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.
Buy his books ‘Scribblings Of A Madman’ (Lit Fest Press) http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/
‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/
And a split poetry book ‘The Raven And The Vagabond Heart’ with Bethany W Pope
You can also read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.
If only they’d had a light,
if only they’d been able to see
that everything was now futile.
The inside of the well
was throat like
and their little scrapings
There were no finger grips
in the bricks and stones,
the corners had been rubbed
smooth with eagerness
and frantic desperation
by the first few
without light or hope
all those years ago.
© Paul Tristram 2005
Published in Purple Patch, No. 112, November 2005
The straight edges kept him going,
he ran his fore fingers around the grooves
he had been patiently digging
and coughed a dirty, excited squeal.
A paving slab is easy to lift
but to push it from underneath
is a different story all together.
He grasped the edges tightly,
focused completely upon the middle,
which broke and spun away
in two different directions.
Upon determined, bandaged elbows
he started up out of the hole,
the miracle of moonlight and fresh air
sent exhilarating spasms through him
as he crawled in indescribable agony,
one arm length at a time,
closer to the road.
© Paul Tristram 2006
Published in Chillout, Issue Seventeen, Winter 2006
The Silver Ghost
Traipsed the midnight graveyard pathways,
in and out of ivy smothered tombs
and lichen, crumbling marker stones.
and without set course or direction.
Melancholy under the full moon light,
deep in meditative thought, always,
transfixed to a nagging problem
which troubled deeply her spectral mind.
She often scared the village folk, unwittingly,
with ghostly pacing back and forth.
This was indeed a wretched afterlife,
since swapping her two-penny boat ride
for a thousand year solitary wait,
trapped within this hallowed place.
Where she had vowed to meet him again,
upon passing over, at that long ago harbour,
battered by a cold and windy Winter’s morn.
Should he not return to her loving arms
from the terrible seas and distant lands.
His mind must have become lost and muddled
for him to be still other-worldly ship sailing?
For it has been a hundred and fifty years
of grieving and singing this sad, silent song.
© Paul Tristram 2015
Published in The Literary Hatchet (USA) #12, Sunday the 16th of August 2015