poems

Show me success.

Show me success.

15/10/17

Signal my sensible sign.

Show me shadows.

Show me sunlight.

Show me success.

Show me the death rattle of a broken man,

bottle it or jar it. Label and farm it.

Grow the darkness from the airtight, lip tight distressed moonlight.

Water them with blood grow them to coffin roots with off shoots of dead men’s boots.

Show me rainbows where leprechauns grow pots of gold.

Show me poisoned toads with croaky throats and dragon toes.

Show me a flare.

Show me a signal to my sensible sign.

Show me shadows.

Show me sunlight.

Show me success.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

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poems

Thief by nature

Thief by nature

14/10/17

He wasn’t a thief by nature.

Steady job.

Hospital porter.

Generous, caring,

fathered a daughter.

Well known as dad.

Not your typical bad lad.

He wasn’t a thief by design.

Enjoyed a laugh with the boys.

Chess player’s, fresh donut’s, messy kitchen, victimless crime.

Their wasn’t much he couldn’t turn his hand to, but his eyes they didn’t shine.

Now when they married, nor when they dated and dined.

It was surreal, a unique love, sublime.

He wasn’t a thief by nature, but her….he had to have.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

 

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poems

Music neck.

Music Neck

06/10/17

He had a music note on his neck.

He spoke with such respect.

I couldn’t help but wonder had he suffered much neglect.

His temperament raised questions from answers that he sought.

He had the kind of wisdom which wouldn’t age or be taught.

He asked of all my reasons and yet never spoke of his.

He’d learnt to listen softly but not yet learnt to live.

I was reminded softly of a very special bird.

I know it’s rather strange and somewhat quite absurd.

Yet a phoenix I saw rising from the ashes where I’d been.

I watched him scramble upwards on the power of his dreams.

He rose with subtle dignity.

I watched the thunder clap.

They shook my hand and promised me that one day they’d come back.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

 

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poems

How to be poetic.

How to be poetic.

04/10/17

How to be poetic said the literate to the fool.

Have you felt no meanings? He asked not ridiculed.

Have you not tasted sophistication?

Lay on a bale of hay?

Sang along in unison or wondered night and day?

How to be poetic said the literate to the fool.

Have you not a memory?

Been around the world?

Have you never pondered why the boys they chase the girls?

How to be poetic said the literate to the fool.

Weren’t you educated at your colleges and schools?

Did university have not both a bar and pool?

Don’t you see the tears of another handsome fool?

How to be poetic said the literate to the fool.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

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poems

Quantities of love.

Quantities of love.

27/09/17

Pure angelic quantities of love.

Sky gifts from night lifts.

Dancing ankles, changing shifts.

Flowing gowns through midnight towns.

Birds howl where the tides growl against rocks made for the soul.

Shoals move as one in the cool water.

fishes swim across her thighs as she’s lifted through the darkest sky.

Rain drops on smoking lips.

“Forever mine” she quips.

Cascading memories like fallen hair.

He’s drawn with her through tarnished lair.

An incomplete serenity gives rise to birth of unity.

Somewhere silenced the owls do howl.

Flowing gowns through midnight towns.

Quantities of love the ghosts allow.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

 

 

 

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poems

October

October

09/10/17

October and the month held the same letters as her name.

We’d swam in fallen leaves which held more prickles than you’d actually believe.

The smell was divine and the leaves were fresh.

Her touch a tender reminder of a harsher happiness.

October and the month held the same letters as her name.

I was used to change, the seasons, the natural flow for many reasons.

Somehow I knew these memories would be stationary.

A new world of eternity forever encased.

Forever swept over.

My autumn love – October.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

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