It was slight
like a feather tip
cutting into
consciousness,
barely visible
like the thirteenth spoke
of a back wheel.
Like a wind chime
augmenting
the shallow currents
of the approaching gale
we all
anticipate
yet turn our
backs upon.
More at http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/.
Happy people make me sick to my stomach
Without rage and disgust what do you really have,
I’ve probably got enough money to ride this life out
The struggle though was much more gratifying.
From watching too much Nat Geo.
That’s the National Geographic channel.
Rhinos, giraffes, warthogs and springboks
have their ecological niches. I just have
to keep them there.
As much as I love the wilds of Africa and
everywhere, I must realize that rhinos,
giraffes, warthogs, and springboks have
yet to read a poem.
Like the tapestry tissue
of a spider’s web,
slung low on gorse
is that path long passed
which holds,
in its cold stone,
regret alone.
The lifeguard perches like a fish hawk,
eyes alert to crawl or sidekick faltering,
his trim, muscular body empowered.
Behind those sharp eyes a sharp scene
he wishes he had dreamed,
of a beach last summer,
of a toddler screaming,
while he was dreaming.
Who squeezes all the adrenaline
out of your pituitary gland.
I have no mercy at the open mic,
rolling you into the aisle,
pummeling you with dark humor,
wreathed in ebony crepe.
I leave you DOA,
dead on the aisle.
I still find pieces
you left behind, small
memories captured in
still life photographs,
a strand there, a filament
here, evidence that you
filled this space, even
though you have moved
on to other plains.
Yes, you still have me, dear,
and yes I see the pattern
of men in movies, creatures
of failure, but my vows are still
what they were
and I still hope to be better,
speak kindly, and make progress.
Lady among the Stones
She lets them scrape her
too often, falling down upon
them as if they are her bedrock.
I want to tell her these stones
look sharp, their edges not
rounded, another selection
would be better. But she always
wants to build on them,
never wants to leave them,
even until the end of her name.
Grandmother took all
our history, relics, first
kisses, moments beautiful,
hours tragic, and hung them
on the line in her last
late in life fit of madness.
So now we have to hide
them quickly from our
prying neighbors, or else
explain decades of skeletons
dancing in our closet.
Small events that mix like paint,
give us brand-new images, a car
won’t start, a new neighbor moves in,
the earth has begun to cool
A song plays on the radio that speaks
like a god to your aching mind, a deer
stands beside the highway and refuses
to cross your path, the semi lurches
A photograph flashes from nowhere,
your brother moves out and leaves you
the exercise room you wanted, you wake
up and find yourself transformed
into a mythological creature you never
knew existed.