A diary for the mind.

A diary for the mind.


Like an online diary for the mind.

Poke my head out then hide.

Throw bombs to collide in a weird kind of self destruction.

A suicide.

Not a matter to jest with.

I’ve known two who didn’t live and to anything my heart I’d give to have five beats more for the why’s I live.

My online diary spoke to me, grabbed hands and lunged, clasped me.

Beneath rose thorns and bramble weeds.

Rusty iron frames and dirty green leaves.

Pulled under tightly, thirsty to breathe.

Drowning air, a suffocating freeze.

Moonlit shadows of make believe.

Like an online diary, for the mind.

© G.P Williamson 2018

Short poems, Tom Orrow

Tom Orrow – Alter ego.

Tom Orrow – Alter ego.

Tom Orrow could be the ultimate alter ego if he wasn’t so damn factual living here inside my head, with whips and chains and a King size bed.

Smoking fags and eating Greggs, the opposite of this life I’ve led.

Tom Orrow rubbed it in he made it cruel. Told me all the mean things in the world.

If childlike view torn apart like making illegal all forms of art.

No self expression, no reason to be needed.

No colours, no motion, just blood in the ocean.

Tom Orrow rubbed it in on a riverbank not too far from the shore.

He rubbed it in until it hurt and then he rubbed some more.

Tom Orrow turned to face the sea and sighed that of the end.

Then he turned to look through me, and I used to be a friend.

© G.P Williamson 2018

poems, Tom Orrow

It’s always Tom Orrow

It’s always Tom Orrow


It’s always Tom Orrow.

It’s Tom Orrow when you’ll play those adult games.

When dressing up was all the rage.

Tom Orrow for that romantic meal, them healing films and that silken feel.

Tom Orrow when we’ll watch that show.

Friends cramped tight, elbow to elbow.

Tom Orrow for that meet up drink.

Next week I’m free at least, I think.

Tom Orrow for my daughter prom.

Work was mad, I should have gone.

Tom Orrow filled with great regret for times we haven’t encountered yet.

Tom Orrow with his sweet surrender.

Tears of hope without an end.

Tom Orrow has the travelling bug without his spade no grave is dug.

Tom Orrow goes but cannot stay.

He’s scared to death of Jester Day.

© G.P Williamson 2018


Macc Canal

Macc Canal


Saying what you mean.

Meaning what you say.

Stray dreams of grey dogs by park benches and squashed frogs.

How sticklebacks have mean faces on Macc Canal of all places.

Trust disgraced on the back of shoe laces hidden by my childlike self.

Pump up sneakers and no place to be.

I didn’t say trainers – Americanize me.

I dream a dream of time gone by.

A glare a peak and then I fly.

It is too much to watch them die.

I still understand but don’t know why.

© G.P Williamson 2018


Things my four year old said (Ongoing)

Things my four year old has said.


I literally have a diary just for her of random things she’s done or come out with that tickle me. However I’ve not touched it in a while and somewhere along the line little things she’s said got added to my poetry books in margins or above writing. It’s about time they had their own little space. I’m sure it will be added to frequently.

D: “Daddy I don’t like you”

Me: “That’s not nice baby, don’t tell mummy or daddy you don’t like them. It’s not nice”

D: “I like mummy”


D: “Marrying each other is like dancing because dancing is marrying and marrying is a dance”


D: “I didn’t dream daddy, someone took all my dreams away!”


Me: “What are you doing baby?” (She was pulling very scary faces and generally staring at me)

D: “My teddy’s teached me it”


D: “Dad leave Cbeebies on”

Me: “No, I want to watch something else baby”

D: “No you don’t you want to watch Cbeebies with me”



-G.P Williamson.





Old Timber

Old Timber.


I love old timber with its dark marks, walks in the park. Hillsides, mountains and the moon reflected in an ocean view. I love old timber and it loves me too.

I love the park bench where our first kiss still resides, the old oak tree where hide and seek still rides in circles of giggles and cries.

I love the silver birch the handle of my axe’s blade, a mahogany table and an Orchard and a glade.

Autumns rays with broken leaves on windy days.

Funny how all of this shifts and stays…

..Inside one smell, a smell of old timber.

© G.P Williamson 2018


Christmas eve the repeat performance.

Christmas eve the repeat performance.


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