It’s not that it’s so good
They named it twice.
It’s more to do with
The Blue Anchor Pub.
When you’ve spent all day
Drinking Spingo in the
Afore mentioned tavern,
You not only see double,
You talk in double also.
© Paul Tristram 2006
Moaning & Groaning (Not Sexual)
She shook her freshly permed head,
tutted quietly to herself and shrugged,
coughed up something nasty,
pulling a scrumpled bit of tissue paper
from her apron pocket and spat
something bad tasting into it.
“One more cup of tea and two fags
then I’d better get a move on.
At least the kitchen’s clean,
the living room can wait for now.
He’s halfway through his first bottle,
so I’d better pick him up a second
or he’ll be up all night climbing the walls
and raving like a cowing madman.
He won’t eat for three days now, see,
and then he’ll be ill for another five,
under a blanket on that sodding sofa
(I don’t know why he won’t go upstairs
to bed, make my life a lot easier?)
I’ll have to creep around like a thief
or a church mouse to not disturb him.
62 year old I’ll be in a couple of months,
I think it’s time I went to visit my sister
up in Suffolk, I feel 20 year younger
after only being on that bus half hour.
Anyway, to hell with it, I think tonight
I’m going to go to bingo for a change.
I’ll get him another one of those
stinking things to drink first and fags,
he’ll be too drunk later to make roll-ups
and I’m sick of him waking me up at three
in the morning for mine, I can’t afford it!”
© Paul Tristram 2015
The Best Way To Come Through A Prison Gate
There is nothing quite like walking
out of those prison gates to freedom
with release papers and a weeks dole
money sitting nicely in your pockets.
Which of course you’re going to take
to the nearest shop with a whistle
accompanying your swaggering walk
to trade in all those nights of roll-ups
for a daytime cigarette in a new chapter.
Everything around you is alive and vivid,
as you smile your way along, you notice
every single detail and appreciate it all,
the noise of traffic, the Sun and the Rain,
My God, people walking dogs, amazing.
From there, you head off straight to a pub
(Old school, polished wood, smell of slops,
fat, bored, daytime barmaids frowning
with ponytails and lipstick on their teeth)
You inhale it all in without a sound,
relax and enjoy this calm civilian feeling,
order another pint, as the God’s upstairs
are crucifying others whilst on this fine day
leaving you in perfect, lightheaded peace.
© 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 http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/
And also read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.