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After it blew itself out, the mood lightened
brightened enough like the light rain it left,
we go outside and walk in the gentle rain
it left, a reminder of sorts, now we pick up
the branches and bunches of leaves it left,
tattered pieces left over, things affected but
easy to deal with, like the light rain it left.
As others chased the tail
of life’s endless circles.
Changing mental and emotional
direction and objectives
with the fickle, half-hearted winds.
She nailed that Target
down tight to a fencepost
in the imminent future…
aimed and focused, completely,
gambling everything
upon one perfect bullseye shot.
The ‘One’s’ before
had been merely playmates,
practice necessary to the cause.
There was not a ripple nor kink
of her appearance and personality
which had not been Silversmithed,
honed and crafted,
the many disciplined hours
of training spent alone.
She exhaled, deeply, slowly…
with clarity of mind
and a sureness of will and soul.
But, her Approach
bounced clumsily off the Mark
with a dull, all too human, thud…
he turned in her direction at last,
and with cold disdain, spoke the word ‘No!’
More at https://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/.
I lay in my bed
Sinking in the feather down
The cover
High on my neck
The fire in the grate
Banked to save
The coals
For the morning
The cold gathering
In the back
Of the room
I could see my breath
The chill
On my face
Causing me
To burrow
Beneath the quilts
Gradually my ears
Regained feeling
I slept
A deep dreamless sleep
Until the clock
Urged me
From my cocoon
I took the poker
Stirring the fire
Reawakening the slumbering flames
Gathering the ashes
Into a shovel
Loading a bucket
Taking them out
Exchanging them
For the black fuel
That warmed the house
I waited
Watching the fingers
Of flame
Break apart
The lumps
Now warm enough
The water heated
On the kitchen stove
Poured in a #2 washtub
For my morning bath
Toweling myself off
I sat close
In my underwear
The warmth
Soaking in
Like a lizard
On a warm rock
I cherished
The moments
Stirring only
To get dressed
To begin
The long walk
To school
Life is a dance
At first simple steps
The movement minimal
Almost disconnected
To the music
The tempo lifts
As experience
In the ballroom
Demands more craft
More freedom
Yet more form
No one claims
To be the choreographer
But all demand
A certain rhythm
A certain conformity
To match others
On the floor
At times I feel lost
Out of step
Trying to find
The beat
Confused
By the melody
But no matter
How poorly I perform
I must keep going
Until
The music stops
She survived
on a “Children’s Transport”
to England.
But the memory of her mother’s
panicked attempt
to pull her
from the moving train
has never left her.
And the mother?
As the SS soldier
viciously shoved her
on a cattle car
bound – she was told –
to the “East,”
she remembered her own
anguished attempt to keep the child
and was grateful
that the daughter would survive.
I feel the calendar lies
Though I know
Its purpose
To record accurate time
Days and months
Footnoting special events
But it tells me
I am 72
Officially old
How I fight every day
Its certainty
That I should start
The process of crumble
Lending myself
More to the rocking chair
I will not demur
Taking the easy path
Conceding to frailty
And though
I know
I cannot win
The war is on
Where have you gone
once tender and resilient
voice of community –
Where have your verses
escaped to – are they under
house arrest?
Did you place them in
a lock box to bury in the back
yard by an old syntax tree?
Where did the comfort go
of another poetic sound,
whether alto, soprano, or
haiku?
1. The Older
We build a place, a common ground for
us to use to energize the topics we need
to keep the talk going. There’s a distance
we must travel each time. It frightens me —
the distance seems greater each time.
2. The Younger
And finally,
he’s learning
to be patient:
he smiles, nods
and then offers
to help whenever
I seem confused
— quite often now
I need this.
Your Breadcrumbs…
Led me nowhere nice
or pleasant…
but, there Is wisdom in this,
for I never walk down
the same dead end, twice.
Once free of your demented,
inane circles
everything levelled out
quite quickly.
You have to tear off
a strip of flesh
from the walls of your soul
every now and again,
to learn ‘Emotions’
strange and bewildering ways.
‘Humble’ is such a dodgy word,
it reeks too much of ‘Meekness’
and neither one
of these false idols
has nor deserves any place
upon Life’s haphazard road
of day to day education.
More at https://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/.
I recite to a bird with the cortisol level of my bookworm finger
As a loop of a plane lifts like a lid’s sticky picnic licked jam richness
Daily writing task are like poison ivy drooling on my unlaced trainer
Is there irony in a leaf half eaten between hemispherical sculptures?
My momentary surprise deflating slowly like sandy diet cola.
I count down the shuttle of froth with the gravity of a coaster.
I hope the goal in my head does not hide like a marbled mothball.
Ponytails in the sky are smiling behind the roofs of cork rind sun.
Sometimes I shelf ancient books leafed through a tall tree
The wisdom of the tree disguises the branch logging me in
There is a friendly walk into a tunnel’s incubation of trees.
Without the crowds of people nobody’s bar-coded identity reads.
The leaf is as dog-eared as the seven day television listings
With blue opaque smog like the smell of a petrol stations
diesel dripping on the foliage lingering the day’s restlessness
The caterpillars comatose neutral gears ignites a car alarm.