.
A month of Sundays intrudes darkly
upon a beautiful soft new Spring.
Casting the shadows of confusion,
growing hope for what Summer may bring.


© Pagan Paul (06/04/20)

.
Silver charms on an anklet ******
as her foot stamps down once,
crossed dainty in front of the other,
and her hands start a slow ascent.
From hips up into the air
in the nonchalant action of the flame,
arcing a half circle about her waist
she turns to face the assembled crowd.

A tabla starts a sleepy beat
and the sitar player awakens,
or returns from a meditation,
readying himself for his introduction,
to blend a melody of the Moon
with the woven movements of dance.
The beat increases and four taps
signal a change in the rhythm.
The following note is punctuated
by the tinkling of the charms
and the first strum of the sitar,
sending music to the starry sky.

And her hips sway in gentle waves
as her hands mimic the lotus flower
in cups of dreams above her head,
and the anklets jangle a soothing sound.
The wrists twist and move graceful,
delightfully twinned with the neck of a swan,
and her body sways like a leaf in the wind
to the melody from ages past.

The tabla starts a frantic beat
as the sitar player lets fly,
his new unrestrained chords
dilute the night with ecstasy.
And she dances in her trance,
skin shining with the dew of reflected joy,
her lithe body telling the story
that began before the dawn of time.
A crescendo summons the dance to end
and silence fills the void,
but far into the deep dark night
silver charms on an anklet ******.

© Pagan Paul (01/09/17)

.
Three tears is all that I can almost shed,
I'm wound up tighter than any thread,
as you lay on white sheets upon the bed,
I can't help but think you look beautiful dead.

My hand would love to touch your skin,
my head is full of the most atrocious sin,
but you are so cold and won't let me in,
and how can a veil of lust be so thin.

You can not be any older than thirty,
the way your ******* curve is so **** flirty,
and my mind is full of images salaciously *****,
you are so so tempting, naked and skirt free.

And even though I despair to caress you,
its pointless now to seek to impress you,
my job is to clean, arrange and dress you,
make you up to look just like the best do.

But oh! my lovely corpse I have a need,
to see you buried carrying my seed,
nobody will ever know, for secrecy I plead,
you will look beautiful in spite of my wicked deed.



© Pagan Paul (21/01/18)

.
When the feelings run and hide
and when there is nothing left inside.
I cannot even begin to disguise
the fact that I have cemetery eyes.

An empty shell, a carcass, a husk,
autonomic movement from dawn to dusk.
I will not allow my emotions to rise
and bring back life to my cemetery eyes.

There are words I just cannot repeat,
questions and probing, an enforced retreat.
The shutters fall, there is no compromise,
nobody sees behind my cemetery eyes.


© Pagan Paul (2018)