This relationship is made out of elastic
It’s back and fore week after week.
I love you one minute and hate you the next
It is confusing and taxing me so.
This to-ing and fro-ing is making me giddy
It’s from one extreme to another.
Moods and Tempers and Disbelief
I think it’s time that we called it a day.
I am tired of playing this Shuttlecock Rock
So I shall say goodbye to you, my Dear.
© Paul Tristram 2012
It Was Your Empathy That Got You Here, Sweetheart.
She’s been on the streets exactly 3 weeks tomorrow,
becoming more like a ghost with every slow, passing hour.
Her hunger is an anger clawing itself out of her stomach,
the cold holds her hostage and defenceless, completely.
She stole sugar sachets from a train station café earlier
and mixed them in with luke warm water from the Toilets sink,
shovelling cupped handfuls greedily into her desert like mouth.
She’s wandered the February streets all day holding out
ignored palms until zoning out into a cattle-like stupor.
Now, she’s bent, waist deep in a rubbish bin at the back
of a Chinese Takeaway, staring insanely at the fortune cookie
strip of paper held between her shaking fingers, which reads
‘It was your empathy that got you here, Sweetheart’
Until she blurs her tired eyes with streams of useless tears
and belly-sobs herself, heart and soul, right out of reason.
© Paul Tristram 2015
Sing, Little Bird…Sing Until Your Sweet Heart Aches
Even though the Crows and Magpies
taunt and mock you so
with jealous, snarling eyes.
Whilst the Vultures wait,
watching to attack.
That old cold January Rain
batters your spirits into a tizzy.
Once again, I urge you, eagerly
to sing…louder each time you rise,
shining bright like a ball of flame,
shaking it all off your weary shoulders
like dust of absolute nothingness.
Forget the Cat claw marks that adorn
your once pure driven snow body
for they are simply the physical proof
of just how many times you’ve escaped
and Lady Luck has had your back.
And when that Morning Cockerel tries
to outdo you with his
desperately hung-over morning lament,
let him have his turn awhile
while you catch your breath
ready to start up once again stronger.
Do not sing for the applause…
just sing for the sake of the singing
and remain Defiant and Proud
under those accusing fingers of doubt.
There are many of them out there,
pockets of back-blades, green of eye
yet there is only one of You
But that is your magic, right there,
for you were born Unique and Special.
© 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.
You can read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.
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