Paul Tristram- Three Poems

The Windmill

The Windmill spun

strangely slow

with broken fingers

and flayed skin,

directing the wind

in a vicious vacuum

all about itself

as if kamikaze

and willing disaster.

An end to the

intolerable endless,

a rupture in the

repetition,

freedom from the

confines of circles,

movement with flight

would only arrive

with personal ruin.

© Paul Tristram 2007

  

And also Published in Decanto, 35^th Issue, June 2008

Peace At Last

The hands of the clock stopped,

the newspaper fell from his fingers

down onto and over his lap.

The cat on the sideboard raised his head,

sensed all was not right

and left through a window in the kitchen.

The TV carried on oblivious

until the electric ran out

three days later.

The dust stayed where it was,

mail came through the door,

the cat hunted the garden.

All was peaceful and quiet for 3 weeks

until the smell attracted the neighbours,

then the hands of the clock moved again

as the front door came off its hinges

and all was quiet no more.

© Paul Tristram 2006

Published in Sarasvati, Issue 22, May/June, 2012

Pissing Pineapple Chunks Around The Urinal

Sometimes the afternoon

hours in the pub

drag almost painfully.

It’s a bastard

waiting for the boys

to finish work and get here.

Last night’s hangover

subsided two drinks ago.

It’s benefit day.

The youngsters with baseball caps

have claimed the pool table.

The old folk sit

like missing chess pieces

at tables of four or six,

solitary and friendless,

in mourning for long lost times.

I’m on £1 bottles of lager,

pacing myself

ready for the evening.

Earlier I managed to force

two bananas and a chicken pasty

slowly into my churning stomach.

Serotonin and bulk, good.

I zip up and push open

the toilet door about head height

where there are no

glistening traces,

leave the stench of

urine behind me

and head for the friendly

aroma of tobacco smoke

and slop trays.

I step back into the bar,

a few of the old folk

nod their heads

at my resilience.

I climb a barstool, order another bottle

and wrestle with patience once more.

© Paul Tristram 2005

Published in Moodswing, Issue Fifteen, Spring 2005



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.