Short poems

Holiday eyes.

Holiday eyes.

Rubber lips and tricks.
Fake masks and forest sticks.
Click, unreal relationships.
All predominant features and no kiss.
Hide behind holiday eyes like this.
How I ruin the blood.
Sores from curmudgeon pores of your body on mine.
How our soul’s designed.
I was your play time.
Smile and dance by happenstance your spark meets mine!
Kaboom romance!

© G.P Williamson 2018

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!

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


The radios echo & other love goals.

The radios echo and other love goals.
29th July 2018

The radio goes and it’s my voice.
A debate, some farce or other.
There’s a time we could have bothered.
We never did and it’s all over.
You sigh through a candlelit window>
Where’s that time go? I should know and we don’t.
Bespoke fonts and trained daughters.
Loving wives and guilty fathers.
Nothing happened, the plans weren’t watered,
So nothing grows, nothing alters.
I understand the illusion, nothing’s right we couldn’t believe in,
So no start, no grieving.
You’ll smile that kindness wide too.
Vulnerable to hide looks and know you did the right thing.
Spark up a Hamlet and stroll home alone as some poor soul starts to sing about love’s goals.
© 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

Short poems



I do cherish my simple life.
Which is why I keep getting into trouble for removing the things which don’t keep my life simple.
Complexity for example.
The very sound of the word alone creates visions of a city, over run by nuisance noise by nuisance neighbours with nuisance girls and boys with nuisance noisy toys, and extra long pointlessly wordy sentences, yes definitely long sentences.
Simplicity, an implicit pimple.
© G.P Williamson 2018

Short poems

Can’t not.

Can’t not.

I tried to hide.
Keep it inside.
I know what you’re thinking.
You’re half right.
There’s no bad equations.
No misogynistic liaisons.
No hidden meets or fingers touching souls incomplete.
No sparks flying, left dying be all that ends all love you’re buying.
No love lost, trust cost remainder of us lost, there is a crimson oath bust.
A seam of a heart crushed. Still beats.
Blood from the crease is released.
Pumps half hazardly.
Like I beat but inadequately.
Half the man I should be and glad.
Father and dad.
Something for which I fight.
I can’t not write.

© G.P Williamson 2018