Paul Tristram- Three Poems

 

Under A Gooseberry Bush

…the Untarnished Baby lay.
The Ravens fed its cries
without thought or question.
The Rats guarded its sleep
with iron jaws of justice
and blood-stained eyes
of coming retribution.
The Thunderstorms
teethed its smile,
The lashing Rains
drowned out need for tears
and Rainbows
cradle-rocked its soul
colourful requests to ponder.
It suckled Mother Nature,
growing strong as
Crown Court
Hammer Blow Importance.
From Toddler, Child to Adolescence
the Season’s babysat the changes
and yonder does He now
roam a-free
with no corruption to His Lightning.

© Paul Tristram 2014

Destination Aggravation

I just did not get off the bus one day.
I sat there rooted to the seat
being held by some invisible force
as we went on passed my usual stop.
At first I felt a little confused
but later completely liberated.
I had done something wonderful
and a special magic was happening,
I had stepped outside of the box
of redundant learnt behaviour.
My thought pattern opened up
and ranged wider, my instincts
now had more tools to work with.
I had become wiser in those couple
of seconds, I had shifted up a level.
The tittle-tattlers who were waiting
for me are still stuck in aggravation
at that chaotic and useless stop.
I see them often as I pass on by
with their faces of fury and indignant
self-righteous treachery, sticking
knives deep into each others backs
and I smile to myself, genuinely.

© Paul Tristram 2014

Rhyme

Rhyme was her name,
she lived in a delicate
little world of her own.
She did not have to worry
about real things
for her Guardians took care
of all the black and white things.
Providing her sufficiently
with the paper, paints and inks
she needed to create her beauty.
She should have been happy
but there was a flaw, like toothache
which spoilt and distracted her view.
Making her often lose appetite
and grow melancholy
during thunderstorms.
It was connected to Nature
and the thing which made her bleed.
It was a ‘Singing In The Rain’
butterflies and pleasant indigestion
all mixed up with unfulfilled wishes
and then just rolled out flat.
The thing which made her flower
and wonder and drop things.
The thing which gnawed
at her breast and soul
and one night pack a bag,
leave a note…and step out, slowly
and timidly into the Big Bad World.

© Paul Tristram 2014



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.