Short poems

The cold of death.

The cold of death.

07/10/17

There’s not always growls and howls where the stalkers prowl.

rustled bushes, bulrushes, ivy dances in midnight crushes.

Smell of tomatoes where the water meets cold toes, shoes thrown.

Where home-grown ropes are sewn.

Where moral justification is two-tone.

Below the scaffolding of a crimson dome.

It was cold there, underwater.

She’s another innocent man’s daughter.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

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poems

Heart Strings

Heart Strings

06/10/17

What is it that gets you with heart-strings?

Grabbed pulled tight like a harpsichord in a drugstore.

Full bore and no throttle.

Like the mind’s willing but you’ve not got the bottle.

What grabs you by the windpipe and holds tight until that light behind your eyes fades?

Night, night.

What pain brings glory?

Which clarity tells your story?

What deranged cinnamon deprived demonic hidden backstaged enraged fear you crave, heals the wounds you enslave?

Encased in happiness without duress, I confess you’re the one they loved less.

Less like an empty hall, bare wall.

The grandfather clock with no chime that’s too tall.

Not seen or heard at all.

What is it that stores the holes we make.

For sanity sake we interchange faces and places for good spirit and cupcakes.

Transfixed with vexed heartaches we can’t partake.

You still count the seconds when you know it’s too late.

What bends you and contorts you?

Shapes and molds you?

Wraps you up bends you and folds you through holes you were born through.

Which envelope of existence delivers you a fantasy to cling to?

Buckle my shoe.

Which dream quantifies the quality of seamstress and her groans and murmurs.

In which dream are you the victim and in which you commit the murders?

No blood on your hands, simply detached.

That’s a master plan you chose not to hatch.

What stairway into the unknown makes you cry when you come home alone?

Which damp floor board creaky step, which he’s behind you, which “it hasn’t happened yet”, which “don’t you forget it” or child mourning comes to your mind without sound or warning?

What is it that gets you with heart-strings.

I am that which they never bring. The nothing that the heart sings.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

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Graphic, poems

Kill your darlings. (Graphic)

Kill your darlings.

27/09/17

His eyes rolled back a clear two seconds after the bullet tore through his chest.

By through I mean into the front through the chest turning and churning and then just blowing the back clean out like a visual megaphone shout.

A megaphone rattled with a clear-cut reply – he’s out.

He was a father, a worker, a grafter, a soldier, an author, he’d fathered a daughter.

A warrior, a trooper, the main part of a group.

The class clown, the cheer us on one. the nice word for anyone.

The last penny guy.

The man I just watched die.

Stood there all helpless as back rolled his eyes.

Crimson hadn’t landed when I turned and disbanded.

Arms by my sides, huge weight realised.

The night train I’d ride without him by my side.

You’d meet me at Euston at the end of the bridge.

You knew what I needed – you’re humor always the best.

You’re eyes rolled back a clear two seconds after …. the bullet tore through your chest.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

 

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poems

Like me.

Like me.

05/10/17

Like me winter drifts through naturally.

Each year leaving its mark amongst its echo of memories.

Like me the sting sits warm as memories turn cold.

Reminders of curled toes, cocoa noses and ghostly pictures of spring roses.

Places adept at being close to our heart.

Another year over, another year starts.

Like me the snow cloaks, warms and protects at least once a year.

Until I set sail, curtail the emotional derailment in lieu of Christmas and all its merriment.

I guess I was never one for personal development.

Where’s the man who paints with his heart a family he can’t touch?

Where’s my own home? Photographic disasters, mistakes and a thankyou very much.

Like me winter drifts through crisp and clear.

Like me, just once a year.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

 

 

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poems

Alone was all he knew.

Alone was all he knew.

04/10/17

They made him kneel.

They made him pray.

His smile never went away.

They made him promise.

He often swore.

Swore like he never had before.

Stoic adversary a creek he dug alone.

His friendship a silken scarf, woven from the bone.

A curled lip.

A slammed down hand.

Clawing dirt and grit and ground.

A pleasured hope, a rising damp a chance to go another lap.

They made him kneel.

They made him pray.

His smile never went away.

 

Copyright G.P Williamson 2017

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poems

Six word story.

Six word story.

(The idea behind a six word story is that each person comments to create the best or most interesting and most often than not they work as prompts for future works. However I’d noticed I was commenting a fair bit on one post so I put them together and got something……different.)

Six word story.

Together they never forgave each other.

Bludgeoned to ecstacy in chaotic wonder.

Last night they cried mercy, eternally.

Forget me not remember me always.

Death was the release they longed for.

A long release pained every crevice.

Each popcorn bit, a silent scream.

Memory blanked from depth’s just discovered.

He stopped my pain, squeezed throat.

Reiterate my start, unblock my heart.

Beach house blinds the graveyard neighbours.

Standing on stones, blood red rivers.

Many women died within his eyes.

Together they danced, entwined in tomorrow.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

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poems

The Undateables.

The Undateables.

(This poem has nothing to do with the programme of the same name)

11/09/2017

Stop insinuating dating and refrain from contemplating when you’re understating all which keeps us hibernating, to kep warm at a time which could do harm.

I don’t blame the illustrator.

Pictures of a great dictator.

A powerful leader brought to their knees on the fringes of ambiguity.

Do some people interchange lives by the means of unseen course?

Travelled is still a road.

It exists in terms of functional quality.

Equality doesn’t murmur.

Doesn’t become unheard.

It’s real and magnified but silently obsurd.

I have a choice not to make a choice and in that my security is found.

No choice is no change and in what’s lost can never be found.

You don’t lose what you never had.

What isn’t yours doesn’t pay to be sad.

Sad’s not the right word, more a trickle of wonder.

….Like the day moves the night and the clouds meet the thunder.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

 

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