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Pagan Paul Sep 24
Do you remember the time
that we built a boat to sail?
I taught you to use tools,
chisels, mallet, plane, knives.
Moving your wrists, touching hands,
guiding your fingers to feel.
We joked and laughed together
as we gouged out the trunk.
We were going to make a canoe
but you wanted a sail boat,
so we worked on the shape
carving the bow to a point.
You taught me how to sew
and I had lots the scars,
little white dots on my fingers,
but we stitched that cloth together.
And when we had made our sail boat
we looked around for the water.
But found we were stood in a desert.
Do you remember the time
that we built a boat to sail?
Do you remember?
Do you?

© Pagan Paul (19/09/19)
Pagan Paul Aug 15
When a Dryad cries …

… the bright red leaves
and the tree stands
in a pool
of blood

… forest green leaves
and the tree stands
in a pond
of heartbreak

… red and green leaves
and the tree stands
in a lake
of sorrow

There is no sadder song
than when a tree dies,
there is no deeper grief
than when a Dryad cries.

© Pagan Paul (01/07/18)
Old poem re-written
Dryad - A Tree Nymph/Sprite
Pagan Paul Aug 12
Blush the sky with teardrop rips,
let the blood flow free
to spill 'pon the cheeks and fall,
creating puddles of coy crimson.
A mind slowly disintegrates,
no-one tries to halt the decline
and it washes away reason,
the victim unable to resist submission.
Corpuscular clashes with synaptic
and the result transforms tragedy
from the root of all sadness
into an icon of blind worship.
The teardrops freeze on a blank face
that masks a venomous enemy
wrapped in a Hood of poison
that swallows the blushing sky.
A cage of pitch black threads
patiently studies the inner pendulum,
the tick tock of search and destroy,
time weaving its panic dark webs.
Psychotic anxiety in the waiting room
as horses dance on candle flames,
the Knight checkmates his own King,
the pawn is an easily taken prisoner.
The coy puddles of crimson burst,
shattering the mask to reveal another,
a shadow-hand coils its claim,
and the journey begins, cometh the Hood.

© Pagan Paul (11/08/19)
He should have been innocent at ten
Out from his mother's den
Not like a rogue cub that's bitten
His furry experiment, a kitten
How can he be so rotten
For he purchased a ball of cotton
It's paws bracing its last amen
From a malls pet store then
To hell rides, a mortal sin
He rode that bus on the chin
With a boxed ball at his arm
That little ball of fur meant no harm
Scratching the whim of the boy
His pet was making such a noise
All those rider's eyes cast on him
Red faced and on a limb
He covered the boxes vents
So no noise to him made sense
Taking the ball of furs' breath away
How can his head be in a cloud
The devil speaking loud
As the frantic meows began to stop
It's tongue flop, flop, flop
Frozen in transit, as his kitten soon lay
It's ice floating  in his shallow  bay
Dark was the boys discovery
A lifetime of no recovery
Remembering  those pinks be crying
Trashing about and dying
That little ball of fur sitting still
Such a death, is this bitter pill
For the young boy fell off from this branch
Unforgiving of the kitten's trance

Logan Robertson

The writers pen takes the readers down a path that's dark and cold, where ***** of fire replace ***** of cotton. Sadly. He does imagine and create the day, of that child looking into the cardboard box. The stillness. The kitten's elongated body rigid to the touch. All the while his bay losing depth, life, and sunshine, as the years continued on. The part of the poem that I like is the boy fell off a branch but first he was faced with a limb.
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