laughed during the storm of 64, that time we shared a bath.

I couldn’t touch your hair because the dye was still setting and we both faked high off the fumes.

I can’t lay claim to the universe but we, we’re the only ones in the world.

I splashed and you laughed as the raindrops trickled down your back.

Yeah, what happened to all that?

© G.P Williamson 2018



Spit on the witch.

Spit on the witch.


She rages and boils.

Bubbles broth from clear oils.

Cuts daisys for lotions, plants trees in dead soil.

She’s holier than though, with wisdom she bows.
Compassion unites the stars with their light. Fingerless puppets that dance through the night.

Grows old without aging, feels pain without complaining, holds baby’s whilst their mothers eyes are fading.

They spit on the witch, they curse and they hiss. Who is this miss to act out like this?

Show me the lights, gather the stones!

Bring out the door! We’ll send her straight home.

Make her bob, make her drown, cut her arms, tear her down.

Bring the general, light her up. Tie her down, string her up!

“I forgive you” said a man who turned water into wine. Who gave fishes to dine from immaculate birth to story of all time.

There’s a glitch in your history that glorifies mystery. Praises the gods whilst the witches lose victory.

Midwives and healers, spirit believers, lovers and growers, empaths and seers. Medics and chemists, farmers and alchemists.

Stick with your water to wine if you wish.

Mother earth and father air. Neither dies and neither cares.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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



Those two girls before me.

Those two girls before me.


I may have summoned the worst dug disgraces through hurt, worn the graveyard shift like a skin-tight shirt but what good is a blood stained rug, a cadaver of metamorphic good when love is your drug?

What use is the powerful alibi told straight faced with no lies, no perplexed pupils or two faced twitchy eyes when the whole world swallows up, cascades and crumbles and then dies?

Why do we rise this meteor through space on another’s imagination and still stand stoic without hesitation?

We’re germic warfare on the earth’s warm face. The acne fuelled puss, a volcanic disgrace. We take a pugs guts and make bagpipes for God’s sake.

Fisherman’s friends, empty and drawn forward on an empty boat that’s most haunted, pulled forwards through the dull waters and smiling back at me are both my daughters.

Those faces, those innocent wise eyes all previous lives and soul’s tied. All citizenship till the world dies. All open wide eyes from a place I can’t hide and no matter the hell hath no fury, blood curdling shame or horror story, no matter the morphic diseases that can’t cure me or the endless beating that last so long they start to bore me, I tell you what, you can even rip up my story because my heart,

My heart’s in those two girls before me.


© G.P Williamson 2017


I may believe in Christmas Eve.

I may believe in Christmas Eve.


I may believe in Christmas Eve.

The silky touch of holly leaves and every season in between.

I may believe in snowy tomorrow’s, carrot noses and borrowed clothes.

The squelch of wet trainers on the mat.

Yes I may believe in all of that.

I may believe in the love of ghosts, spirit echo’s and the smell of burnt toast.

Faith in the family both here and gone.

Belief for you, for everyone.

I may believe in curled up covers,

T.V nights and naughty words.

I may believe the good die young,

that time will till,

that I’ll right those wrongs.

I may believe I earn my credit.

I’ll progress if I work hard or that morality keeps us steady.

I may believe all sorts of silly stupid things.

I may believe I’m through being the puppet and you can’t take my strings.

I may remember who I am with passion.

Where I came from with emotion and who I’ll become with hope.

I may habitually joke and laugh, sarcasm may navigate a less sturdy uncertain path.

I may occasionally find bubbles in the bath.

I may be the light on dark days, may stand tall with lost strays and may not see the colour for the greys.

I may be fearless in the pursuit of happiness but I’m still dreaming. Awake or not freedom calls.

I’m feeling.

I may be the pilot of my own flying time. I may soar from mountain to cliffhung tree.

I may be me but am I free?

I may attain peace without over thinking due to a miracle pen with invisible ink in.

I never saw that coming.

I may believe in wedding rings and unity in when she sings.

A dancing place a one way course.

Crossing the line on a galloping horse.

I may believe in an unending purse.

Macclesfield rules and the crying boy curse.

I may believe in where I lived in stately homes and farmers with pigs.

I believe that Wales is home with white picket fences and garden gnomes.

I may believe in hikes and camps and firelight nights with the smell of damp.

I may believe in tenderness, love compassion and no stress.

In all of these I may believe and I may believe in Christmas Eve.


© G.P Williamson 2017


Parenting, poems

Popped Kaboom’s

Popped Kaboom’s


I breathed in as you exhaled.

It was like a thought bubble had bloomed which filled the room when all my feelings popped kaboom’s.

Tiny crackles, major pops.

Icicles on stickledrops.

Like sticklebacks but always falling.

Raindrops shouting, snowmen calling.

Waiting in parks because the ice cream man’s here.

Dancing in puddles and knowing no fear.

Best friends holding hands as calender sheets fall.

January, February, March as he leaves to join the war.

My thought bubble pops and I’m aware once more.

She’s twenty, at the kitchen table, holding his photograph and trying not to cry.

All I can do is watch.


© G.P Williamson 2017