Living on a shoestring, but
I'm enjoying my Spring Fling

a point of departure
is goodbye

a door opens
and shuts

but memory
cannot be denied

so make your memories
good and wholesome

and forgive yourself
the painful ones.

it cannot be.  

be, being  an interesting conception
today it
be
a proscriptive,
a prohibitive
status,
painful be this being.

when the only adjective suitable is
utter
as in total and complete and
life's every non-random gesture slaps you into a
religious silence of no utterance
and being or is,
just intolerable,
just cannot be,

and the answer is both
for the sole question which is,
which is worse,
the silence of the pain
or the emission of the howl
the utter of being
is not merely intolerable
but is inconceivable

.
She sits for most of the time,
in a metal chair with wheels.
Counting out the value of life
with an injury that never heals.

She waits for most of the time,
to confirm that she is really there.
But how many people notice her
sat down in her wheel-chair.

She's invisible for most of the time,
she is there but nobody spies.
So she spreads her tiny wings
and floats unnoticed to the skies.

She cried for most of the time,
always alone and lonely in a crowd.
Now flying free her spirit rises,
there's no discrimination in the clouds.


© Pagan Paul (25/12/16)

M y love is like a red, red rose
Y oung with the dew-kissed promises of spring.

L aden with unique perfume,
O n a slender stalk it blooms
V ery near the edge of a sunlit garden,
E ndlessly transforming but always the same.

I  offer you this rose in hopes that
S someday fields of them will shine.

L oving you turns ugly weeds
I nto rare exotic blossoms that
K iss the summer breezes with their scent
E ven as they wither and turn brown.

A bsolute perfection is my love and this red flower.

R each out and touch this rose I offer-
E very thorn is gentle and not sharp-
D o  not fear of hurt from it.

R ather fill your senses with the joy of it,
E ndlessly fresh within your hand, and never
D ying, only changing to become more sweet.

R eceive this gift I bring to you and
O nly let me be that rose
S o  that my soul lies in your hand and heart for all
E ternity.
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Digging after some small perfect diamond
To place into a hand that never fondled one before
Nor could even hold one now,
It’s corporeal being burned away in grieving,
I reach for my pen
I cannot find it with my vision pulsing so in liquid sorrow.
It is mislaid among the clutter
That ***** traps my days and roils my mind in darkened hours
      

Brain excogitated,
Heart swelled with apricity,
Hands scribed poetry