Lisa Knight's Blog, page 8
September 24, 2015
POETRY: HE’S FORSAKEN HIS RIGHT TO BE ANYTHING BUT SHITE BY PAUL TRISTRAM
Were the last worlds she had screamed
as he walked away from her forever,
yet, it was she who lied and had the affair?
He’s happy now in his little house by the sea,
where he’s half-tamed a fox for company.
The headaches disappeared ages ago
along with all of the stress and the strain,
eyes and countenance always look well and rested.
At the end of his garden is a little clearing
in the woods where he knocks together
bird tables and walking staffs for a few shillings.
Listens to Jethro Tull and makes homebrew,
along with wines, preserves and pickles.
The cat from next door sleeps in his lap
every afternoon from three o’clock until four.
He reads two weeks of daily newspapers,
all in one go, every other Wednesday,
when the street puts out all of their recycling.
Drinks milk straight from the bottle in the fridge,
only wears underwear when it’s shopping day
and eats tinned Fray Bentos pies for dinner
until he’s blue in the face, whenever he wants to.
Written by Paul Tristram
Available to buy via Lulu
September 23, 2015
POETRY: DOGSHITTING (SHE’S AT IT AGAIN!) BY PAUL TRISTRAM
Her Mother dies of various things annually,
she is either an orphan found wandering
the seedy backstreets of London
(Just like Oliver Twist!)
or her parents are of Russian Nobility
and she’s been sent here to live like this
to spy and learn patience and humility.
Has a secret lover from Constantinople
who she simply will not invite to tea
by the name of Bradly Romeo Pitt Beckham.
The car she drives is obviously not her real one
and I myself, with my very own eyes,
saw her trawling the bargain section in Asdas
that weekend she was underwear shopping in Paris.
Her younger Brother’s a kidnapped Viking,
her cross-collie dog’s a new type of pedigree
and they are just waiting on the paperwork.
Her Father (Not the real one!) used to be
a bareknuckle fighter until he contracted
Herpes (She doesn’t quite know what that is?)
and Asthma whilst on safari in Africa.
And My God, but our Saturday afternoons
would drag backwards through several
stages of boredom without her fantastic
flights of fancy and epic imagination around.
Written by Paul Tristram
Available to buy via Lulu
September 18, 2015
POETRY: STYLE-LESS WIRELESS BY PAUL TRISTRAM
In the heart of the mid afternoon,
discarding her new jeans
and ‘Modern Life Is Rubbish’ shirt.
She flutters into a floral dress,
found hidden in the back of a thrift store.
After drinking another glass of wine
and stubbing out a freshly lipsticked cigarette.
She turns on the dial of her antique wireless
tuned constantly to a 1950’s radio station.
And smiles in perfect delight
as Billie Holiday’s ‘Lady Sings The Blues’
comes slithering like spectral silk
through the small, cracked, single speaker.
Eyes closed tight and hugging at her chest
she swirls and swoons around, gently.
Forgetting, momentarily, about the long list
of every day troubles normally inserted HERE!
She is unfortunately unaware just how happy,
contented and younger she looks,
as the yearly clutter of life,
unconsciously peels away like onion layers
from her beautiful, un-frowning features.
Written by Paul Tristram
Available to buy via Lulu
September 14, 2015
POETRY: “FUCK YOU… FOREVER FUCK YOU!” BY PAUL TRISTRAM
She yelled at the top of her ecstatic voice
from the back of Courtroom No. 3.
At her Mother who was stood in the dock
with her shaking hands up to her face,
looking like she’d been struck by lightning.
The ‘You have been found guilty
by a jury of your peers and I sentence you
to five years in Her Majesties Prison’.
Was still echoing around the building,
sonic-booming between the wigs and gowns
of the paper shuffling Barristers and Solicitors.
“I begged you to stop, you Evil Bitch!
I warned you that your day would come,
that those lies which you thought you were
weaving oh so cleverly were in reality
just strengthening your very own noose.
You will not remotely handle prison,
I know you much better than that.
Your masks and disguises are useless now,
I am liberated by your comeuppance,
and I hope that they torture and break you!”
Written by Paul Tristram
Available to buy via Lulu
September 12, 2015
September 11, 2015
POETRY: POEMS FROM THE PIT BY PAUL TRISTRAM
I am not going to be writing
any ‘poetry from the pit’ today.
I am exactly one month sober
and the sun is SHINING
like a cartoon, seaside postcard.
I am going to eat
a chicken and ham sandwich,
walk the dogs down
by the wooded stream
and watch my daughter
crawling and dancing
to ‘The Princess and the Frog’.
Then I’m going to lay
and daydream awhile
about a Leprechaun with toothache,
the Donkey who shocked his kind
by becoming a builder of rowing boats.
The Apple Pickers general strike of 1472
and Hot Air Balloon Jousting Tournaments
(Which only tortoises have the patience
to watch, and even then, only the ones
beyond their 30th birthday, obviously!)
After that, I’m going to play the harmonica
until I’m completely blue in the face,
I hope that your day pans out for you too
whoever you are and wherever you may be.
Written by Paul Tristram
Available to buy via Lulu
