Saturday, April 25, 2015

Paul Tristram- Three Poems

A Perfectly Captured Fragment Of Lost Love

Like the slightest feathers of aching and longing
dancing and trampolining together
inside a small, fragile bubble of memory,
settling ever so gently upon the impatient surface
of my tenacious and steadfast hand.
Your smile and red hair were here again this morning,
a fraction of a second before I properly awoke.

© Paul Tristram 2015

A View From The Bleak Side

She sits huddled in the cold, derelict shop door front
watching a family exit a posh restaurant across the road,
smile at each other as the older man of the group
rubs his fat belly with a satisfied and contented glow
to his extremely happy, rosy, carefree face.
Then she shifts her gaze to the right as they all join arms
and jaunt and swagger off merrily to her left,
she is not bitter just very desperate and life-beaten.
The smell of pies and pasties coming from the bakery
next door is literally killing her starving, clawing stomach
but it’s the aroma of fresh bread which sends tears
streaming down her dirty and exhausted face,
for she’s sure that’s what a proper home must smell like?
She’d move her pitch further up and away from the torture
except it’s lunchtime again (For the Normal People!)
and this is simply the best place to beg for mercy.
Two days ago, a kind old grey haired lady approached her
and gave her a pre-packaged chicken salad sandwich
and that is the last time that she’s actually eaten anything.
Using that memory once more as strength, she focuses,
frowns determinately and continues……………….to wait.

© Paul Tristram 2015

Wigwam Fuckwit

There were this old homeless couple
both ‘out there like Pluto’
and about as alcoholic as you can get
without actually dying from it, yet.
They lived in a patch of trees and gorse bushes
by the side of a railway just outside the city centre.
She slept in a rusty, beat-up, derelict car
and he in a tepee fashioned ingeniously
from nicked rowing oars from the nearby harbour
with a stolen stretch of diesel soaked tarpaulin,
from the back of a flat backed lorry.
Inevitably, one night they had a raging domestic
and she stormed off into the darkness
only to return when he was passed out and snoring.
To set fire to the material of his little abode,
the only thing saving him was her getting so excited
whilst participating in the pyromaniacal task
that she kept yelling “Wigwam Fuckwit!”
which eventually awoke him and saved his life.
I, for one, will never be falling asleep
in a fuel soaked cloth building after arguing
with my better-half after hearing this little story,
I suggest you heed my advice and do the very same.

© Paul Tristram 2015

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.

You can read his poems and stories here!

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