Wednesday, April 29, 2015

Paul Tristram- Three Poems

Long Face

“Hey!, why the long face?”
“Well, my brain’s been on the rack!”

© Paul Tristram 2010

The Bull’s Horns

She grabbed that Bull by the Horns
after being unanimously advised to
by, you know, all those other people
who had themselves never
actually had the courage to do it.
They watched though,
some through cringing fingers,
others smiling slyly
and the rest with their
‘I’m just following the crowd
and it’s better than watching TV’
look upon their idiot, soulless faces.
She was going good for awhile,
footsteps quick and assured,
balance impeccable and finely-tuned
to her anger and defiance.
But then a Fall, they always Fall,
and she arose just in time
yet somewhat dazed and clumsier,
brave as she had been.
The first ‘gore’ broke her pride and spirits,
and as she reached desperately
for help from the familiar crowd,
most merely averted their eyes down
apart from the true cowards
who returned her gaze with relished grinning.
The end came five minutes too late
and was a lot more appalling than expected
yet, a lot had been achieved this bloody day.
This seething ‘flock of nothings’
would now keep its name without question
and a giant statue would be erected in time.
Not to Her Fire, Fight and Honour
but as a warning to all those who dare
to be different and ‘better’ those
supposedly above
but who actually belong far below them.

© Paul Tristram 2015

Why, He’s A Cad And A Bounder And No Kind Of Sir, At All!

He has had his filthy hands up at least five different skirts
at this otherwise lovely and elegant croquet lawn party
and not just those of the single ladies present, either.
Spiked the Baroness’s teapot with magic mushroom juice,
sending her completely batty and unusually good humoured
they are unsure if she will ever be her miserable self again?
Shot the old Major’s horse in the backside with a pocket catapult
whilst the aforementioned retired soldier was astride the animal
partaking of a glass of port and munching merrily
upon a slice of gala pork pie with Branston pickle and mustard.
Sending him into an handlebar moustached tizzy,
un-scabbarding his sword and steaming off full charged
into the catering tent, swiping off the most fashionable hats
and yelling “Tallyho, Onward for Blighty!” in an angry war cry,
Good Gosh, someone could easily have been decapitated or worse.
He smokes that ‘hashish’ in cigarettes like a bloody foreigner,
drinks vodka and red bull (Of all things!) from half pint glasses
and the Blasphemous Buffoon had the cheek to turn up
his inebriated nose at Dame Margret the Thirds scrumptious crumpets
whilst insisting upon eating the crusts of all the cucumber sandwiches.
My blood is absolutely boiling, we need this Ruffian removed
from the premises before he kills or impregnates something.

© 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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