Smoking Swisher Sweets
As I look up at the darkening sky
of this Northern California evening.
I take another pull
of the Blueberry Swisher Sweet
that I have in my mouth
and gently weave my thoughts
into the rings of exhaled smoke.
I feel warm and at peace
with the world, at last.
Dinner is almost ready
and the 3rd bottle of Samuel Adams
is going down lovely.
I think back upon the road
that has led me here
and shake my head softly, with a smile.
Who’d have thought, who could have known?
Not me Sir, No, not even a clue.
Sometimes a curveball in life
merely gives you a platform
to ricochet magnificently off.
You see a chance and grab it by the throat,
then ride it for all that it’s worth.
The mountains of this strange life
that I once fought and scaled by fingertips alone
are now finally beginning to level out
into lush, green pastures before me.
Amazing, absolutely and positively amazing.
© Paul Tristram 2014
Downwards it grinds
the bones of your soul
into sharp splinters.
Hopes foundations
slowly into choking dust.
With no good luck left
to slake the thirst
of an uncrowned fool.
Tipped upside down
from Summer
into Winter’s dark gutter
with Autumn’s burning hands
helping with the throw.
Misfortune does feel
just as real as You!
As your age or your name.
Your shadow companion,
a shouldered burden,
a constant
throughout all of time.
Yet, it is merely part and parcel
of life’s strange cycle.
For the wheel edge grinding down
is already upon the right course
to be travelling back on up to the top.
© Paul Tristram 2013
His boots tread knowingly
the uneven cobblestones
of this small market town
like crooked teeth
in a decadent face of yesterday.
He twists right, as always
through the shadowed tunnel of cobwebs,
then around the side of the bronze
World War Memorial gates of Honour.
Up the brown, red and orange
Autumnal Sycamore pathway
giving a quick nod to the tree on the right
where his school friend hung himself.
Past the 2nd Pond and always upwards,
the magnificent Cascades, waterfall steps
to the Reservoir and Ivy Tower.
Then 30 minutes more of snaking
the moss clinging loose stone walls
of this Vale of Neath country lane
until finally you stride the Canyons at Valleys top.
Where, with Welsh magic mushroom juice
swirling in impossible currents and directions
in his belly and pumping and punching
fists of colour into his senses and brain,
temporarily dislodging and shifting
his soul from its framework.
He feels the pressure of the brewing storm
above his crazy, melting head
snapping like ember sticks
and dusty old dead Grandmother bones.
He pisses into the vivid green grass
a shuddering gushing of himself
smelling distinctly of leaves and earth,
rainbows, slugs and wet fungi.
Then with arms raised in victory
excitement and the thrill of living experience
he screams out the Barbarian
from deep within his soul.
Upwards and outwards
into the magical evenings
Bourbon Skies.
© Paul Tristram 2013
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.
As I look up at the darkening sky
of this Northern California evening.
I take another pull
of the Blueberry Swisher Sweet
that I have in my mouth
and gently weave my thoughts
into the rings of exhaled smoke.
I feel warm and at peace
with the world, at last.
Dinner is almost ready
and the 3rd bottle of Samuel Adams
is going down lovely.
I think back upon the road
that has led me here
and shake my head softly, with a smile.
Who’d have thought, who could have known?
Not me Sir, No, not even a clue.
Sometimes a curveball in life
merely gives you a platform
to ricochet magnificently off.
You see a chance and grab it by the throat,
then ride it for all that it’s worth.
The mountains of this strange life
that I once fought and scaled by fingertips alone
are now finally beginning to level out
into lush, green pastures before me.
Amazing, absolutely and positively amazing.
© Paul Tristram 2014
The Wheel Of Misfortune
Downwards it grinds
the bones of your soul
into sharp splinters.
Hopes foundations
slowly into choking dust.
With no good luck left
to slake the thirst
of an uncrowned fool.
Tipped upside down
from Summer
into Winter’s dark gutter
with Autumn’s burning hands
helping with the throw.
Misfortune does feel
just as real as You!
As your age or your name.
Your shadow companion,
a shouldered burden,
a constant
throughout all of time.
Yet, it is merely part and parcel
of life’s strange cycle.
For the wheel edge grinding down
is already upon the right course
to be travelling back on up to the top.
© Paul Tristram 2013
Bourbon Skies
His boots tread knowingly
the uneven cobblestones
of this small market town
like crooked teeth
in a decadent face of yesterday.
He twists right, as always
through the shadowed tunnel of cobwebs,
then around the side of the bronze
World War Memorial gates of Honour.
Up the brown, red and orange
Autumnal Sycamore pathway
giving a quick nod to the tree on the right
where his school friend hung himself.
Past the 2nd Pond and always upwards,
the magnificent Cascades, waterfall steps
to the Reservoir and Ivy Tower.
Then 30 minutes more of snaking
the moss clinging loose stone walls
of this Vale of Neath country lane
until finally you stride the Canyons at Valleys top.
Where, with Welsh magic mushroom juice
swirling in impossible currents and directions
in his belly and pumping and punching
fists of colour into his senses and brain,
temporarily dislodging and shifting
his soul from its framework.
He feels the pressure of the brewing storm
above his crazy, melting head
snapping like ember sticks
and dusty old dead Grandmother bones.
He pisses into the vivid green grass
a shuddering gushing of himself
smelling distinctly of leaves and earth,
rainbows, slugs and wet fungi.
Then with arms raised in victory
excitement and the thrill of living experience
he screams out the Barbarian
from deep within his soul.
Upwards and outwards
into the magical evenings
Bourbon Skies.
© Paul Tristram 2013
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.
No comments:
Post a Comment