Sunday, April 12, 2015

Paul Tristram- Three Poems

The Innocence Of Infancy

The very first time that they focus, un-focus
and then wobbly focus upon your face, once again
and crack that gorgeous, wide-opened mouth smile
in your direction with nothing but love and happiness.
By Christ! but it makes every inch and mile
of heartache and suffering to get to this place in life
worth it a thousand fold or more.
It’s like Springtime shining there upon you.
The God’s (Both Old And New!) Blessing your world.
It’s Magic and Miracles and Thundering Emotions
forging a Bond and a Chain that traverses well past the Grave.

© Paul Tristram 2015

She Has Ridiculous Hand Movements

Karate chopping sentiments,
counting freshly butchered hearts,
saying goodbye pointedly, two-fingeredly.
Not stirring tea but trouble,
weaving deceitfulness and trickery.
She salutes you in your downfall
orchestrated before the paint’s even dried.
Nimble as a locksmith
moonlighting as a criminal,
pickpocket daintily, you’ll hardly notice
her grasping and grabbing all the while.
Snap, Cracking knuckles within temper,
breakdancing to the beat of her own selfishness.
‘Paper, Scissors, Stone’ it matters not
for it is all merely a slight of hand distraction
from the real game going on up her sleeve.
She’ll dice you up like vegetables
add you to her crooked, cauldron pot.
Where you’ll unhappily simmer, boil then burn
as she finger-fucks away all that you are now not.

© Paul Tristram 2015

Maybe You Should Just ‘Fuck Off’, Love

Two joggers found him down by the seafront,
7am on a cold January in Brighton,
frozen to death 4 to 5 hours previously.
They had only stopped because he had rolled off
the bench mid-freeze and was laying upon his back
with his hands upstretched rigid into the frosty air.
Otherwise, well…there are plenty of old drunks
to be found asleep on the streets of this place.
No one knew him, not local to this particular area,
even though it was obvious just by looking at him
that he had been on the streets roughing it for years.
No identification in his miserable pockets,
just dog-ends, broken matches, 13 pence in 1’s & 2’s
and a little battered tin pillbox, housing a bus ticket
20 years old from Aberystwyth and a scrap of paper
folded up neatly into a small yellowing heart shape,
with a few delicate strands of ginger hair tied around it.
Which, upon opening up and inspecting, read as follows
“Maybe you should just ‘Fuck Off’, love… Miriam x.”

© 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.

You can read his poems and stories here!

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