poems, Short poems

Braking and Breaking.

Braking and Breaking.

There’s something to be said for that split second between braking and breaking.
When at nearly thirty you spot her face through the car window like she’s there.
Both next to you and not.
The last face you’ll have the chance to, wish you, forgot.
It happens all at once.
Instinct to swear, to swerve, to move as the back wheel rides a curb.
You jabberwocky around, fishtail and slant a desire to react more but just can’t.
Then the storm has gone but feels like the eye.
The face vanished but something’s left behind and you’re fine.
For a while.
A while between braking and breaking.

© G.P Williamson 2019

Short poems

That story you wrote.

That story you wrote.


Those forgive me cries.

Those apologies you give off like fire crackers in dreams, all ripped seams and screams, I feel them.

You don’t know it seems.

How would you?

We’ve never met.

That story you wrote – I read it. It was great!

That course you said you would do – do it, it will suit you.

That song you want to sing, lets be honest you’re tone deaf but love yourself.

That’s what’s left.

© G.P Williamson 2018 <— Hit for my Instagram.


You’re more.

You’re more.


Please never understand yourself enough to be just one thing.

The pianist, the artist, the writer, mobile hands, intricate flows.

Amazing Grace, the echo of woes.

The builder, the teacher, the preacher.

Grounded foundations, flowing dreams, clear mind and water.

Humble Beginnings, a marriage, a father…..a daughter.

A timekeeper, a boss, a disciplinarian.

Habit dictates what will often be there again.

Free yourself through experience be fluid, smile when you react.

There’s a new future in each moment we have.

I’m not a poet any more than you’re a reader.

You’re ten times the outcome and ten times the seed.

© G.P Williamson 2018


Rolling with the changes.

Rolling with the changes.


I’ve learnt to roll with changes although I like things crystal clear.

I understand it’s circumstance but not why you’re not here.

I understand that people think you don’t really matter.

You didn’t exist in breath or beat and so we just get better.

I’ve listened to the arguments both pro life and pro gun.

Yet they had choices of their own and us….well we had none.

I’ve given up on giving up, when I couldn’t fit you into faith.

Each day I live for here and now the smile grateful on my face.

I’m irritated much more often, angry quite a lot.

Yet I live for I’ve got instead of what we’ve not.

People around me lost plenty.

I hear them cry in the night.

Echo’s of eternity remind me I’m alright.

Then there’s you with everything.

Two jobs, two cars, two kids.

I marvel at the perfectness then shake my head at it.

I like to live my happiness like happiness loves life.

I mirror all the beauties in my daughter and my wife.

I saviour every moment from the mundane to the dear,

Because I’ll not be blind to love that finds itself right here.

I’ve learnt to roll with changes, although I like things crystal clear.

I understand it’s circumstance but not why you’re not here.

© G.P Williamson 2018



Short poems

Train wreck.

Train Wreck.


Hmm how interesting, the fear train associated with the hazard gap you’ve explained time and again.

The safety net the great pretext to beat what they haven’t conquered yet.

Him I’ll never forget.

I need to bring forwards what I’ve not achieved to date.

Goodbye Lee.

No regrets mate.

© G.P Williamson 2018

Short poems

Leap of faith.

Leap of faith.

They call it a leap of faith when the shelf disappears and the yelling stops.

When you can’t help but face what was making you drop.

Broken knees, buckled gut wrench like angle grinders to fingers on a workbench.

Cut down and stood up to fall through dark mud. What’s the colour of your blood?

They say you have to face it to make it. That vulnerable sickness you feel when you want to run.

That’s step one.

Stopping and perceiving the believing of the problem.

Those issues, phobias and fears.

Newsflash: We’ve all got those.

© G.P Williamson 2018

Short poems

Tore my house down.

Tore my house down.


And there we’ll go to another wedding, another baby shower, another “Isn’t this fun?” another happy hour with statue faces, airs and graces, elongated gestures and food you can’t take where nothing’s out of place and there’s nothing I want more than to scream “What a f*cking bore!”

Take me out of this race I can’t help the faces, I run backwards and trip “Just get a grip” as I cry mercy and quit because you know what? I’m not over it. I never will be. When you left you tore my house down and chewed up the foundations.

Please fly with the angels and play with the daisy’s.

Goodnight baby.

© G.P Williamson 2018