Short poems

Flamingo’s snare.

I never cared.

The dust settled over your memory.
Like golden sand covering long gone treasure.
I rested in a flamingo’s snare.
All bygone colours and what’s there greys.
It’s my pleasure.
The rain stays.

Golden sand memories settled over treasure long gone.
I snared grey flamingo colours and then rested.
We’re as one.
The night jested.

Dusty treasure gone, your memory’s golden sand.
Flamingo colours bygone greys I snared.
I didn’t understand.
I never cared.
© G.P Williamson 2018


The radios echo & other love goals.

The radios echo and other love goals.
29th July 2018

The radio goes and it’s my voice.
A debate, some farce or other.
There’s a time we could have bothered.
We never did and it’s all over.
You sigh through a candlelit window>
Where’s that time go? I should know and we don’t.
Bespoke fonts and trained daughters.
Loving wives and guilty fathers.
Nothing happened, the plans weren’t watered,
So nothing grows, nothing alters.
I understand the illusion, nothing’s right we couldn’t believe in,
So no start, no grieving.
You’ll smile that kindness wide too.
Vulnerable to hide looks and know you did the right thing.
Spark up a Hamlet and stroll home alone as some poor soul starts to sing about love’s goals.
© G.P Williamson 2018

Short poems


29th July 2018

I heard it said I had to grasp it with both hands if I wanted something to come of it.
Never mediocre, always learning, the far end of stood out, stomach churning.
Books burning, piles and heaps of skips, mountains filled with notes and quips.
Sarcastic shoot from the hop hit bits of luminescent sh*t.
Fried alive amidst screams and cries, raging heights.
Clown faces, lemonade, tastes of bleach as Bucks Fizz plays.
I never made my mind up.
Legs rise as smoke engulfs my character and eyes lock here until the ever after.
Loved to death and passioned through birth.
Dated in life.
Married in earth.

© G.P Williamson 2018


Brown coat.

Brown coat.

23rd June 2018

They don’t stay, empty vessels sail away.

Picture frames of empty homes where echos grow and ghosts won’t even show.

Memories that I myself don’t know.

They don’t stay but they watch on judging through this empty window.

The grass continues to grow in a world I can’t touch in a place I don’t know.

They don’t stay, because they can’t go.

Fascinated by brown coat, thick and warm like December’s charm on some reluctant American dream street behind a movie set with visions of a woman I’ve never met.

Pulled tight warm all cosy then alarmed at her warm smile and vacant charm.

A piece of me no longer matters, her smile fides and bursts into full crow shatters.

Splinters of her engulf me like wolves toss bones for flesh wound woes.

I explode as realisation cures all my goals.

© G.P Williamson 2018

Short poems

Fatality & frailty

Fatality and frailty.


It’s like every time you try you grit your teeth.

Goodbye’s alive and birthing.

Subsidising positives and self worthing.

Self elf on a shelf capsizing.

Fake wizards and new gods baptizing.

Fatal perception and the art of realising.

Death’s impression was a beautiful girls tender touch.

I hate and miss her so much.

© G.P Williamson 2018


How many memories will vanish?

How many memories will vanish?


How many memories will vanish?

Making googly noises in your chair.

Sticky mess in your hair.

Wondering around aimlessly like there’s no cares.

How many memory’s vanish right there?

A kiss on the forehead.

Holding hands, grab my finger.

Summers day plans.

How many memories die right there?

First steps, first word, which first comes first,

First day of school.

First blown raspberry across the room.

How many memories will vanish again?

First bus journey, first trip on a train.

First time skipping.

First dance in the rain.

How many memory’s washed away?

Our first locket like memory’s inside.

Yours might fade.

Mine I’ll pride.

© G.P Williamson 2018


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