I wore my England shorts today
as a form of camouflage
so that I could remain at large
amongst the crowds of yobs
it's amazing how they can afford so much beer
without having jobs

a group of them approached
asked if I had a light
I said I never smoked
but there's a torch app on my phone
which is pretty bright

then one of the three
roared at me
It's coming home!!
to which I didn't reply
as I went back to my phone
afraid it was some form of mating cry

.
In a costume of conflicting emotion,
of crossing diamondic colour,
with regal posture in grief,
the Harlequin and the King,
a display of opposites
creating a composite being,
that eases her body
gently into the waiting water,
to float away serene,
on her journey to the nether.

Midnight blue and emerald green,
the regalia of ermine,
both ostentatious and humble,
robeing the aspects,
understated in crowning splendour,
the gentleman King bows,
and the Harlequin laughs,
the bi-polar reaction
to the tragedy of misfortune,
with a sting in the myth-tale.

With the dark hues of mourning,
a legend passes on her way,
across the streams of time,
on a voyage to discover herself,
carrying her Harlequin in a purse,
holding her King to her breast,
owning them both in her heart,
the medicine wheel spins,
knowing the grapes of wrath
yield the wine of spite.

The motley speckles of attire,
a starry parody of night skies,
lighting the decorated funeral barge,
gliding along the rivers of space,
worn with the mantle of sorrow,
and it sails into the sunset,
as the Harlequin and King observe,
the mandala turns,
the bier of the Queen departing,
bears their sadness forth.

The Harlequin laughs and laughs 'til he cries,
his heart grows cold, then withers and dies,
whilst the King, statuesque, memoirs his life,
lamenting the legend of a Queen, his wife.



© Pagan Paul (24/07/18)

That boy who you see in class everyday,
Yeah, the one with the long hair that covers his eyes
And the dark, ratty sweatshirt?
Do you know what he goes through on a daily basis?
His mom is a crack addict, his dad is in jail,
And he's the youngest of seven siblings.
The only real food he ever gets is
The “terrible” school lunch, which to him
Tastes like heaven.
The only real exercise he gets is from
Running away from his mom when she's high,
And the only real alone time he ever gets is
When his mom locks him in the
Bathroom for days at a time.
So don't get mad at him for
Missing your group's presentation day,
Or for always asking you for your food at lunch.
Get mad at the people who make
His life at school as bad as home,
The people who talk loudly about his horrible hygiene,
Who laugh when he doesn't understand a math problem,
Who visibly flinch whenever he walks by just for the fun of it.
Get mad at them.
And then get mad at yourself.
Be upset with yourself for having the power
To help this kid and kids like him, and ignoring it.  
Be upset with yourself for talking
About him behind his back,
Refusing to share your food at lunch with him,
And for avoiding him in class.
Be upset with yourself.
And then do something with this anger,
This passion you have built up.
Share his story, help someone like him,
At least vow to never, ever, let something
Like this happen to your child.
I wrote this poem.
What will you do?