Short poems

Worth a nope. (Short)

Worth a nope.
14th August 2018

I’ll no longer call.
The messages will cease.
Until emptiness,
A carcass.

© G.P Williamson 2018

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

Short poems

I’m still here.

I’m still there.

I love how I can simply reach through the screen and run my finger down your chest to let you know I’m still here.
In your mind.
Beside your side.
When you need to hide or the kind when you have to look behind.
That’s what was.
Not what’s here, reach out, don’t stop.
You’ll see me softly behind if you look long enough through a mirror.
The hazy apparition still holding your hand.
That chance encounter you’d not planned.
A memory of potential you’d dare not which believe.
Crazy in our faith.
Then we don’t have Christmas eve?
Call it ESP, telepathy, call it astral travel.
It’s all the same to me.
How I can simply be.
How I can simply be.
© G.P Williamson 2018

Short poems

Too Polite.

Too Polite

There’s such a thing as too polite.
I prefer a notice held to height.
“Not Kosher!”
“Don’t farm here!”
I prefer my bullsh*t crystal clear.
I’ve read Dante, I’ve read Macbeth.
Let’s save myself a bunch of stress.
There’s such a thing as too polite.
I’m a realist.
Birth my control, love ropes and fearless.

© G.P Williamson 2018


Two snakes.

Two snakes.
29th July 2018


I dreamt you brought two snakes home.
One as a pet and another accidentally in your handbag.
The pet did what you intended.
It lunged and gnawed at my face.
Ridiculed and marked, stained I was disgraced.
I removed the offending creature, I set it up a home.
I gave him water, bedding, now you two can be alone.
The other slumbers silently. I know he’s somewhere near.
Where exactly I am not quite clear.
He could be over there, hidden in my fears.
Covered in a blanked stitched from an angels tears.

© G.P Williamson 2018

Short poems

Throwing logs.

Throwing logs.
26th July 2018.

Yes it was falling apart.
The world was dark.
It left terrible cuts and marks.
Out went the sparks.
I revved the carts, watched them motor on,
Saunter over a hill and nearly gone.
I became the father talking to the son asking “Dad where’s the rainbow gone?”
In wonder I pleaded deceitfully release me.
Smile to a categorically stitched up heart all full and complete with spare parts.
The soul yearns.
Bible tattered ribbon.
Adding logs to a fire when I can’t stand the burn.
Will I ever learn?

© G.P Williamson 2018