Short poems

Like a glove.

Like a glove.
20/08/2018

Atrocious indignities.
Beware looming obituary’s.
dogs fallen into sullen corners.
Cold waters, frozen daughters.
Minute b*tch from lone wolf.
Lack of trust you learnt the truth.
Strong pack.
Pack of lies.
No soul.
Fires behind those eyes.
Baptise you and your lack of love.
Stick to yellow.
It fits like a glove.

© G.P Williamson 2019

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Short poems

Diagon House! The poorly made spell.

Diagon House! The poorly made spell.
11/08/2018

Black door ironically.
A 68 Metaphorically.
Good neighbours categorically.
Hidden rooms magically.
A new home – for family.
Poof! Diagon House!
Oh squeak! – I’m a mouse.

© G.P Williamson 2019

The I can’t fail house.
12/08/2018

You feel like a new home that’s on the horizon.
Like a porch light I could see myself in.
Nestled down unquestioningly.
Diligently, cozy, refreshed see.
A homely home.
With scorpions and ropes.
Dark cabins and twisted jokes.
A new home for roasting.
A hot precipice, open air prayer kiss.
A tin bath and cigar, hell I could get used to this.
A lusty love with leaves and twigs,
I inhale,
If you’re my world I’ll set sail.
The oyster’s born.
I can’t fail.

© G.P Williamson 2019

 

 

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Short poems

Suicide reality.

Suicide reality.

08/06/2018

It’s been six years this year.
You never said goodbye.
No adios, no see you later.
Just vanished after everything like you so often had before, days turned to weeks then a message at my door.
You were no more.
You were no more.
I still find it weird.
Still expect you to just turn up demanding pizza and helping yourself.
I went to your funeral, it didn’t help.
You weren’t the type to kil yourself.
It’s been six years this year.
You never said goodbye.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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poems

When I die.

When I die.

23rd June 2018

When I die a deathly death of dark all hallowedness and that veil falls all clear and proud, I want you to scream.

Scream until the crows of hell themselves all run and hide.

Scream until the graves turn on their sides.

Scream loud like every Harley that’s ever kicked up dust.

Scream like a second husbands lack of trust.

Like the Eiffel tower doesn’t rust and through the rain and sleet and snow, through every tale that death can show, through every diseased town you have to go.

Stand tall.

Stand tall and scream until the fire in the gates of hell perspires, that’s where my eyes are.

When I die a deathly death of dark all Hallowedness and that veil falls all clear and proud, scream me up a motherfucking shroud!

Balm me in your fury.

Warm me with your aggression.

Shower me in might before I leave a great impression.

I’m coming back on Monday in the reflection that you’ll miss.

I’ll reach right out and claim you in a possessed silent kiss.

© G.P Williamson 2018

 

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Short poems

You’re the rose in me.

You’re the rose in me.

19/05/18

If only I could pronounce evil as love turn chaos to doves, demons to God.

If only I could shut that door like they keep saying I should.

If I could handle a rose with delicate prose that didn’t draw blood.

If only I could.

There’s a world of unanimous decisions they all seem to be happy living.

There’s a world of “if only’s” they’re constantly grieving.

If only I could bring them healing.

Perhaps then I’d not be forever feeling.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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poems

Rolling with the changes.

Rolling with the changes.

17/02/18

I’ve learnt to roll with changes although I like things crystal clear.

I understand it’s circumstance but not why you’re not here.

I understand that people think you don’t really matter.

You didn’t exist in breath or beat and so we just get better.

I’ve listened to the arguments both pro life and pro gun.

Yet they had choices of their own and us….well we had none.

I’ve given up on giving up, when I couldn’t fit you into faith.

Each day I live for here and now the smile grateful on my face.

I’m irritated much more often, angry quite a lot.

Yet I live for I’ve got instead of what we’ve not.

People around me lost plenty.

I hear them cry in the night.

Echo’s of eternity remind me I’m alright.

Then there’s you with everything.

Two jobs, two cars, two kids.

I marvel at the perfectness then shake my head at it.

I like to live my happiness like happiness loves life.

I mirror all the beauties in my daughter and my wife.

I saviour every moment from the mundane to the dear,

Because I’ll not be blind to love that finds itself right here.

I’ve learnt to roll with changes, although I like things crystal clear.

I understand it’s circumstance but not why you’re not here.

© G.P Williamson 2018

 

 

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Short poems

Living a lullaby.

Living a lullaby.

26/04/2018

Profound sound of a lullaby he’d found in the rain amongst the noise of traffic.

In his head he sung to himself.

Gleefully dressed, surprisingly unstressed.

He’d failed every other test.

Yet this lullaby needed to be written.

His bike was broken but the journey was living.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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