Short poems

Dreadlocks and muscle.

Dreadlocks and muscle.
29th July 2018

It’s in the dreadlocks high.
The darkest night, your eyes my sky.
Your body plumes, the muscles ripple.
Tender touches, strong. I’m fickle.
Cascading momentum I’ll keep stone.
I’ll bite my lip until you’re done.
Finished, over, complete and spent.
Sweat on arched backs, the river went.
Darkest dreadlocks laying bare.
Ropes of mercy.
Ropes of care.
© G.P Williamson 2018

Short poems

Come quietly.

Come quietly.


Called herself a feminist as she worshipped a hot ended candle in prayer for the world to see.

Proud and pure she wore nothing from the neck to her navel.

She said it was to show the true spirit of femininity, that and ten thousand likes.

She won the internet, and after all else cable.

The perfect nun on the masters table.

She spoke latin, played violin and stole hearts from husbands and warriors.

She was the face of a nation and the body of society.

You only had to imagine her whispers, to come quietly.

© G.P Williamson 2018

Short poems

Only at night – short.

Only at night – short.


Play the hand that warms you.

Taunts you.

Calms you.

Play the hand that conforms.

Surrenders to charms.


Isn’t alarmed.

Play the hand without spite.

Submissively airtight.

Be gone by daylight.

It’s alright – the beast only comes out at night.

© G.P Williamson 2017