poems

Every door – short.

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Every Door

30/10/17

Every door within his mind was locked to spectators and himself.

If his name was “Which direction?” the answers didn’t come.

Looking through the keyhole at the memories of his mum.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

 

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Short poems

The cold of death.

The cold of death.

07/10/17

There’s not always growls and howls where the stalkers prowl.

rustled bushes, bulrushes, ivy dances in midnight crushes.

Smell of tomatoes where the water meets cold toes, shoes thrown.

Where home-grown ropes are sewn.

Where moral justification is two-tone.

Below the scaffolding of a crimson dome.

It was cold there, underwater.

She’s another innocent man’s daughter.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

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Another whisp of memory

Another whisp of memory.

3rd September 2017

Tremble at the fake imagery of her slender frame.

Shake with distrust at a touch unjust for the person you once loved that much.

I knew nothing bar opinion and ridicule.

Bit memories.

I’m on a bar stool in care.

I came home late to ensure my friend didn’t meet the same fate.

It was too late.

She’s on the step in a red cotton shirt with square patches.

The memory fades as another one hatches.

She won’t smile.

She’s scared to watch T.V

She writes, I guess that’s like me.

She wants to be free.

O.C.D, anxiety, depression and drink dependent bring her thin.

They are all veils to protect herself from facing him.

Shawls of control.

Protective cloaks which don’t work.

Why today I’m a control freak.

Set me a task and leave me be.

You don’t want to be my reason for solitary.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

 

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Genius really.

 

02/06/2017

Genius really.

How she did it.

Nobody would have guessed in her pink apron, singing along to the beatles in her kitchen going about her business.

Genius really.

Little pots with dates on for when they’d go.

Bad, or worse if you’d know the smell,

but she’d put them in bin bags a bit at a time.

They wouldn’t know her secret crime.

Genius really.

Walls of face cream with real faces in.

Hand cream, foot balm, massage oil.

Even eye drops,

so many you could pick your own colour.

Genius really.

She was a good cook though.

She put heart and soul into her dishes and her steak and kidney pies, well.

They were to die for.

Genius really.

©G.P Williamson 2017

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There’s an ache that rides the seven skies the seven skies of sin.

25/10/14

There’s an ache that rides the seven skies the seven skies of sin.
Where children play in old buildings and the cold air does creep in.

A Christmas in a mad house
Is much better spent outside.
If the snow hadn’t grown too high
He might still be alive.

There’s an ache that rides the seven skies the seven skies of sin
Where people praise each other with lies not held within.

As you walk around all hateful
With nowhere to begin
You add nothing to society
But another unsightly din

There’s an ache that rides the seven skies the seven skies of sin
The blasphemy of any God and by that I mean our kin.

Accumulated wealth tends not to feed the all.
Preach me of your favourite God as our men lay in the soil.
Why have we not yet learnt of nature’s perfect call?
Wouldn’t it be obvious if the spring followed the fall?

There’s an ache that rides the seven skies the seven skies of sin.
The law of man makes fortunes all of which are grim.

Five years here for murder
Yet a country is fair game.
The money just keeps flowing in
And I’m for one ashamed.

There’s an ache that rides the seven skies the seven skies of sin.
The people are the many and it’s your lies we live within.

Political correctness
should be more fact than phrase.
We wallow in authority
as you act out on centre stage.

There’s an ache that rides the seven skies the seven skies of sin.
Where communication is all lost as technology steps in.

Your computer is an amazing gateway
To all but two eyes meeting.
An amazing tool of solitude
With no response to greeting.

There’s an ache that rides the seven skies the seven skies of sin.
Authority in magnitude which favours cash to kin.

Where children cry and adults mourn in homes they yearn to own.
Grateful for the privileges awarded here at all.

Copyright G.P Williamson 2014

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I can’t be sad today! (Poem for Samm)

I can’t be sad today.

Tomorrow you are here,
In the thoughts of yesterday,
Each and every year.

I can’t be sad today

Tomorrow is profound.
In the thoughts of yesterday,
Each moment all year round.

I can’t be sad today.

Tomorrow doesn’t live.
Each moment is as precious as the life I’m born to live.

I can’t be sad today.

I don’t choose it so,
Neither should the person with nowhere left to go.

I can’t be sad today.

I’m inspired by a memory.
Forgotten like a dream.
Harnessed in a heartbeat.
That’s more than what it seems.

I can’t be sad today.
That world does not exist.
I refuse to be a burden to this life I chose, persist!

I am not sad today.
Each moment here’s a choice.
Listen to the echo’s of that inner deeper voice.

copyright G.P Williamson 2014.

Www.gpwpoetry.wix.com/gpwpoetry A poem provided for Samm (support after murder and manslaughter)

 

 

 

You can find more of my work on Facebook GpwPoetry.

 

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