Short poems

Home – Where the heart is.

Home – Where the heart is.

10/02/18

I’m home – Where the heart is.

Where the start begins and the buried rests.

Where time stops and stress is caressed.

Where the unplanned becomes extraordinary.

Where if you’re back late we extra worry.

Where the colours paint their own story in scarred knees and fallen leaves, autumn days and broken dreams.

Tear filled chalice. Captured presence. No such malice.

Treasure our difference.

© G.P Williamson 2018

 

 

Advertisements
Standard
poems

Ice skating, dancing doves.

Ice skating, dancing doves.

10th February 2018

 

Like a sea-saw with give and take, equal weights where the roundabout turns at the hands of fate and we trust adults because, you know, it’s not too late.

We “Heads, shoulders, knees and toes” kiss trees and hug rainbows, watch fairy’s dance and…where did the time go?

Ice skating, dancing doves. Christmas eve, hot chocolate mugs.

Spicy aroma, not alone.

Family noises, a warm log fire home.

Like a sea-saw with give and take,  a bouncy trust continues late. When you can’t stand your hand I’ll clasp. We’ll “ring a ring a rosy” until our last.

© G.P Williamson 2018

Standard
poems

The Darkest wood (504 words)

The Darkest wood.

9th February 2018

 

The arch of the pen.

The beating of life.

The rattle of death.

The essence of night.

You dance like Ivy creeps through the forests veins, entwining, circling, blood fuelled lanes.

Pumping, jumping, my eyes they strain. Beating bosoms, crimson rain.

Fireside wonder, echo’s of memories frozen friends and long gone babies.

Crackling timber, ginger embers.

Golden logs and why we remember.

The weight of your legs where you once lay across me.

The weightlessness, emptiness of wherever it is you may be.

Night air circles metaphors like spirals dance through closed doors and watch me sleep.

Gatekeepers, guides and perception dwellers.

Florence Nightingale, Elvis and dirty old fella’s.

I sigh glass and razors as you ignore my dreams.

My messages were muted and unheard were my screams.

I tried to forget, to distract, not to feel nor over react. I tried, I’m good like that but alas….

The cover’s came back and there you stood all big smiles and blood boiling.

Hard wired, lung fuelled desire with my skin crawling.

Red fingertips to dark lips. All warm humour and coy hips.

Until those slender fingers slip and held tight. Falls my grip and I’m ready with eyes locked.

You smile with your lips half cocked and the show stops.

Your skin falls like apple peelings, thick wedges dropping like meals and I scream a poor warning from a living dream at the edge of my story.

Tasting like heaven as the darkness and glory vanishes both the lady and me.

I’m blinded by the light you left in that empty space, the silence is deaf.

I’ve started naming my fingers as they tap out your name.

There’s marks in the keyboard that are one and the same.

They say I’m obsessed because I kept your shirt.

I sprayed it and saved it and bagged up the dirt.

I framed it, tamed it and displayed it.

I scratched out the Voodoo eyes. Remade the coffin and restitched the eyes.

The potato grew with cursed hex stew a common plus a new boys clue.

No one knew. No one knew.

Not even you. Not even you.

I knew. I knew.

The pebbles stirred, the matches blew. The spirits wailed the mountains knew.

Echo’s passed in solid murmurs. Loving magic against the world.

Unnaturally supernatural, perfectly imperfect.

Summoned like an astral wonder, you’d be the treasure I love to plunder.

They mistakenly believe hair colour matters, eyes or height and all the patter.

There’s only one thing that kick starts the fun. “Do I want her, is she my next one?”

The character I take from head to toe. I dress her, bless her and mess her up slow.

Tangle her hair, speak softly and whisper. Take hold of her throat and forcibly kiss her.

Make her late for work with a mark on her bum.

She’ll still rise to the top she’s a powerful one.

I digress I simply got carried away.

I create the girls.

It’s the only way they stay.

© G.P Williamson 2018

Standard
poems

Chirpy Chirpy Bark Bark.

Chirpy Chirpy Bark Bark.

23rd February 2018

Canary faces.

Dog chased.

Be gone crazy ex face making distressed illness on my mirror’s case.

You’ve lost, you’re second place.

I’ve turtle power, I win this race.

Plodding along, righting wrongs.

Love sung the hymns to a different song.

Encased Shrugment.

A holy allotment.

Nothing grows like her talks are old.

They drag the same wheelbarrow down the same old road.

You’ve told me before, I know. I heard it.

You regurgitate facts that are just absurd shit.

Canary faces, dog chased.

Tell me why you I’ve not replaced?

Stupid moral compass and your non magnetic dial.

Don’t do me any favours.

Keep your God damn smile.

© G.P Williamson 2018

 

 

 

Standard
poems

Growing up.

Growing up.

20th January 2018

It doesn’t feel like I’ll be back this week.

You’ve grown to that point that rounded angelic figurine that’s about to peak.

Each fall, held wall, balance act sickness in free fall. He stands tall. Wobblers thrown, marked tears, accusations and irrational fears. If she’s a girl he has this plus another sixteen years.

He switches gears.

A father feels the gains and losses. Stands stoic with a cup he make believe’s a chalice.

He’s there when she can’t fall.

When she’s one foot tall.

When she can’t balance.

There when it’s “Pick me up” and “Can I sit on the side?”

There when those moments stop because “I’m a big girl now dad!” and a tear he hides.

The world’s growing up and expanding he’s not as needed as he once was, as much as there’s much love.

He fears the landing.

“Dad build a tower”

“Dad lets go out”

“Dad Can I have?”

She’s become demanding, Ipad raging, storytime with Cbeebies line by line. Educational needs “Don’t touch dad that’s mine!” learning to share. “That’s not fair!” and “Come here blow your nose there’s snot everywhere!”

“I don’t care!” It’s bedtime and I’ve repeated a hundred times to eat your tea.

Now she’s copying me cleaning my teeth “No baby, watch. Just like me”

“Dad I’m a big girl, will you read to me?”

“Of course baby, hug?”

“Goodnight dad”

“Snug as a bug in a rug”

© G.P Williamson 2018

 

Standard
Short poems

Bumping Moon beams.

Bumping Moon beams.

30/12/2017

It wasn’t how they bumped into one another trying to chase the same moon beam. It wasn’t the cheeky Freudian slip he’d made about sun cream.

It wasn’t how she’d howled with laughter in the park at something he’d said.

A walk that wasn’t all it seemed.

It wasn’t how she’d whispered her name several times so it stayed in his head.

He didn’t know if he loved her….but there she was in his bed.

© G.P Williamson 2018

Standard
poems, Short poems

He couldn’t remember.

He couldn’t remember.

30th December 2017

He couldn’t remember.

Remember why he didn’t know.

Why she didn’t show or the missing parts, parts he didn’t know.

So he stood watching sky lanterns dance rhythmic sways beyond the pools of the engines rays as those planes came in to stay.

One after another drawing huge long lines in the sand and coming to a subtle stop, like his memory on a relationship backdrop.

His heart stopped as though he somehow knew.

She stepped from the plane blended by a veil.

He set sail, he set sail.

© G.P Williamson 2018

Standard