Short poems

Her name was Charity.

Her name was Charity.

Her name was Charity.
That name stung more than the slaps that followed.
Her donation was my damnation.
She stung my throat going down and sin was born.
Words couldn’t ensnare your absence anymore than I could suture the thirst of my wounds.
Quenched by the undesired.
You’re hired.

© G.P Williamson 2019

Short poems

Diagon House! The poorly made spell.

Diagon House! The poorly made spell.

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.

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



Short poems

That ballroom dress

That ballroom dress.

The swirls turned like boy and girl danced for the world.
A rotated pedestal, A black and red dress you wore.
Pure ballroom, pretty and innocent all good vibes, reminiscent.
The crowd watched pure and adoring, adjoining smiles.
60’s rock and roll and Old Lang Synes lines.
I never prayed for better times.
I’d never love them.
They couldn’t be mine.

© G.P Williamson 2019
(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

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