poems, Short poems

At night.

At Night.


Lightening climbs.

Igniting flames.

The lovers looks.

The dancing game.

Smooth and suave.

Swift in motion.

Allowed to drive.

The air a cushion.

Flying together.

Eyes alight.

Becoming one.

Alive at night.

Passion killer.

Brought the crunch.

Broken down.

A different bunch.

Group of guys.

A solid team.

Divided up.

A broken dream.

Tattered edges.

Torn inside.

No other choice but stand and fight.

© G.P Williamson 2017



poems, Short poems

Plastic man

Plastic man


Plastic man waved goodbye with unmoving arms and glazed eyes to a ghost he couldn’t touch or see as he felt her leave through the hazy night air and cold shop windows around Christmas time. He stood invisible, transfixed and naked to her touch.

A touch he couldn’t claim to entertain, to feel to dull some bygone pain and it rained until once again he told the same story months later about another love and another run away train.

Plastic man escapes again.

© G.P Williamson 2017

poems, Short poems




She wasn’t who she thought she was.

She was worse and that made all his woes better.

He wasn’t who he thought he was and that she never regretted.

She laughed when he said he could go all night.

He cried when she waited a month just for his return.

Together they’d go forever.

In torment devouring each other from within the one soul they shared,

Fictionally – for a writer is always alone.

© G.P Williamson 2017

poems, Short poems

Cheating hearts

Cheating hearts.


You’ll tell me tomorrow that you’re sorry for insinuating the things you’ve meant for weeks.

I’ll forgive you and apologise for insinuating things I’ve meant for months.

We’ll both continue lying to one another.

Persuasion, like that tickle on the palm of your hand that they don’t notice.

The warmth in your legs.

The cobweb sensation across your face.

The tingle in your lips that makes them itch.

Persuasion, the choice based alternative to love.

What a fictional perfection.

© G.P Williamson 2017


poems, Short poems

Just another tuesday night.

Just another Tuesday night.


Her knee’s stuck in the mud as the twigs lashed her face in torment of her beauty.

The sky darkened and groaned as the tree arched and moaned, gnarled hands dragged her flailing awkwards.

Falling downwards to a cloud of woods.

A flock of doves flew and they knew,

Grabbed ankles through the roots of tree shoots as the wind kicks up a new noose and she gasps as her shoes fall loose.

Her eyes roll momentarily as a raven lands and tells her soul that she’s found a new man to call home.

© G.P Williamson 2017


poems, Short poems

Broken item

Broken item.


She wouldn’t call if you placed the phone in her hand yourself and pressed the buttons for her.

Stop pining she’s not of your honour.

There’s a lock where her seal should be and it’s broken.

She crushed you and you’ve not even spoken.

There’s a hand to touch the wound that’s bare.

A hand to love the touch that cares.

Be softly spoken and animalistic.

Be positive and open but be realistic.

© G.P Williamson 2017

poems, Short poems




There’s solace in peacekeeping but for passion you need a good argument, or a bad argument.

Passion isn’t secure. It’s confidant wild and free, it’s not tulip petals.

It’s rose thorns and stingy nettles.

There’s passion in that danger.

That’s why we seek the rollercoaster.

Dangerous safety, commitment baby.

Keep your solace, drive me crazy.

© G.P Williamson 2017