Short poems


There’s a piece of robust glass in my chest where you used to live all see through clearly and sweetly.
It juts out obviously and none discreetly.
Like how you filled me.
Cut deeply and all briefly.
It’s strange this optical illusion of my reflected expression.
I wish I could taste the whisky to dull the pain which resides in like fragmented lies.
Fermented rope and throated side lines.
Love doesn’t burn.
It hides.
In the memory of your shadow I wait for the night to pass.
Until then, I nurse this robust glass.

© G.P Williamson 2018 <– hit for Instagram!


A jibe at hipocrisy.

A jibe at hypocrisy.

Oh the hilarity at your calamity.
Belly laughs jovially like jelly beans tipped over me.
It’s only you that fails to see, you’ll wait for eternity.
I’d like to sing a different song.
I’d love to think I’d once be wrong,
but again you’ll have to fight and still you’ll sleep alone at night.
He never gives you any rights and so will never hold you like,
the way he sure does hold his wife.
When he looks up in her eyes and fills her with a thousand lies.
One day she will realise with years of unbridled hate that he caused such a bad state,
Because you chose to lie in wait.
Then wait then if you really must but don’t do it in the name of love.
Neither of you are worthy of the hands of time that turn to dust.

© G.P Williamson 2018






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

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

Let yourself be free.

Let yourself be free.
29th July 2018

Let yourself be free.
Just do, just be.
Go with it.
Chill it all out.
Those fears.
Those doubts.
Big Perceptions.
Fatal memories.
It’ll happen again!
Quick! Save me!
You don’t need all that sh*t baby.
You can’t walk on water.
You’ll not always be crushed.
How will you live if you never trust?
The writer knows calligraphy in the arch and the talk.
The model knows the movement in the posture and the walk.
Let yourself be free.
© 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

Tom Orrow

Buttercups and Daisys – A tale of Tom Orrow.

Buttercups and Daisys. – A tale of Tom Orrow.

Buttercups and daisys.
Why do I let it faze me?
Margarine and gravy.
A messy kind of crazy.

Bluebells on a short top dress.
Whitebells around her neck.
A wish upon a star.
A place I’ve not discovered yet.

“Don’t forget to remember”
Someone once said.
Tom Orrow leaves me wanting more.
Your memory leaves me dead.
© G.P Williamson 2018