The Tranter and the Maiden by Paul Tristram

She met a Tranter at the crossroads,
and lifted up her skirts.
He stole away the ache and swollen burn,
witch had of late, been nesting there.
He paid her in ripeness,
a bellyful of shifting springtime,
a magical explosion…
forming a glowing sun inside.
She blamed it upon the Miller’s boy,
whom she’d been known
to often ramble aimlessly with.
They wed well before season’s end
and settled down to a monotonous life
of resentful familiarity and ‘Give & Take’
But, she still sits up late upon full moons,
window-peering down the country lane,
hoping for one more glimpse
of those Tranter tracks again.
He smelt of fur and pinecones,
scrumpy cider, the road, tobacco
and every manly thing this side
of both Heaven and Hell.
‘Twas no Devil she’d lain down with 
in the side-meadow that day
but a momentary and tangible
delicious taste of freedom’s fleeting kiss.







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 book ‘Scribblings Of A Madman’ (Lit Fest Press)  http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1943170096

The Sun Has Left That Page Now...And You Should Follow Its Example by Paul Tristram

It has become an abandoned village
peopled by only memories and ghosts.
The stubborn place where you are standing…
is only a waiting room…
whilst facing the wrong way.
There’s a train right Behind/In Front of you 
steaming and a-whistling,
readying itself for departure.
You will not be here again… except in thought,
the next chapter begins elsewhere.
Wrap up your bindle with only necessities 
and shoulder, once more, your travelling cloak.
‘Waving Goodbye’ and ‘Letting Go’
are harsh learning curves
with a deferred reward system…
aching and breaking to begin with…
later, strengthening your learning soul.
We are all but Pilgrims and Passengers
to The Clock, Seasons and the intricate, 
inner-fluxing Emotional Landscapes.
The only ‘Roots’ we have are in our hearts…
the better to ‘Rover’ them safely around with us.







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 book ‘Scribblings Of A Madman’ (Lit Fest Press)  http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1943170096.

As Long As I Have A Roof Over My Head...Then So Do You by Paul Tristram

This bond which triumphs and towers between us…
was first seeded in Empress fires of the Eternal.
Strengthening with each passing season
and twin river-flowing through our souls.
The howling, demented winds
and screaming, slashing sleet and rain
are carefully observed
yet, penetrate the Truth of Us no longer.
There is a secret garden gate,
kept from all… but two.
A sanctuary not found in bricks and mortar, 
but, stronger for it all the same.
My beating heart yearns no more
as you breath and speak 
perfumed un-riddles and simple truths
with wide, ancient, chestnut eyes
which hold the key to the hidden corridor,
running behind the library shelves
in between both lands of Fact and Superstition.
Let canyons roar, mountains bow down low
and meadows of each magical moment
keep a-rolling on like warm Summertime, forever.

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 book ‘Scribblings Of A Madman’ (Lit Fest Press)  http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1943170096.

She Makes Me Feel All Thomas Hardy About Life by Paul Tristram

I am not going around there anymore.
Just glimpsing the top of the little country lane
that leads down to her rustic cottage
fills me with dread and sorrows my soul.
I remember it was always raining there
when I would come away,
poor heart in my helpless hands in knots.
A fraction of the man I was before,
it mounts up you know 
and quite quickly too.
You should never dim the light 
that shines inside you,
even for a moment,
it’s a blasphemy 
against the magic of human nature.
She has a way of tapping into the parts
hidden and buried, 
and peeling the scab off
that which is just healing
with a surgical skill
that is both frightening and malicious.
Before you know where you are
you are back to square one.
To re-climb that hill 
which you’ve already slogged up
night and day, 
fretting and worrying about, forever.







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 book ‘Scribblings Of A Madman’ (Lit Fest Press)  http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1943170096

Upon Audrey Munson Looking Down by Paul Tristram

It is but a soulless gaze,
a marble reflection only.
A mirror image stolen
from the early 1900’s
and imprisoned within stone.
Not quite high enough 
for vertigo
but just enough
to be mostly ignored.
104 is far too long a life
with over two thirds spent
rotting alone in an asylum.
‘All New York Bows Down
To The Real Miss Manhattan’
or rather a concrete replica.
Delusional and demented
after mercury plotting.
She survived a murderer’s
attention only to be spat
into the uncaring arms of ruin.
Buried in an unmarked grave
and people still stop to admire
her perfect features
in many places around the city
but never where she truly is.








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 book ‘Scribblings Of A Madman’ (Lit Fest Press)  http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1943170096

The Winnowing Widow by Paul Tristram

On Autumnal, clear skied,
full mooned nights.
She can still be viewed
atop Poacher’s Slope.
Slightly to the right-hand side 
of the derelict windmill.
An echo of something lost
yearning for remembrance.
Wailing melancholy
to the rhythm of thrashing arms
separating the wheat from the chaff
and the past from the present.







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/1943170096