Wednesday, May 21, 2014

Two Poems by Paul Tristram

Coedffranc Infants School in the 1970’s
(The Little Girl With Ginger Ringlets And Freckles)

When I was 6 years old
they took all the classes
to the assembly hall
to watch the school play.
But even before it had started
I had been caught misbehaving,
as usual and was made to sit
with the girls as punishment.
We were all sitting cross-legged
upon the polished wooden floor.
There was a girl sat next to me
with ginger ringlets and freckles,
she was chatty and asked me
if I knew how to roll my socks
all the way down to my ankles?
I told her with a serious scowl
upon my face that I didn’t know
what she was talking about.
She said she would show me,
ignoring my scowl completely
she reached down to my foot
and after pulling up the bottom
of my Wrangler jeans up a little.
She put her palms flat against
each side of my socked leg
and rolled it down until it
was a tight little round roll.
As she did this her hands
touched my bare skin,
something strange happened.
I got tingles upon the scalp
of my head and a warm glow
inside of my mind.
Next she pulled some coloured
felt-tip pens from her little bag
and drew a rainbow on my leg.
“It’s a tattoo!” I exclaimed
“No, it’s not, you silly boy,
it’s a Rainbow Bridge
for your invisible friends
to come over to see you!”


A Day Out On Alcatraz

It was a little strange being there
yet not eerie in the slightest.
The first boat was full when we arrived
so we hung about around Pier 39
for a couple of hours eating corndogs,
and clam chowder in sour dough bowls.
Looking in the tourist souvenir shops,
finding an awesome place called
‘We Be Knives’ and stocking up.
Then we were upon the small ferry
moving out into the waters of the East Bay
with The Golden Gate Bridge off to the left.
In about 15 minutes we were at the Island,
we took a slow climb up the hillside
winding road to the prison, looking out
for hummingbirds as we walked along.
The place was nothing at all like
the old British Victorian Buildings
that they have back home yet fascinating
all the same and full of dark wonder.
We went in straight through reception
and onto the Landings with the cells
with the Jailhouse sliding bar doors.
It made me smile, it looked just like
it should have just like the movies
I had watched since I was a young boy.
Walked around with a headset on
listening to the recording telling the story
of prison life on ‘The Rock’ back in the day.
Stepped in and out of a few cells myself
thinking of ‘Al Capone, George Machinegun
Kelly, Robert Stroud The Birdman’
and all the many others who had lived
counting away their days in these cages.
I kept a lookout for any remaining ghosts
but I didn’t see any just an interesting
derelict museum of a gone by age.
It was dark when we stepped out again
and walked back down to the ferry
to start chugging back on over towards
the beautifully lit up city of San Francisco.

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.

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