Sounds like the snapping of leaves beneath your feet
As you walk a natural path
The thumping of your heart plays like drums with the tapping of your heals
You try to question everything you believe is real
Just as the bird questions whether to fly from the tree
The fear keeps you both planted firmly like the trunk that you are perched on
Alone with the rumbling of the wind and my own thoughts
You see the budding flower breaking the cold ground
Wondering why you can not be like the strong stem
I am still shivering even with the sun radiating its goodness into my skull
I am still unprepared and uncertain of what else will surface
I sit alone on the stump
Tracing its scars like I've traced your skin
It was cut at its chest
Just like I cut my own heart
By believing I could be like this forest
And build a world inside of you
The coming of a new dawn approaches and the coming of a new landscape within
The way the cityscape,
Cuts and tears through the once pristine landscape.
One can find,
Patches of nature from cliffsides above great lakes,
To Forests stretching to eternity.
And deserving of respect.
One can walk and saunter where,
Once great tribes of men hunted there
Wandering the great Northwoods,
At peace with the nymphs and souls of the trees.
An art, a skill,
almost lost to antiquity.
fingers threading through flames,
i try to keep my eyes unaverted while
canopy and humidity coats my skin,
hands dripping, bravado slipping,
although one could argue i had none
initially, like you'd bite back (literally),
while heat licks at the singeing wounds to my pride
across my throat, along my jawline,
drawing out sighs in your wake while
nettles sting softly down my thighs,
trapped whimpers escaping through
openings gone unnoticed, losing
all focus, drowning in(ferno of)
The Virginal one is a Maiden fair,
a girl adorned with long blonde hair.
Bold and brash, yet cautious and shy,
her dreams lift up and start to fly.
Raven hair falls in delicate tresses,
on the Mother of children Nature blesses.
Calm and firm, yet open and sure,
her dreams fulfilled are played out pure.
Cold and damp attack the bones,
trying to agitate the black haired Crone.
Old and steady, yet clever and wise,
her dreams forever light up the skies.
Walking through woods, warm and shady,
barefoot, confident, the Forest Lady.
She has her dreams and always will,
until the day her heart stands still.
© Pagan Paul (01/02/17)
Smoke rises in the distance.
The smell of flames starts to replace the fresh air.
No creatures in sight.
None to be found.
Just the smell of fire.
Burns show where it has been.
Like footprints in the snow.
The birds are silent.
The air dull.
Light is dim.
The fire has ended.
Ash lays everywhere.
On the tree tops.
On the forest ground and bushes.
It is over.
The fire is out.
The house was big,
Too big for a divorced family of four.
It had sickly, pale yellow siding
With cracking paint and a long archway
That led to a round, asphalt-covered
Most days the trees
That rolled out into the little valley
Alongside it were barren and spiny,
And you could see through them, all
The way to the quiet road that cut
Through the growing houses
If you were lucky, you would have seen
A few kids shooting airsoft guns,
Running through the fallen leaves,
Leaping atop all the muddy mounds of dirt
Next to the creek, but they
Have lost contact
If you were to climb up the little green hill
That rose just next to the mouth
Of the house’s driveway,
Cresting along the edge of the cul-de-sac,
You would see a greenhouse,
Brown, with splotches of dirt
On the windows.
If you opened its flimsy door,
Which was usually locked,
You would see all the uncut tomato plants,
All the sage and spices,
And you would probably wonder
Why they were not harvested
But the people who owned it
Usually bought their groceries
Rather than grew them.
Stone grey silence
blinking in slow motion
morse code received by
forests laced in gold
burned to the ground
with a single matchstick
and a kerosene flask
filled to the brim with
I write so often of eyes, I apologise, but there's just nothing I find more brilliant and unique.
It's cold here, but it heightens her senses. The rustle of the wind in the fallen leaves and the crash of waves on a distant shore tell her she's at home. But this dream is a lie. There is a huntsman on her tail. His mark is untraceable. But to her it's undeniable. He is here. Silent, patient and resolved, her would-be captor knows her as his own reflection. She is aware of intentions, but also of his hesitation. So, in spite of being in his sights, she paces on. Steady, her gaze remains ahead. And though the ranks of cypress trees pass one by one, for what seems to be eternity, the search for her moon moves her on.
I go by the name of Rook.
Lord of all that you can see.
I cradle and nurture my forest home,
my throne sits in the Poetree.
The canopy stretches before me,
tree tops licked in morning dew.
A finch catches my eye and winks,
greeting his Lord, then off he flew.
The sounds of Dawn, the forest awakes,
shedding sleep dust to the rising sun.
An owl calls her goodnight hoot,
disappears, rejecting the day to come.
Otters sport, play chase, by a stream
that flashes silver as light rays dance.
A Ladybird, yellow with black spots,
lands surprised, to crawl along a branch.
Clean crisp air, caressing nostrils,
invigorating life through cool beauty.
The vista of sunrise across the woods,
the source of inspiration for the Poetree.
© Pagan Paul (24/01/17)