Remember him

Remember him


Remember the boy who couldn’t show sorrow.

Random acts of kindness his short life brought a nation.

Together sacrificed this love that’s God’s creation.

Remember the authorities did all they could to stop the flow of this angel’s blood.

Ormand street as it shall now be known, for the Great shall always forever have fallen.

Powerful elixirs all over the world.

He gave to our lives and education, highlighted poor morals and united the nations.

Squabbles held dear should forever become lose.

Shouldn’t this life at least highlight the true value of cost?

I’ll not speak his name for it’s more hallowed than faith.

In my country I’m humbled but tonight I’m disgraced.

These parents are legends and I’m filled with regret that their awful struggle is not over yet.

I’m broken all over and all open and wide, through the voice of our people who hold him dear inside.

We cry as a people.

We cry as a nation.

We cry as humanity.

He’s our salvation.

Highlight’s who we really are and the cruelty of our law.

No man is mothered by the court.

We are government from the womb.

Parental ties, one union, efficient etiquette.

No law can beat the love of man.

The war isn’t over yet.


© G.P Williamson 2017



Rose black.

Rose black.


I’ll sleep now with roses.

Red roses on a layer of black, solidarity on a foundation of midnight matt.

Silken sheen, dark petals between the mystifying hues of red and green.

You left my mind and a thorn kissed the pad of my finger.

I don’t need to explain the pain.

It was exquisite, devine, beautiful and romantic all at once,

Painful, sorrowful and sad.

You left me longing for more before we’d begun.

We’d not danced.

We’d not spoke.

We’d not had fun.

The thorn hurt too for a moment.

I stretched and the vibrations cascaded in a hieroglyphical hierachy of petals, top of petals.

Pyramids of comfort and wonder.

I was allergic and you were my cure.


© G.P Williamson 2017




Everything she’d written

Everything she’d written


Everything she’d written, she’d written with her tongue.

The business man’s affections,

The words to her favourite song.

Her diary of mistakes.

Her heart was full of scars.

The notes she penned in teardrops, wedged within a jar of hearts.

Christmas came and went, the good man never glanced her way.

She always had the answers.

Her tongue unleashed could play:

The violin.

The Mandolin,

The secret saddle sushi.

If she wanted anything she got the best of Gucci.

Everything she’d written, she’d written with her tongue.

Her heart and mind combined could not correct that wrong.


© G.P Williamson 2017


There’s a case beneath my bed.

There’s a case beneath my bed.


There’s a case of bad memories beneath my bed.

Inside there are:

The songs that remind me of you.

A photograph of my dog before he died.

That hospital letter.

The cinema receipt.

Our trip to London.

Why I won’t ride the train.

The smell of onions.

The first time you hit me.

The last time you hit me.

When I couldn’t stay.

Breaking my wrist.

Watching you go.

The taste of bleach.

A foot with three toes.

Being scared to eat.

It’s brown and is sealed down with two thick leather straps, a heavy buckle and a heavy duty chain, with a padlock.


© G.P Williamson 2017


One minute

One minute


Can we take one minute to stop a war?

Do we instead need the minute’s silence to recall those gone before?

Shouldn’t a hand in a hand show you we’re all born from the same land?

Shouldn’t it be proper that we all have the freedom to speak and stand?

Can we take one minute to help someone less fortunate?

Can we look past our own fears, ego’s and regrets?

If we take one minute, together as a planet, then the best of our world hasn’t happend yet.

One minute to be the best poem ever written.

One minute to share all the love we’ve been given.

One minute to make time stand still and unite us as one race, the human race, forever.

Will you stand up?



© G.P Williamson 2017


Carelessness causes fire.

Carelessness causes fire


Carelessness causes fire.

It also causes other losses.

Pay attention to what you’ve got.

Things get broken, misplaced when they’re not cared for.

Gone, forgotton in a wince of pain and loneliness.

Do I look like I’ll beg for your forgiveness?

Straight answers with long faces.

This place kept safe with no disgraces.

No embraces.

Soulless shapes like empty suitcases.

I’d give myself a new shape to dictate a new fate but it’s too late.

I asked a million time why we’re here every few weeks, what can we change?

It’s heart breaking and just stays the same.

It’s the no flame game waiting for a stage to reset, get rearranged that’s left stagnating.

What’s left is half a heart beating.


© G.P Williamson 2017