Monday, June 16, 2014

Paul Tristram- Three Poems

I, Jirble

Alone in the shadowy corner nook
of a dilapidated riverside tavern
unfamiliar with everyone that I know.
My shaking hands bottle-pour
rum and mead into a wooden tankard
and I greedily gulp and half-choke
down the first draft of the day.
“This is getting to become too much
of a foul habit!” I whisper to myself
whilst shaking my head in disgust.
“4 days out of the week for the last month
and 5 days out of this sorry one have I
practically crawled from my lodging house
and hidden myself like a sneak-thief
in one ‘Smugglers Den’ or another
where I Jirble at least 2 of these concoctions
down my throat before I can even begin
to feel and act anything like normal again.
I shall be found out soon enough, I tell thee,
you just mark my words but I will
and my wretchedness once exposed
will be my final ruin, I will lose my position
and be knighted with a mantle of disgrace!”
I cursed quietly whilst spitting my disgust
upon the sawdust floor besides myself.
Then reaching out across the oaken table
I lift the bottle and begin to Jirble once more

© Paul Tristram 2014

The Welsh Drover

Following the arseholes
of the animals in front
for two days more.
Feet, ankle deep
in English shit and mud.
Through to Market Day
with all the necessary nonsense
and kack which pockmarks it.
Then finally with paper
stamped and scribbled,
pockets brimming a-chinkle.
Turning fast upon heel,
heading mountain-ward again
where the road home
changes level
like a lovers curving breast
with each new step taken.
And the trees, my God the trees
which cannot be described
with any form of justice
to anyone but Welsh-folk.
That fresh Glamorganshire
dawn slapping red and friendly
your healthy cheeks like a
grandmother who’s missed you
from the bottom of her heart.
Then at last your Village
opens up before you
with that deep aching bend
as familiar as the tilting slope
along the inside
of your married elbow.
Until it banks gently…that way
to your little house
where she lays asleep
misting the little back upstairs
window with her presence,
as warm as Mayday,
fried cockles and bacon
awaiting your most blessed return.

© Paul Tristram 2014

Teabag’s Tale
He’s been living rough in Swansea
since at least the early 1980’s
and has long-ago become a landmark
of the middle part of town.
As a teenager I used to see him
drinking outside the Shopping Quadrant.
(Me not him, he doesn’t touch alcohol!)
With his long matted hair and beard,
wearing at least 3 pairs of ripped trousers
and two old faded parker coats
even in the boiling Swansea Summer
(Two and a half weeks in July, sometimes!)
carrying an old ash bag over his shoulder.
You never hear him ranting and raving
like other homeless people do
and you never see him begging for anything.
In fact, rumour has it that he’s minted,
well, his family are anyway
but something happened and he walked
away from it all to live upon the streets.
This is actually more believable
when you find out he once found a purse
with quite a few hundred pounds in it,
he found the owner and gave it back
but would not accept a penny in reward.
If you are ever in Swansea City Centre
look out for him, you can’t miss him,
he’s the one standing quietly and calmly
in amongst all the other noisy nutter’s
busily creating havoc wherever they go.

© Paul Tristram 2014

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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