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Pagan Paul Jun 4
I am birthed from an egg in the forbidden land,
standing proud I stretch my arms out wide.
I open my eyes and open my heart,
emoting memories pour into my cold mind.
And the flames, and the flames and the sacred flames.
carry me out to the infinite stars of knowledge,
to where the Twin Goddesses of Truth
petition the serpent to deceive the future.
The barge of the Gone Forever sails past
and it bows its bows to the flail and the sceptre,
turquoise and gold with the face of millennia,
its image forever burnt into my countless lives.
I, Mighty One of Enchantment,
now fly from the shell that holds my long sleep
to the thirteenth direction of my smile.
And the flames, and the flames and the sacred flames.

I beseech and invoke, with secret Words of Power,
the hidden wisdoms of the ancient spell.
I scribe, weighing words in their charm
to call forth the Magic of the Dark Night.
And the flames, and the flames and the sacred flames
of he who abides throughout all time,
consume me with a thousand thousand names,
and make me the Lord of All Laws.
All Hail! to the girdle of the stars.
All Hail! to the secret glyphs.
Guide my journey through the eternal time
and take my Sphynx as your devoted sacrifice.
I, Mighty One of Enchantment,
now sail my boat of millions of years
to the thirteenth direction of my smile.
And the flames, and the flames and the sacred flames.
I posted half this poem before, but have written a second stanza so now posting the full version that will be recorded, added to a soundscape and released later this month.
Pagan Paul May 8
The melancholy sound of a trumpet seeks refuge in the night,
as a snare is brushed gently and cymbal tapped light,
the far away strum of a guitars soft dreamy strings,
playing the music that compliments what a lone voice sings.

Cigarette smoke hangs heavy like fog on the old river,
the ****** sit at the bar sipping bourbon hand delivered,
the romantics dance on a floor that whispers charms,
planning their moves with the lover held in their arms.

The street light barely penetrates the grubby glass,
the bar winds down as yet another night goes passed,
customers sway at tables as they embrace a cloak
of the heady scent and high effect of marijuana smoke.
Pagan Paul Feb 27
I open my eyes.
The darkness is blackness.
The stillness is complete.
The silence is deafening.
I breathe in once
and the air is so warm.
The exhalation slow.
Why do I feel dizzy?
I move my limbs.
Realisation bites,
it is then that I scream.
A scream nobody will hear.

  Jan 3 Pagan Paul
Red cotton thread looped
into a sharp silver needle.
Reliable, sturdy, practiced stitches.
In. Out. In. Out.
A repeated chant
as the needle continues its marching dance,
Its duty and its purpose.
Every ***** of the needle
draws little beads of pretty crimson blood,
the thread ties together
the pieces that have broken
and festered and weeped.
it’s been a never ending
rhythm of reinforcement.
Keep it in, keep it together.
The silver needle does its job.
The red cotton thread wears fast.
Pagan Paul Jan 3
Winter is again upon me,
I stand at the window
and stare through scenes
of frost and falling snow.

An ache ascends through,
knotting from a dark core,
rising up like a free spirit
congealing lumpen in my throat.

I feel the chill creeping,
rub my arms and shudder,
the fire is burning so low,
and my eyes see dying embers.

The desire to stoke is dulled,
by apathy frozen in time,
my eyes turn to stare
through frost and falling snow.
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