Wednesday, May 13, 2015

Paul Tristram- Three Poems

The Only Person Who Can Beat Me…Is Me

…and I can assure you
that I never plan on losing that fight!

© Paul Tristram 2013

Mr. Tailfeathers

Pointed tattooed, silver and turquoise
ringed fingers, full moon-ward,
making neon splashes of magic,
with a swoosh and a gush,
flow from complicated wrist
down and out through threadbare elbow.
To puddle, nourish and germinate
a ring of liberty caps and fly agaric
around his ivy and rabbit fur wrapped toes.             
Adjusting emerald eyes to tawny owl branch level,
he shrieked the neighbouring foxes to alertness,
spun his oaken-knuckled staff thrice in an arc of wisdom.
Commenced his midnight meanderings,
sideways down the woodland lane,
whispering to the foliage, whistling rune-song
upon the Springtime caressing and collecting winds.
Unlatching gates, unpicking fences
and generally un-causing a nuisance
by letting freedom as sweet as dancing dandelion seeds
back into all of the ‘Old God’s’ Kingdom.
“You did not put that rock, stone or pebble there,
you fools…so why insist on moving it?”
He spat, child-scowldingly as he brushed
rather too close to the manmade road.
Then, turned that way, of course
and climbed through one of the many vegetation hatches,
thus disappearing back into Mother Nature’s ancient terrain.

© Paul Tristram 2015

A May Monday Morning In Menabilly

The sky and sea merged into greyness before me
as my life stripped, shifted and rearranged
itself all round me.
The ending of one chapter
and the worrying yet thoughtful
time before the starting of another.
You cannot get from ‘A to B’
without first moving from the spot
and sometimes you need to go sideways awhile
before retracing your ragged, wobbly steps and carrying on.
I could feel the door a-closing upon all of this,
I searched the eager coastline with troubled eyes
“Move on…Let go” the salty breeze seemed to whisper
and so I did, the best way that I could.
I knew that this would be the very last day
that I would ever traverse the paths of Menabilly.
I smiled sadly as I walked back to the road
and forward into my awaiting destiny.
‘I’ll not write about this for 20 years’ I thought to myself
but here I am, 17 years later, to the month exactly
and it’s like writing about someone else, long dead
or watching an old black and white afternoon movie.
None of it matters anymore and none of it is alive anymore,
it’s true what they say, Time does indeed heal everything.

© 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.

Buy his book ‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at
And also read his poems and stories here!

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