Short poems




If the megastorm comes and I do not wake know that I love you and you made my earth shake.

Don’t feel obliged to stay single your whole life, you’re a gorgeous woman and a perfect wife.

If the megastorm comes and I do not wake tell the girls I love them, they made my world shake.

Don’t feel obliged to let everybody in but respect your mum’s choices. You’re the honey, she’s the queen.

If the megastorm comes and I do not wake, know that true love can never, ever break.

© G.P Williamson 2018


Girlfriend to lover.

Girlfriend to lover.


Question everything and nothing will ever be difficult he said.

I didn’t ask why.

I didn’t care.

I didn’t try.

Don’t take what’s not yours, I was told.

I couldn’t give her heart back.

She said it was broken.

How should I react?

I’d taken her heart.

These were her facts.

Theft was my thing apparently.

I did four years for one, seven for another.

Changed them completely from girlfriend to lover, wife and then mother. Broken to pieces then traded them in for another.

Question everything and nothing will ever be difficult he said.

Then riddle me this “Why aren’t you dead?” I asked him instead.

© G.P Williamson 2018

Short poems

Last night – You.

Last night – You.


I had a dream last night I could move things with my mind and there you were your hand in mine. We had some food the waiter rhymed.

We dated, mated, ate our crimes and there you were your hand in mine.

We lived and died same age one breath, melted rings of metal flesh.

We turned to ash our eyes they met. A dusty, darkened, blackened mess.

I looked beyond to search your mind, our love, your care, what could I find?

Hollow, shallow, different lines.

I dropped my head what do I find?

Your hand somehow entwined in mine.

© G.P Williamson 2018





Hormoanatoad like an overload.

The kaboom of the world when she pregaspews all over your common sense rule.

Pyramids, the ultimate building blocks.

Claustraphobic locksmith’s caged in with antilock.

Irrational because I breathed or spoke.

Irritating because I’m a bloke.

It’s Hormoanatoad because you’re up the duff.

A new crusade a beautiful journey.

That’s how it’s portrayed.

I love you, bade well, have children.

They prayed.

Give her chocolate, watermelon and sweet lemonade!

Ginger, more chocolate and a five star platter.

Hormoanataod like an overload.

Heat wave and burning alight!

The weather’s unclear, passion?

Not tonight.

I love you! Don’t exagerate.

Hormoanatoad elaborate!

You have it easy you don’t understand!

I raise the family I married a man!

Hormoanatoad mentions all my previous objectives.

Regurgitating a cataclysmic list of expletives.

Like additives to her favourite narrative.

I smile and laugh internally.

This is where I live?

I’d do it all over again.

I’d do it for you.


© G.P Williamson 2017





Strange world we live in.

Lovers who don’t love.

Carers who don’t care and workers that don’t work.

At least friendships still end and relationships still sink.

When half of the right side of wrong is still innacurate I’ll be proud to remain indecisive.

Empty like an anorexic’s death rattle.

As remorseful as that comment makes me I am subdued by the lack of loss and gain.

Pleasure and pain.

Again and again as the whole damn thing just stays the same around and around furiously, oscillating like there’s no beginning.

There was, we were and at least at one time we could have been.

Perhaps I could be beaten into a new shape. moulded to a new pulp, a form

to be strangulated into the being you used to want.

The being you made an effort for.

You dance on an empty stage for an empty audience who’s lost the passion.

Lost the desire to applaud your nakedness.

There I stand bored with flesh.

We both know I’d of died for you.

Perhaps I already did.

I could never read the words etched upon my coffin lid.

We can’t save to travel because we need sweets, crisps, bow ties, pretty stickers, another million glasses and the latest craze to add to the abundance of endless, useless shit we already drown in.

Falling beneath masses of junk and dust, no space, no air, not free, I’m crushed.

Squared a thousand fold into manipulatable parts, things that fit anywhere, don’t hold opinions nor have rights, don’t question wrongs and don’t fight.

Hollow blocks you love like vases where roses stand.

Stood straight, pretty and on demand.

None of these things I had planned.

Upto my neck, contained in a flood surrounded by pricks with slow trickling blood.

“Daddy” shouts a girl and away trickles my world.

It swirls and cascades into a smokeless pearl.

The whites of her eyes, clear to see.

Her looks from her mum and her mind is from me.

I smile and continue playing “write with me” and I wonder,

I wonder how much does she see?


© G.P Williamson 2017



It’s the most wonderful time of year.

It’s the most wonderful time of year

It’s the most wonderful time of year.

I awoke to bright lights.
Diamonds sparkling in my wife’s eyes.
Toe to toe at the window pane.
Blankets of snow.
A clean finger through a window frame.

Chicken soup with a fusion of herbs.
Warm hands on hearts.
Touching fingertips to lips.
I love you.
Share gifts.
Unwrapping starts.

My angel gazes at the twinkling tree, her bottle and back to me.
Defiantly amazed.
Glittery eyes meet.
Photograph by a real tree.
Keepsakes for eternity.

Crunching icy steps to Grandma’s house.
New wellies.
A smell of frankincense.
Chestnuts crackle.
Children scream in play.
Oblivion on Christmas day.

Clean napkins.
Extending table.
Help dish up if you’re able.
Granddad mourns the same old jokes.
Silent prayers to long gone folk.

A solitary sprout, perhaps there’s two.
Pull the crackers!
Charades too!
Giving thanks for more than food.
A moment shared around the world.

A coal fire burns down memory lane.
Past and present unite in flame.
Sleeping warm all cosy and tight.
Merry Christmas to all and to all Goodnight.

Copyright G.P Williamson 2014.


where shadows fall…

Where shadows fall… – Competition entry

Where shadows fall…
Different this year.
No spinning crystalline wind chime.
Pride of place astride your favourite tree.

Different this year.
My crippled old rogues hands broke the baubles we bought as one.
Lights shine like broken stars reflecting my pupils as I bleed.
Where shadows fall…

Different this year.
The microwave dings a chime which no longer irritates me.
Our chats once filled the emptiness where blackbirds hunt remains.
Where shadows fall…

Different this year.
I moved your photo again. I notice it more now.
We saved money on the heating bill at last.
The whiskey warms me in places.
Where shadows fall…

Different this year.
Politics are the same dull unending lies.
The washing has piled up.
I kept your cardigan.
Where shadows fall…

Different this year.
I forgot the cocoa you always kept for the carollers, they asked for you.
They sang to your ashes beneath our wedding picture, then left me alone.
Where shadows fall…

Different this year.
I see you everywhere.
I can’t do it anymore.
I love you.
We’ll celebrate new years together.
Where shadows fall…

Copyright G.P Williamson