Paul Tristram- Three Poems

Writing Down Words

The way it catapults

thoughts into feelings

whilst pausing everything

into freeze-frame

and once again pulls me

back into my solitary self.

Makes it impossible

to stop the thing

that constantly saves you.

The Bench

It is night time again.

The weight is taken.

There is nothing to do

but look at the stars,

the moon through

the park branches,

listen to the dripping

fountain and sense

the daisies waiting

for the nice afternoon

people.

Blood, cider, piss

and hepatitis B

soaks in gushes

but doesn’t harm me.

Then the morning comes

rushing beautifully

like a peach orgasm.

The stinking weight

gets up and walks off.

Stretching sideways

I wait for something

better to happen.

Spiders Up And Down Her Spine

And so she sat there
blushing, awkward as an infant
as the embarrassment grows in me
not climbing
but actually building
a ladder to the stars.
All we needed was one word,
a simple thing of speech,
a voiced feeling
but it didn't come.
So I looked at her cheeks instead,
rosy as autumn apples,
fringe intertwining each other
in a dance of alabaster,
skin tight jeans
enveloping her legs
as her knees bobbed and weaved nervously.
I watched as the spiders ran up and down her spine
and sighed through desperate eyes
knowing she would never be mine.

Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.