Those tresses, dark eyes
entangled in light, bathing
in the day’s summer sun,
I move across, understand
delusions, a bit of life’s strands. Picking up yellow autumn leaves
this is love.
Is not.

Each flower opens like memory
Each mind is holiness
Mother can I be like the gnashing wind, trampled by man, his
hieroglyphics?

Take that silver circle
from the bed of dark
cloud wisp

Wrap it with complementary
bows and wrinkled paper

Put it in my palm
for a beautiful holiday.

Droning, honey-sucking
lovers. King and Queen,
live in their hive of domes.

Inside mine, clock ticks
mercilessly. I pick up
one more Ted Hughes poem — to read.

That coldness which crept in
has now become a frost.
I’ve managed to not
brush up against you in weeks.
We are only cellmates now
waiting for the courage
and common sense
to become prison gate-happy.

More at http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/.

Sublime pleasures
Quiet passion
Rituals
Complexity
Taking chances with words
Drinking more than I should
Writing, in your face
Direct and straight up
Just like the booze
Taking no prisoners
Watching a no-hitter fall apart
Still a shutout though
Always on the verge
Utopia somewhere