Pagan Paul

Apr 11

vienna bombardieri

My heart is a stained glass window, fragile as a Rose in May
refracting light from every angle, it holds life's leeway
Suffused with fragments of love,  I can be warm as night
filled with a sense of awe, when you tilt me to the light,
                                 I feel just right
My heart is a stained glass window, fragile as a Rose in May !
Fragmented beauty encased in bursting beams of afterglow
if I follow only yesterdays, life can soon appear surreal
Infused with an outside world that can often smite
I choose to live inside my own reflective colors,
                                           Always, in the light   !
Fragmented beauty encased in bursting beams of afterglow
My heart is a monument to all that I have lived and known
changing and bending with every curving path
it has been overused and "Inter-diffused" many times
like this mosaic piece of art I call "stained glass window "
                                I am a,   "Pièce de ré·sis·tance " ( a work of art)
My heart is a monument to all that I have lived and known
My heart is a stained glass window, fragile as a Rose in May
When I pray with it, it remembers to give thanks, in every way.

Apr 11

Vianne Lior

Sixfold Pulse

A mirror cracks loud.
Spiderweb veins split the face,
someone looks away.

Glass falls, catching light.
Tiny suns blink on the floor,
feet step through the stars.

A star drowns in dark.
A shard twitches without wind,
breath locks in the throat.

Teeth bare in the glass.
A crimson smile grins too wide,
the floor drinks its spill.

The spill turns to ink.
Letters bloom where none were writ,
shadows lean closer.

Ink drips from the walls.
Words slither where mouths should be,
a mirror cracks loud.

Emotion Shifts, Then Shifts Again...

P.S. Rest assured, reading this near a mirror is entirely safe..hehe

#emotions #rensaku #haiku

Pagan Paul Apr 11

Life

A story unfolds in her eyes,
the little runaway recites,
depth in an iris of secrets,
halcyon days and sapphire nights.

Release the words dearest youngling,
bleed the emotions you regale,
let the narrative entice time,
weep the history of your tale.

She blinks and the page slowly turns,
another chapter taking shape.
The story unfolds in her eyes
and lids close as she seeks escape.

#story #life

Jan 31

Nemusa

Ebb & Flow of Tomorrow

In the stillness, she danced,
water swirling like secrets,
time a mere whisper,
eyes closed to the chill,
skin alive with the pulse of the depths.

A fleeting liberation,
where moments collide and shatter,
thoughts unfurling like wings,
forgiveness a fragile thread,
I am the universe,
emotions spreading like wildfire,
sleep draped in silken shadows,
light filtering through the cracks,
nakedness swathed in raw truth.

Tomorrow hovers, a shadow,
a bruise in hues of dusk—
she stands fierce, a believer,
an idol crumbling softly,
wonder scattered like autumn leaves,
complex,
a hundred regrets unraveled
by the tenderness of touch,
the clash of hearts.

Forgotten streets murmur,
eyes gazing through fractured glass,
twisted futures loom,
the shell of dreams yet unformed,
caught in the symphony of now,
overlooking the madness,
the deceptions,
the lovers broken like fragile glass.

The scratch of pen on paper,
the rhythm of a heartbeat,
inked memories blur,
sweet sorrow cascading—
not unlike revelations,
a bitter pill to swallow,
the absurd,
the shifting of my visage,
the lens refocused,
the key turned in the labyrinth of thought.

Chains echo in the quiet,
the poppies dance like sisters,
bound by a thread of crimson,
tears cascading,
sinking in solitude,
loving through the ache,
death approaching,
a tender, inevitable embrace.

An oldie.

Jan 31

Sara Brummer

Becoming

BECOMING

There is always resistance to change,
the pursuit of perpetual growth,
becoming being like the moon’s
relentless phases as night gently
prints itself on world.

Soft rain falls like new thoughts
on fields dancing with spring.
What was there before and gone
is becoming once again.

Clouds drop flushed notes
on the vapor of the air,
bubbles over river pebbles
form, break, and form again.

Becoming is a song not yet heard,
melodies promising wishes of
unknowingness.

Becoming lies just under that
thin layer of life, those infinitely
precious seconds before what is
to be.

#nature #change

Pagan Paul Jan 31

Return to Mediaeval Barbarism

This is a snapshot in history,
a cold day in mid December,
in the year twenty-twenty four
and civilisation is so last season.

There are three major conflicts
happening in the world today.
No! Not conflicts. Wars!
In Sudan, in Gaza, in Ukraine.
All have been eaten by savagery,
cruelty, pain and despair.
But they overshadow the others.
Stories of suffering yet to come.

In Afghanistan women have been banned
from attending college to train as midwives.
Trained midwives are forbidden to work.
There are no male midwives in Afghanistan.
Women's suffering is yet to come.

In Iraq there is a new government marriage law.
It is now perfectly legal for adult men
to wed girls as young as nine years old.
More or less legalising child abuse.
Children's suffering is yet to come.

And yet if all these wars were to stop
there will still be many more wars.
There will still be savagery and pain.
There will still be cruelty and despair.
There will still be pregnant women and pre-pubescent brides
screaming for help in the long dark nights.
And nobody will lift a finger to help.
Their suffering is yet to come.

So why are we allowing ourselves to slide,
to fall, to regress, to return to Mediaeval barbarism?
Is this our destiny?
Or is this...
Our suffering yet to come.

#politics #pain #suffering

Pagan Paul Jan 11

Sadness Borne Deep

A ghost walking the day
like a spy upon a dream,
she stares out of a window
arrayed in black bombazine.
Hair tinged with a little grey,
such sadness she bears alone,
drifting through the quiet rooms
of a cold and empty home.
Saving her love for loneliness,
wrapped in an airy husk,
night cannot come to soon
and the veil fall with dusk.

© Pagan Paul
.

#grief #loss