poems, Short poems




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

poems, Short poems

In the sand.

In the sand.


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

poems, Short poems

Lost the indefinite version.

Lost the indefinite version.


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


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

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


poems, Short poems




If tonight you were to vanish.

A few stars would twinkle dim.

I’d ache a little piece inside.

A part of me would thin.

Bring out that shining rainbow.

Progress through all the dirt.

You are the pot of gold.

You eased many of my hurts.

Thankyou for the memories.

Bless you for the drink.

I’m honored for the chats,

and how you taught me to think.

© G.P Williamson 2017


Memories of Love in 2015

Whilst unwell and looking for Lemsip (My saviour) I discovered this old notepad I’d at one stage partially filled. Queue some more old scribblings I never got around to sharing.

Memories of Love in 2015


Down a little muddy path between two tiny little towns.

A woman by a stream can often be seen or found.

She drank some men quite merry in her younger more physical days.

She once had herself a business in more physical kinda ways.

It’s said her eyes still glisten if you know what I mean and if you’re ever passing by you might glimpse her by the stream.

She was a blacksmith’s daughter. His grip was like a vice.

Her mother had passed early in the deathness of the night.

Down a little muddy path she drank some men quite merry.

Until her husband found her and she was not quite ready.

She had two other sisters, because there’s always three.

They still walk amongst us circling that old bare oak tree.

Two sets of calves shine through the night bypassing any kind of worry.

Dancing to forget the reasons they are sorry.

If you look real closely, nothing much will change.

But you’ll glimpse three pairs of legs around that oak tree stage.

I watch them joined in misery, I feel them joined in love.

Some kind of enigma sent when the world needed their touch.


© G.P Williamson 2017