poems

Honey, you taste so good.

 

Honey, you taste so good.

22/06/2017

You spread lies like honey, crystal clear with flecks of the universe inside, balanced on your lips.

Promises of hope that taste devine.

You took your pound of flesh and insisted we would rhyme.

I don’t mind dancing to your tune if the sounds you made were mine, but the snowflakes on your fingertips they trace a different line.

I found you on the map of life, it tells me you’re right here.

I saw you in the photograps the mirror’s crystal clear.

I can’t see you in the past and so my future’s where you’ll be, play me for a fool in wild eternity.

I can’t collect the rainbows come lay with me a while.

I’ll run my fingers through your hair and beam right at your smile.

I can’t have you for forever so I draw the times that we collide.

You spread lies like honey, crystal clear with flecks of the universe on your lips.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

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poems

Faithful words.

Faithful words.

21/06/2017

I couldn’t mind strain a sentence I just knew one after another meant I was walking.

I wouldn’t mind the laughing docks the endless hills or ticking clocks, if it wasn’t for the surprise factor.

That for the past year or so I’ve been walking north. I had no goal but knew where I was going.

I took a rest for seconds and did a map reading, eight thousand miles south it was showing.

I saw a burning bush in the distance which turned out to be a flicker of light on broken glass, from a bottle in the desert which held no water and was too dangerous to trust.

I walked with bleeding feet and aches, aches of a thousand armies until I’d had enough. It was then, then that I began to trust, not in him or me just in the total hopelessness that was my situation. I trusted it was over and that we were done.

Left arm held high holding the note, right holding a flame I torched your existance and I burnt with it.

From head to toe from foot to nose I fried complete whilst the whole world froze.

 

© G.P Williamson 2017

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poems

They gazed forth and fifth.

09/06/2017

By the side of the field the row of eyes gazed forth and fifth,

taking in every first sight as second nature.

It was the third night I’d parked up close by and watched her light come on.

Third night she’d slept alone and left the T.V on.

Third night I’d known her life’s routine.

Last night that it would ever be the same.

By the side of the field the row of eyes gazed forth and fifth,

taking in every first sight as second nature.

I was early, as expected and she was swinging on the bench with a cool lemonade.

Her blonde hair bouncing gently in the evening air.

“You came” she half whispered not turning to face me, I knew the moon would be shining off her face.

I could smell our dinner cooking and to my right two candles were waiting to be lit.

I put the heavy suitcase of money on the porch and as I did I caught a scent of her perfume and the image could have been complete.

That’s when I turned left and walked away.

By the side of the field the row of eyes gazed forth and fifth,

taking in every first sight as second nature.

 

©G.P Williamson 2017

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poems

Note

Note

09/06/2017

I discovered my loss once I’d found the note.

It wasn’t that you weren’t there that affected me so much.

It’s that you weren’t everywhere.

You weren’t in the kitchen where we laughed.

The dining room where we ate.

The garden, we played or the bedroom we ached.

It was too late.

You weren’t heard in the other rooms.

No clothes, no smell of perfume.

No responce to my voice, no answers, no words.

Just gloom.

I found the note and held it.

You weren’t in my fingers for they were numb.

Nor my heart, was this alone?

You weren’t in my arms… what had I done?

My tears stained the paper, until like you..

…it was gone.

 

©G.P Williamson 2017

 

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What gave again

What gave again.

04/06/2017

Like a chime unheard.

We don’t speak or listen.

Like the phone you hear ringing.

Yet the reciever never moves in it’s cradle.

We look but don’t really see or comprehend.

Often silently questioning, Is it the end?

There’s an apple tree which ages as apple tree’s do.

It bears no fruit and so the apples never get a chance to fall far from the tree.

There’s questions I alone can’t answer.

Questions about you and me.

©G.P Williamson 2017

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poems

Pathetic or Exquisit

Pathetic or Exquisit.

01/06/2017

It’s pathetic how you devour my senses with your kiss, with your lips.

It’s shocking how I tingle at your touch, tremble at your caress and react to your grasp.

It’s awful bliss how I sink beyond the depth’s of your expression.

Drowning forever in a freefall of claustraphobic freedom.

All the while you stand there, alone.

Not having even introduced yourself yet.

Whilst I sweat an elasticity of rigidity in places with which I can’t fidget.

Shaking my head in bewilderment at my own lack of control when I can’t meet your gaze.

Pathetic…..or exquisit.

©G.P Williamson 2017

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