Paul Tristram- Three Poems

The Girl With Feet Coming Backwards Out Of Her Mouth

She heaved, choking momentarily
then heaved again
an upside down labour of sorts.
All smoky dry and charcoal tasting,
a new flashback appeared
with each new centimetre revealed.
As she coughed and gagged upon
the ghosts and bones of yesterday.
Again, she tried uselessly using hands
but they were no good
except for gripping tight
the burning bars of determination.
It was her Soul pushing contractions,
her Conscience applying midwifery
until finally a snapping sensation
and it all fell away free with a slump.
The Now useless carcass
of naïve innocence curled up
in a butchered un-miracle
before her wiser, resentful, adult eyes.

© Paul Tristram 2014

In The Petrichor Dawn

With the battered feet of a Rover,
heart ‘The Fool’ card
of the Tarot’s Major Arcana,
I bob and weave
along Poacher’s trails,
blackberry brambled back lanes
and old disused, rusty railway lines.
Face sobering up nicely
in the early morning light
as I drag my still hung-over shadow
kicking and screaming
behind my sometimes sideways step.
It is the little things which burst
miracles and wonder
inside your adult mind.
The flaking black paint
of a familiar garden gate
after hours of dark stumbling
is almost enough to make you
fall back in love with life again.
A house door that key still fits into
simply underlines and completes
the luck and beautiful magic of it all,
as upstairs creaks alive, gently,
to inform you that she really is still here.

© Paul Tristram 2014

…Even If Francis Bacon Painted Us…We Would Still Be Daisies, My Dear…

She giggled like a musical waterf
                                                      a
                                                        l
                                                         l
cupping my gentle happiness
in her sunshine hands
and squeezed, playfully
the rosy-red cheeks of our union.
“You cannot dilute a double rainbow.
There is nothing more wonderful
than contentment reciprocally shared.
A beautiful, butterfly soul
with a warm, smiling reflection
is the Holy Grail of things to be paired.
There is an Ancient magic
that flows here between us,
Childlike Soft yet J.R.R. Tolkien Strong.
Even if Francis Bacon painted us
we would still be daisies, my dear,
for Darkness does not belong in our Song!”

© 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.