Saturday, January 4, 2014

Paul Tristram- Three Poems

Ash Bridges

The road leads only forward now.
With a head full of memories,
a heart that has won and lost
love half a dozen times before
and a soul chiselled into the
very face of survival.
This maybe a new road
but it is certainly not a new path.
It is easy to sever the ties,
to undo the knot and leave.
Telephone numbers, addresses,
postcards and letters can lead
to a chain the length of Marley’s Ghost’s
to drag around and drag you down.
Leave the bridges smoulder behind you,
and let the sun set fire
to the sky, over yonder, to greet you.

© Paul Tristram 2007

Published in The Ugly Tree, #16 / Vol. 6:1, Oct 2007 – Jan 2008


Another Night In Another Air-Raid Shelter

The rain battering my
head and shoulders
urges me into its
dark entrance.
I stoop low, take two
steps forward, then
I am inside.
There’s a wee smell
of piss but it’s not
as bad as usual.
My thumb gives life
to my lighter,
I look around
at the usual graffiti.
Swansea Jacks, Neath Punx,
Melyn Skins, A.C.A.B.
Scan the floor, same old shit,
beer cans, cider flagons,
dead glue bags and rubble.
I’ve stayed in three
shelters this week,
this is the cleanest one.
I take my seat upon
the car tyre, it’s a
delicate perch after
an hour or two but
by far the softest.
I smoke one of my
roll-ups of dog-ends,
I am now settled
for the night.
Then focusing on survival,
I try to decide
which store to shoplift
my breakfast from?

© Paul Tristram 2007

Published in The Ugly Tree, #16 / Vol. 6:1, Oct 2007 – Jan 2008

Hearse Convoy

It’s amazing
how a moment changes
things forever.
Flower petals look so ugly
with tyre marks
pressed into them.
As I noticed this
I staggered and vomited
whilst listening to the feet
marching away.
After recovering slightly
I lit up a roll-up
and wretched again.
Thought back to that time
years ago
when I stood at a Tonna bus stop,
thinking that throughout
my life I would remember myself
at this exact point every
now and again.
Wretched once more,
said the first line
of the Lord’s Prayer,
then wondered how much
gravediggers get paid
and why evergreen trees
are evergreen?
Twisted my favourite ring
off my finger,
decided to charge
dramatically and emotionally
over to the front line
and drop it down
onto the coffin.
Stood up, staggered,
changed my mind,
threw the ring perfectly
into a drain.
Wretched again
then made another roll-up.
Heard the feet marching back
towards the cars around me.
Threw the cigarette onto
the tyre marked flower petals
and off we drove, forever.

© Paul Tristram 2006

Published in The Ugly Tree, #14 / Vol. 5:2, Feb – May 2007

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.

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