Pieces Of Hate
I’ll gouge my crooked fingers
into my mind and heart for you
and pull free from the depths
every selfish shard of shrapnel
and every nugget of anger there.
I’ll wipe the blood and gore off
with my happy tears, sir!
Then put the whole lot in my
green, velvet draw-stringed pouch
and you can take it away with you.
Free: yes you heard me right Free.
I no longer consider any of it treasure
golden, precious, buried or otherwise.
You are more than welcome to all
of my ‘Pieces of Hate’, have the lot.
They’re weighing me down now
and I have calmer seas to sail in.
You won’t need no secret map
an ‘I’ not an ‘X’ marks the spot.
Just give me an hour or there about
and I’ll have regurgitated them
up from my once wretched soul.
Sometimes it just happens overnight.
You awake and a shift has occurred,
everything has suddenly changed.
You have mentally and emotionally
shed free of your old worn out skin.
You see the sense of the situation
clearly and exactly for what it is,
which is a trap and petty annoyance,
almost as an impartial observer,
learn whatever needs to be learned
in seconds and gratefully leave.
The penny’s dropped finally
and you are now free of them all.
No ones opinion means anything,
all that matters is that you are smiling
and that you really, really mean it. :)
He smiles now, greatly and plurally.
The frown lines are still there
but visibly fainter than when
that dark cloud rested above them.
There’s a Springtime to his gait
and a whistle often courts his walk.
He views everything with wondrous
eyes afresh from bleak incarceration.
There’s a friendly wink to his greeting
and a twinkle inside of that wink.
A child-like chuckle inside his laugh
like there used to be in the old days.
There’s a health to his new appetite,
a deep restfulness to his quiet sleep.
Happy thoughts, daydreams and desires
now fill his once troubled head
like multi-coloured mental butterflies.
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography 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.
I’ll gouge my crooked fingers
into my mind and heart for you
and pull free from the depths
every selfish shard of shrapnel
and every nugget of anger there.
I’ll wipe the blood and gore off
with my happy tears, sir!
Then put the whole lot in my
green, velvet draw-stringed pouch
and you can take it away with you.
Free: yes you heard me right Free.
I no longer consider any of it treasure
golden, precious, buried or otherwise.
You are more than welcome to all
of my ‘Pieces of Hate’, have the lot.
They’re weighing me down now
and I have calmer seas to sail in.
You won’t need no secret map
an ‘I’ not an ‘X’ marks the spot.
Just give me an hour or there about
and I’ll have regurgitated them
up from my once wretched soul.
The Penny’s Dropped
Sometimes it just happens overnight.
You awake and a shift has occurred,
everything has suddenly changed.
You have mentally and emotionally
shed free of your old worn out skin.
You see the sense of the situation
clearly and exactly for what it is,
which is a trap and petty annoyance,
almost as an impartial observer,
learn whatever needs to be learned
in seconds and gratefully leave.
The penny’s dropped finally
and you are now free of them all.
No ones opinion means anything,
all that matters is that you are smiling
and that you really, really mean it. :)
From The Unluckiest Man in Town To The Luckiest Man Around
He smiles now, greatly and plurally.
The frown lines are still there
but visibly fainter than when
that dark cloud rested above them.
There’s a Springtime to his gait
and a whistle often courts his walk.
He views everything with wondrous
eyes afresh from bleak incarceration.
There’s a friendly wink to his greeting
and a twinkle inside of that wink.
A child-like chuckle inside his laugh
like there used to be in the old days.
There’s a health to his new appetite,
a deep restfulness to his quiet sleep.
Happy thoughts, daydreams and desires
now fill his once troubled head
like multi-coloured mental butterflies.
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography 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.
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