Paul Tristram- Two Poems

A Break

I had a break from

serious poetry and

wrote me some Haiku.

Impossible Wishes

The sky outside of this window seems to be made of a dark sort of living skin,

I can almost feel it breathing, the stars are merely ulcers in the belly of its

being. No wonder birds only choose to fly and sing in the daytime- well except

for owls but they fly with the aid of silent wing feathers so as not to disturb its

quiet melancholy.

The planet earth is simply the dust that has collected beneath its mattress, we

mean nothing to it, we are merely an annoying buzzing which disturbs its

slumber with tiny high-pitched drunken cries and fireworks.

The song thrush which rests in the hedgerow waits patiently for the dawn to lift

away the skies depression while the Prozac sun filters its soft warm medication

into the pores of its soft skin, giving it the strength to carry on for at least one

more day.

I pity the sky; it has no eyelids to close, its view is only temporarily cleansed by

the passing of the many indifferent rain clouds. What does the moon matter

when it can only shine for its selfish self, as for the other planets, they

unhelpfully turn away in uncaring disbelief to talk two-facedly with the meteors

about the alien satellites we’ve sent up amongst their tired midst.

Would a sudden night time rainbow not spare the pain of the skies midnight

watch, would it not show us that there is life beyond the realms of light?

As something far stronger than gravity chains me here to this slightly insane

typewriter, I fancy the world as a graveyard- a temporary one of course- which

waits irritably for me to stop my defiant tip-tapping of keys and to come join in

the repose of stillness.

Ah, in the hammock of my dreams tonight, I shall send multitudes of unspoken,

unbroken secrets upwards into its tired heart, to explode into sparks of wonder,

emancipating its emotions, freeing its anguish and giving back hope and

laughter to its fragile sphere, maybe then the night can once again sleep with

the deep, blissfulness of infancy just like I remember it doing when I was young

and innocent.

Yes, I know, impossible wishes but I’m sure you won’t begrudge me at least

trying?



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.