.
I go by the name of Rook.
Lord of all that you can see.
I cradle and nurture my forest home,
my throne sits in the Poetree.

The canopy stretches before me,
tree tops licked in morning dew.
A finch catches my eye and winks,
greeting his Lord, then off he flew.

The sounds of Dawn, the forest awakes,
shedding sleep dust to the rising sun.
An owl calls her goodnight hoot,
disappears, rejecting the day to come.

Otters sport, play chase, by a stream
that flashes silver as light rays dance.
A Ladybird, yellow with black spots,
lands surprised, to crawl along a branch.

Clean crisp air, caressing nostrils,
invigorating life through cool beauty.
The vista of sunrise across the woods,
the source of inspiration for the Poetree.

© Pagan Paul (24/01/17)

.
I would write a poem
of bigotry, hatred and contempt.
Using every politically incorrect
name, word, phrase and insult.
A poem of vileness and villainy
of coldness, anger and disgust.
I would bear the onslaught tide
of derision, bile and utter rage.
To show, that beside you my friend,
there are 7 billion ***** in the toilet.

© Pagan Paul (16/01/17)

.
Do you feel the right connection?
Pulling at the space between us.
Evaporating our barricades
and redefining those hazy borders.
My hand on your *** brings shivers,
your hand on mine evokes promises,
a kiss as the connection is made
and time stands still in awe.
Two connect with a static charge,
exploding in a chaos of lightning,
sensitive tongues of mute pleasure
dance lightly across tenderised skins.
Synapses skip with happy wonder,
as sparks fly with interactive touch,
teasing memories of the future.
We disrobe. Waiting. Coiled springs.
Ready to ****.


© Pagan Paul (12/01/17)

.
Therapists will tell you
good mental health
is like a coffee table.

A hard uniform surface
supported by four pillars.

Family Life
Work Life
Love Life
Social Life

Seems my
coffee table
is just

a tray.



© Pagan Paul (2017)