poems

Christmas eve the repeat performance.

Christmas eve the repeat performance.

18/01/18

It’s time again number two child.

More confidence than I had then and less wild.

Same problematic chores with new angelic faces.

Aiding broken wars through achieved goals and the faith of old souls.

Died in battle on Christmas eve.

Resurrected to a new god for us all to believe.

A christening, holy water on an empty space.

A new freedom, a new face.

If I could do it all again with the same results.

I’d start the scars now, thankyou.

Thankyou very much.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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Short poems

Last night – You.

Last night – You.

02/02/18

I had a dream last night I could move things with my mind and there you were your hand in mine. We had some food the waiter rhymed.

We dated, mated, ate our crimes and there you were your hand in mine.

We lived and died same age one breath, melted rings of metal flesh.

We turned to ash our eyes they met. A dusty, darkened, blackened mess.

I looked beyond to search your mind, our love, your care, what could I find?

Hollow, shallow, different lines.

I dropped my head what do I find?

Your hand somehow entwined in mine.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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poems

There will always be an Autumn.

There will always be an Autumn.

07/12/17

There will always be an Autumn, come winter, rain or shine.

They’ll always be an Autumn where the seasons cling to your eyes.

I watched you reading Austin, I watched you with Shakespeare.

I watched you read by candlelight, the night was oh so clear.

There will always be an Autumn, come winter, rain or shine because the first came second in the verses on the line.

There will always be an Autumn with the passing of my time.

© G.P Williamson 2017

 

 

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poems, Short poems

Regret

Regret

04/12/17

She wasn’t who she thought she was.

She was worse and that made all his woes better.

He wasn’t who he thought he was and that she never regretted.

She laughed when he said he could go all night.

He cried when she waited a month just for his return.

Together they’d go forever.

In torment devouring each other from within the one soul they shared,

Fictionally – for a writer is always alone.

© G.P Williamson 2017

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poems, Short poems

In the sand.

In the sand.

02/12/17

Footprints in the sand are all he holds on for.

The magician.

An acknowledgement of all he knew before.

The right direction.

Poetic accuracy.

Is it all real or fallacy?

Can I question my reality or will you simply see in me all the things I used to be?

Unsurprised by the lies I hide behind.

© G.P Williamson 2017

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poems, Short poems

Lost the indefinite version.

Lost the indefinite version.

02/12/17

Everyone’s okay and there’s nothing to hold, nothing to replace you.

Nothing in my soul.

Everyone’s ok and I can’t fathom the tree.

I’m looking up aimlessly, are you around to see?

They’re all trading tokens, you’re worth your weight in gold to me.

They’re all flying high and my weight’s a solidarity.

Begone the phantom humbug. I’ll put the jar back and turn that lid.

I’ll keep the feeling buried, for you’ll always be my kid.

© G.P Williamson 2017

 

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poems, Short poems

It truly is not fair.

It truly is not fair.

01/12/17

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

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