Saturday, August 17, 2013

Paul Tristram- Three Poems

The Windmill

The Windmill spun
strangely slow
with broken fingers
and flayed skin,
directing the wind
in a vicious vacuum
all about itself
as if kamikaze
and willing disaster.
An end to the
intolerable endless,
a rupture in the
freedom from the
confines of circles,
movement with flight
would only arrive
with personal ruin.

© Paul Tristram 2007
And also Published in Decanto, 35th Issue, June 2008

Peace At Last

The hands of the clock stopped,
the newspaper fell from his fingers
down onto and over his lap.
The cat on the sideboard raised his head,
sensed all was not right
and left through a window in the kitchen.
The TV carried on oblivious
until the electric ran out
three days later.
The dust stayed where it was,
mail came through the door,
the cat hunted the garden.
All was peaceful and quiet for 3 weeks
until the smell attracted the neighbours,
then the hands of the clock moved again
as the front door came off its hinges
and all was quiet no more.

© Paul Tristram 2006

Published in Sarasvati, Issue 22, May/June, 2012

Pissing Pineapple Chunks Around The Urinal

Sometimes the afternoon
hours in the pub
drag almost painfully.
It’s a bastard
waiting for the boys
to finish work and get here.
Last night’s hangover
subsided two drinks ago.
It’s benefit day.
The youngsters with baseball caps
have claimed the pool table.
The old folk sit
like missing chess pieces
at tables of four or six,
solitary and friendless,
in mourning for long lost times.
I’m on £1 bottles of lager,
pacing myself
ready for the evening.
Earlier I managed to force
two bananas and a chicken pasty
slowly into my churning stomach.
Serotonin and bulk, good.
I zip up and push open
the toilet door about head height
where there are no
glistening traces,
leave the stench of
urine behind me
and head for the friendly
aroma of tobacco smoke
and slop trays.
I step back into the bar,
a few of the old folk
nod their heads
at my resilience.
I climb a barstool, order another bottle
and wrestle with patience once more.

© Paul Tristram 2005

Published in Moodswing, Issue Fifteen, Spring 2005

Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches 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.

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