Paul Tristram- Three Poems

The Rain Rook

Upon lichen adorned terracotta roof ridge
sits the watchful Rain Rook
alone with his resourceful kaleidoscopic thoughts.
Feathers in loose ruffled inclement anarchy
to the changing of the Season’s mottled Autumnal attire.
Casting impeccable rooftop, patchwork garden knowledge
around his shrugging battle-chipped beaked head
as he ‘Caws’ once from habitual watchtower sentry leanings.
The greying white watercolour sky a perfect backdrop
for majestic and murderous pitch-black silhouette.
A skyline, washing line highway man, a carrion pirate,
a devil bird, a dark omen from the graveside
are merely human words alive with both inaccuracy and truth.
A village king perched uncaringly upon chimney throne,
your garden walls and boundary fences
are merely collections of children’s play blocks
with no jury to cage or assuage even his shadows passage.

© Paul Tristram 2014

She’s Not All ‘That’ Anymore

She is broken apart inside, heart a shattered mirror.
Spirits and mood weighed down, completely,
by the heaviness of other people’s guilt.
The sun simply vanished one day
and smiling became harder and harder work.
She tries to fight the bitterness and keep it out
but there is nothing but emptiness to replace it.
At first she thought that this must be some kind
of a test, a spiritual lesson or karmic journey
until it actually dragged on into endless torture.
She no longer self harms or drinks alcohol
for they merely augment the desolation and despair.
In a rut of barely existing she bangs her head
against hopelessness and repeats the process
until exhaustion takes her up into unloving arms.
Her ever flowing tears help tick away
empty calendar days, 30,000 sleeps until extinction.

© Paul Tristram 2014

Crackington Haven

I stepped off the little green and white
595 Western Greyhound bus
buttoning up tight my new Winter’s coat.
And there she stood waiting, perfect,
war paint exact and fiery hair dancing
and fighting with the sky all around her
electric face like eagle wingtip feathers.
She was holding a picnic blanket
with a bag of beer and sandwiches.

“I thought we’d go to the pub?” I muttered
lighting a cigar, slightly disappointed.

“Today is special and I want to remember
it as so, you can go to the pub any day, Mister.
We’re going to my favourite, special place on
the beautiful North Cornish rugged coastline!”

I smiled and not just out of politeness.
We walked along in nervous silence
until about halfway there she turned,
eyes dazzling and said excitedly.

“Show me magic!”

I laughed, surprized and looked about me
and saw a rusty old tin sheet upon the ground
a few feet away from the coastal path,
lifted it up and pulled a slowworm from under it.

“Oh my God, it’s a snake!” She yelled
as I held it up for her to hesitantly touch.

“Ooh, they’re not slimy at all, are they!”

“No they’re not slimy, people are slimy,
these are smooth and it’s not a snake
it’s a slowworm, they’re part of the lizard family.
In fact it’s basically a lizard without any legs,
if you don’t hold it carefully it’s tail will come off
just like a lizard’s, it’s to help to avoid predators,
sometimes I wish I had one, a tail I mean!”

“How interesting and when I asked you to show
me magic I was expecting you to make up a poem
on the spot or something obvious like that?”
she said, a sudden glow eclipsing her features.

“Oh, I can write a poem any old day, Misses
but today is special and I’d like to keep it so!”
I stated with a voice of mock authority.

I put the slowworm back where it belonged
now that it’s gentle magic had worked
and with the uncomfortableness and shyness
now mostly behind us we walked onwards
holding hands as the sky cracked open wide
with sunshine before us and the winds calmed.
There would be plenty of time to regurgitate
the poem later, I mused, as gentle mischief
and warm wonderment flared up all about us.

© Paul Tristram 2014