I’ve been told many times
Poetry is dead
Why want to be a poet?
As honored and humbled as I am
I’m here to express
I’m  not a poet
I’m not a writer
I’m not a blogger
I’m not a columnist
Nor into journalism
I’m just simply
Undeniably
Expressively
Unapologetically
For better or worst
The
Messenger
Of
Love

.
It really happened this morning
you'll never guess what I saw,
happily playing in my bath tub,
was the ghost of a dinosaur.

Not knowing quite what to do,
feeling sorry for his poor soul,
I reached in, pulled the plug,
and he disappeared down the hole.


© Pagan Paul (15/07/18)

.
As his words flow like honey onto the page
with a nod of approval from a linguistic sage.
Long gone are the days when a woman's plays
would look at the poet with a romantic gaze.

His sad verse no longer makes her cry,
his love poems fail to lift her heart to fly.
Her attention wanders like a lonely voice
away from sanctuary, towards more choice.

And as his pen drifts across a blank page
he remembers the ladies, being centre stage,
the looks of adoration in a beautiful face,
deep pools of experience for his art to embrace.

Melancholic he dips his pen again and tries,
imagination musing her gorgeous ****** eyes.
But the words won't flow, so defeated he cries,
and arranges poets tears into convenient lies.


© Pagan Paul (2017/18)

.
Pray excuse me Lady, I do beg thy pardon,

but I saw thee walking in the lonely garden,

chestnut hair falling over a long white gown,

and sadness deep in eyes of almond brown.

Forgive mine intrusion, please take a glance,

agree to accompany me to the lovers dance,

for thy loneliness to mine open heart screams,

so take mine hand and show me thy dreams.




© Pagan Paul (16/06/18)

.

What floats your boat babe,
Archimedes' Principle of Water Displacement?



© Pagan Paul (20/07/18)