I spent month upon month
Writing line after line
To relay my words to you
In hope you would see
Life, from my eyes
Your face, from my eyes

A small hint you didn't approve
Of my artwork and
I let it all burn.

What's worse
Is that I did so with pride.

How can I relay,
What you don't approve?
How can I sing in lullabies and rythem
While you only hear drums and guitar?

I bent my back over maps
In a world I created just for you
Till they went about calling me
Universal engineer

I drew stars and moons
Mountains and hills
I created creatures of myth
I wrote about battles and bliss

I invited herbs and cities
Flowers and night lillies
New currencies
History of many centuries
Planets that dance
And nations that blew in ash
Lovers that laughed
Heartbreaks that last

I wrote them for you.
I let it all burn.

And I'm happy.

I need to learn your laungue.
I need to memorize your words.
I need to count your heartbeat.
I also need to let you go.
Some people search for a higher truth,
their lofty beliefs keeping them aloof.
They look past death to find out what?
Are they not content with what they've got?

Maybe they fear there is nothing beyond,
after the natural span they have donned.
Maybe they crave an extension on high,
but we are mortal, and mortals can only die.

So worry not about what comes after,
just enjoy life with love and laughter.
And as for the workings of eternity -
well – you'll just have to wait and see!

© Pagan Paul (18/02/17)
Pagan Paul Apr 12
Wrapping the sky
      around shoulders of grief,
prepared shuffles of aimless motion
in time,
     a hood of moons
transpire to illuminate,
          conveying the dissolution
of reason and rhyme,
as logic takes a bullet and bites the dust
resplendent in a cloak
     of transparent darkness swirling,
          a veil drops
like the final curtain,
with the august play about to commence,
     the actors, forward,
          taking a bow of silence,
to an absent audience who do not care,
the arrival at platform zero,
     of nowhere,
          travelling to nothing on a vacant train,
an instant express to the heart
     of the void,
carrying hallucinations
          in a purse
                    of stars,

Promise rides a chariot of blessing,
yielding a gift
     sugar coated in
          images and

© Pagan Paul (11/04/18)
Pagan Paul Apr 8
Across the meadows long and fair,
'pon a bay horse with high might,
did he ride away to conquer,
reflecting glories of the Fable Knight.

Sir Afen in armour gleaming wild,
a sharpened blade and heavy mace,
besaddled easy in prideful pose,
musing 'pon the battles coming embrace.

The melee holds a future memory,
of skill, brutality and of lucky chance,
all for to impress the sweet Lady
who tied her favour to his lance.

Through fields of blood and gore,
chasing the music of hurting screams,
hast thou a more invigouratiing path
for a man to create his dreams?

The fiery vigour within his veins
as the red mist crawls his eyes,
the fragrant stench of opened flesh,
horror shouts as his enemy dies.

Dagger and mace slash and swing,
the spiked ball lands a heavy maul,
unseated from his mighty steed,
'pon still corpses to soften his fall.

Sir Afen was indeed a mystic legend
and, 'pon his horse, so primly grand,
yet flounder did he most infant like,
his armour fighting 'gainst his stand.

Then aided by a passing boy squire
he stood with sword made at poise,
bellowed commands ring out fervent,
somehow dull inside the battles noise.

A flat blade dents his shiny helm,
peeling bells invade his foggy mind,
his images blur in shock surprise,
and behold the visions of the blind!

And battle drug lust, strange and fey,
feels no pain when in darker shade,
as gut slicing cuts rain down like piss,
from his enemies most truer blades.

Energy soaks faster than the dying blood,
into the dark soil 'pon the Heath,
Sir Afen's life so sadly ends this day,
taken by the Earth, bone cold beneath.

A parting wish, a Knights last thought,
the soft sweetness of his lovers kiss,
fading slow into Deaths warm arms,
with the image of his Lady Amarylis.

© Pagan Paul (05/04/18)
This did not start as a prequel to my Lady Amarylis poems,
it just sort of got there by itself.

Afen - Anglo Saxon name for Avon, the River
at whose mouth Bristol stands.
Pagan Paul Apr 4
Woe betide ye that calleth me madde,
I give thee the darke and unharmony,
a pox upon thee for thy impudences,
behold! I curse thee most charmedly.

For thy slander is in ignorance borne,
yet ye weald it with prejudice and spytes,
with cruelest accuse thy finger doth scorn,
thy mouth doth vomit most vicious frites.

So boyle ye in liquids of thy selfic scum,
bathe bared in shyte of thine owne designed.
Calleth me madde oh mine arrogant cursed,
I shalt returneth thy cryme in filthyest kinde.

© Pagan Paul (04/04/18)
I was very angry in the 13th Century ...
Pagan Paul Apr 1
This is not the best haiku in the world ...
... its just a tribute.*
(to HaikuDonnajones and her Dean).

At the crack of dawn
me and dean go milk our cows,
pulling the udders.

Our cows milk is good
for cheese, yoghurt and butter,
very nice in tea too.

are great, make good customers,
Vegans not so good.

What the hell is this
new coconut milk anyway?
Or soya butter?

I don't understand,
its not real dairy goodness,
its all fake dairy.

Our cows are organic,
no artificial cow feed,
just grass and fresh air.

After milking cows
me and dean have our breakfast
to give us energy.

I may turn Veggie,
but love my deans big sausage,
bacon, eggs fry-ups.

Our goats have kids to,
tidier than our own lot,
don't complain as much.

Me and dean are happy
with our kids, cows and our goats,
on our dairy farm.

© Pagan Paul (01/04/18)
*paraphrased from TenaciousD
Now go read Donna's myhaikudiary poems!
Pagan Paul Mar 29
The ether shimmers.
Time slips.
Your words float,
and dance for my eyes.
But we belong apart,
destined never to meet.


There is a connection
as images assault me,
directly from your pen,
wrenching my soul,
drawing the pain,
painting the pleasure.


Your words found out
emotion is not dead,
its just a sleeping child,
waiting to be loved.
But we belong apart,
destined forever to be...

… perfect strangers.

© Pagan Paul (2017)
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