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


She was a perfect mess.

She was a perfect mess.


She rode the bullet home barefoot and cold.

The wind sailed like plastic ice without the chips.

She leaned on all facial expressions and forced hips.

Force field waves of hair back, can’t breath, keep going and begging to be saved as she crash landed through his chest.

Tore a hole clean through and fell perfect as a good guess.

She was complete, he was a mess.

© G.P Williamson 2017

poems, Scribblings and squabblings

The man who’s imagination has no limits. – Long! – Share your creativity.

I was reading through some word prompts on Reddit, someone had simply typed for half an hour without editing anything and then shared it. They’d challenged people to do the same. As much as it’s easy enough to write about something and share it. It’s actually much harder to not give yourself any barriers. Something too gory? too mature? too soft or sappy? There’s always something people are embarrassed about sharing and I find the act of writing extremely freeing of feelings when I write without barriers and let my imagination run free.

The man who’s imagination has no limits – Long!


The man who’s imagination has no limits plays guitar bareback on a flying rhino whilst he plays Quidditch, eats constellations for breakfast and burps rainbows into bubblegum words, aries, virgo, Scorpio, fits random words into seemingly ordinary sentences. A pretext so you won’t notice alienated appendages.

The wrist with three hands that play flute, xylophone and a one man band. The quicksand that defied lies and flies to heliumated skies that make hearts rise, until the sun itself cries fireballs of hope and glory, spreads fiery ink to every horror story.

The diamond ruby that rotates with freight the bigger the fear the faster the starry night. The man who’s imagination has no limits takes a black box and fits within it. The daylight with a rubber skeleton, chatting teeth, a copy of Who framed Roger Rabbit and a rubber chicken. Then a black box to put the black box in.

Sewn closed with that model’s pantyhose and locked the door to where teenage boys metamorphose. Waiting in line for show time as front of house staff mime. Walking drones, ghost faces where white paint hides demonic shadows. Night time in the froze cold.

People up and leave the clothes stay. Ghost emissions from a failed day. Up tight, creased and upright, air holed in the cold night and they begin to march eerily as I cling on to reality.

I write, a notepad on an old figure, a stick dad. Butterfly pieces chip off and fly making the sky sad and I’m glad they’re free. Stip, step, stomping up a chair like tree. Virgo, Virgo, Aries, free! Mummy, daughter, baby, me!

The man who’s imagination holds no limits escapes from the coffin where his demons grimace. Run’s through a wall, down a hall ten pins a million faces like a bullet cannonball. Every relinquished anger melts away in candlelit beauty whilst the pain harnesses the energy of the Athame acutely.

Transmogrified curls to spectral swirls as you kiss my skin and it burns and burns. Eyes on needle pins like cocktail olives, glass piled apples and blood wormed oranges, faces of fruit made wonder grimace and scream as they pull me under.

Poltergeist meets Exorcist in a fantasy about a boy. Child’s play an Omen to my new puppy’s chew toy. I babysit a crimson rainbow in my heart, an explosion of such unity the whole world blown apart.

The man who’s imagination holds no limits can’t fall apart. The car always starts, replaced parts, pumping hearts, grey brain membranes to veins from mind darts. Arrows take us back from bows that over react to where that show starts. Stood in ghost queues with a note pad as the curtains pull back. Pitch black with bright white lights that knock your eyes back.

A scouser’s overheard “fifteen quid for this what’s the crack lad?” As a car lifts up and takes off of it’s own accord leaving stilted bricks and chased by securicar. We’re at the stage door. I paid doubloons to get in. It was pirated and my feet stuck to pink ink as I was swallowed whole.

I emerged on a football field where I couldn’t score a goal. I went around the whole team floating aimlessly like a ghost in a day dream. I sang, I waved, I grabbed centre stage, nobody understood they couldn’t see that I was caged.

We play games on phones we use to communicate, despise the levels we take too long to make for fake cash – originate. We share with friends who we love to hate.

The man who’s imagination has no limits taints daydreams for a living. Fractures inaccurate memories of stagnate loves, takes hardworking mothers – rough. Swears the innocence of truth by the holy book. Aspires for perfection by hook or by crook. Unless you beg for mercy he won’t even turn his head to look.

Nicotine stained pillows of mediocre loves. That’s just one of the many things he does. It transpires that after hours of lies from an ancient book, he was just reciting old lines from an oath he took. He couldn’t explain himself but he could write his own book.

The man who’s imagination had no limits found holes in his life like a bad dentist couldn’t fill it. Churning chips to molten lava in a bid not to be his father. Matrix style encompassing the whole to re emerge, re ignore. Spite the poor goals, broken jaw bones like ember ridden hot coals.

From where did you think the soul grows? Imaginations fills all  holes.

Where fate, religion and belief take hold! A candlelit dinner for two and conversation about imagination gave me, gave me you. A deal for two.

Set yourself just half an hour to write with freedom, no judging no warnings no holding back or point scoring. No rights and wrongs no too tame or too gory. Just write – share with me your story.


© G.P Williamson 2017



Sir Nigel

Sir Nigel.


Rise sir Nigel.

Rise like the blazing phoenix you are.

RIse like hope riding bare back on a star.

Rise like Ali’s the greatest, because you are.

Rise because you helped countless children preserve who they are and who they were meant to be.

Rise because your sacrifice gave them power.

Rise because you’re the light in their darkest hour.

Rise because you can’t be the fears from which they hide.

Rise because we need to see you tried.

Rise a license to yourself “I won’t give up” and nowt else.

Rise sir Nigel.


© G.P Williamson 2017


The Unicorn

The unicorn


She breathed fire in a mysterious turn of events.

She glowed the coals of a thousand soul’s who’s embers lit up roasting homes.

They dreamt of cocoa, morning coffee, Halloween and sticky toffee.

Inhaled as her chest moved quick.

The cloud in sparks, hooves clickety tick.

Shining like pure silver after the Autumn fall.

Gone like a shot into the night sky, a miracle to us all.


© G.P Williamson 2017


How to be poetic.

How to be poetic.


How to be poetic said the literate to the fool.

Have you felt no meanings? He asked not ridiculed.

Have you not tasted sophistication?

Lay on a bale of hay?

Sang along in unison or wondered night and day?

How to be poetic said the literate to the fool.

Have you not a memory?

Been around the world?

Have you never pondered why the boys they chase the girls?

How to be poetic said the literate to the fool.

Weren’t you educated at your colleges and schools?

Did university have not both a bar and pool?

Don’t you see the tears of another handsome fool?

How to be poetic said the literate to the fool.


© G.P Williamson 2017


It’s Bob’s fault

It’s Bob’s fault


If she knew about Bob Lazar would she be intrigued?

Would space lead to a collaboration of stories weaved?

Rising like Apollo I’d lift for every occaion.

Each sweeping manifestation, a biblical revelation.

As sublime and divine as the fictional crime.

The universe may admire her beauty and that’s unquestionable.

However her brains flirted with me briefly through the darkness and the smoke.

I’m glad the visions changed and more so that I hadn’t spoke.

Somewhere beyond subconscious within reach yet untouchable.

Like Faith without the habit, A magician without a rabbit.

I am complete.


© G.P Williamson 2017