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

Scribblings and squabblings

Don’t be funny!

Don’t be funny!

15th January 2018

It was funny how all his relationships were the same. More lines penned in ink than spoken words. More time to think, what to think, the ways in which her eyes he sinks and something new, something always new or unknown that gets shown or thrown. Something that drives him over the brink and brings him home alone.

He sat staring at the page of her as he wrote her up whilst her face flickered “Calling” on his cell phone. They were all like a diary, some carried over month to month whilst others were categorised by section or season all filled with the same charges of dishonesty and reason. Explanations of excuses and fabricated truth’s without use.

Lies and vicious smarts from scarlet whores with bitterness that rips at tender sores and beneath it all the loneliness hits to the point of admission. He just wants to hold all of them once more. The subtle fragrance and essence of fleetingly being complete. Cleaning the sheets, making excuses and admitting defeat.

A caricature of a man he was now obsolete, a boy at best for a man owns only his dignity and word.

She was different, unique. Fire from lips to hips with sarcastic purses non eclipsed spiritualised conversational trust she talked him to new heights whilst her eyes asked why? She knew the endings to a thousand stories, caressed him without warning and lingered in essence morning after morning.

He was a writer with nothing to say. He penned alone, solitary most days. She worked with hundreds over the course of a day. Her journey making the perfect pale skinned puzzle, a statuesque masterpiece masquerading as something he hoped to see.

There she lay four days later eloquent like a piano he’d play later, watched and admired she stretched a desire, exhaled to perspire. It mixed the crescendo higher and liar, she soul searched his kingdom, heart lurched his freedom, hip rolled his ego and swallowed all his words whole.

His Copy write was stolen in a contract of love. It was funny how all his relationships were the same.

© G.P Williamson 2018

Tom Orrow

Tales of Tom Orrow – Empty

Tales of Tom Orrow – Empty


Tom Orrow knocked on where connections used to reside.

Where fragrance still wept and constellations collide.

Tom Morrow was dull as the knocking wore thing as echos hit home at a place deeper within.

Tom Orrow returned down that straight garden path.

It seemed once and for all she’d had the last laugh.

Tom Morrow took the engine as all good men must and took his place with the demons and the ghosts of distrust.

She’d heard the revving, she’d felt the roar like all those times her motor soared.

She was bemused like catching a scent.

Could it be him? What are the chances?

She placed the brush beside her book and walked the halls – just a quick look.

He did not care all was clear.

The ghost of a memory was stood right there.

© G.P Williamson 2017


Short poems

Endlessly Winking.

Endlessly winking.


Tonight the shutter winked endlessly, capturing your memories until you were nothing but a blur in the aura of candlelight.

I was as cold as I was warmed.

You saw through me until we were one another’s memory.

I just hope you recall as often as I do.

Sleep until the day we meet again.

© G.P Williamson 2017