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Pagan Paul Mar 2017
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(Children's poem)
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I'd like to sit
still and serenely
But I can't
I'm the Queen Bee.

A Queens work
is never through
there is always
something to do.

I'm laying eggs
and filling cells
and letting out
my secret smells.

I make sure
the hive is clean
and not littered
with perils unseen.

I caught Veroa
the other week
glucoside syrup
fixed me a treat.

But all of this
has its cost,
Oh! How I wish
I was born a wasp.

© Pagan Paul (16/06/16)
About a year ago I did a bee-keeping course. A week or so later a friend challenged me to write a children's poem. A couple of weeks later these two experiences collided in my head and this poem spilled out.
Its educational in so much as children can ask about certain things in the poem and a teacher can then explain them. Thus explaining how bees and hives work and interact, the many secretions beside honey that they produce etc.
Poem was published on www.bee-the-change.org.uk
PPx
Pagan Paul Feb 2017
.
Though my boat is tossed
high upon these crests,
I fear not the deep sea
where the sailors souls rest.

Cast adrift, alone to float,
my mother Sycorax had planned.
But lo! I reach sanctuary
and dance ecstatic on the sand.

My grotesque form I treasure
but loneliness soon must end.
Yes! A monster I might be,
but Caliban needs a friend.

Paradise is mine and ripe.
Behold! A kingdom and a home!
The sun blisters all day long,
oh Muses why am I so alone?

“Hush boy! Careful of thy wish,
the scheme is so much grander.
For Prospero prowls the island
with his witch daughter Miranda”.

Run ugly Caliban. Run away.
Disappear, you must be brave.
For the Wizard has loosed Ariel,
your wretched body to enslave.

The girl holds you enchanted,
with promises of fair romance.
Feel her pull puppets strings,
watch her make You dance.

Oh Caliban! What darkness befalls,
a prisoner tithed with no trial.
Yearn, dear boy, for isolation
and the loneliness of your Isle.

© Pagan Paul (28/02/17)
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I have always empathised with Caliban.
Enslaved by Prospero, teased by Miranda and
bullied by Ariel. Simply for being an outsider,
stupid, an ugly monster and supposedly subhuman.
Shakespeare's metaphor is rather apt for the way society,
in general today, treats people with mental health issues.
As freaks and outsiders, less than whole.
PPx
Pagan Paul Feb 2017
.
I need a Drug.

A decongestant.
To unblock good thoughts,
so they flow through and wash away
the flotsam and jetsam
and bitter history, in the flat field.

A decongestant.
To relieve the suffocation,
entrenched in nasal pollution
denying access to fractured lungs
and caustic breathing, in the flat field.

A decongestant.
To ease the flow of feeling,
for it to cleanse and energise,
to be free to share with fey
and open hearts, in the flat field.


© Pagan Paul (22/02/17)
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The Flat Field = reality/normality.
PPx
Pagan Paul Feb 2017
<>

Soft petals glisten with dew,
     ruby and crimson pure.
Nature's most perfect view...
     ...la fleur d'amour.

<>

© Pagan Paul (10/02/2017)
Pagan Paul Feb 2017
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I think I may have just died
looking in to your almond eyes.
Cedar hues of beige and brown,
for me such beauty in which to drown.
Chestnut and umber, darker shades,
silently dissolve my barricades.
Soft bark pastels of hazel and fawn
delicately hold my heart reborn.


© Pagan Paul (09/02/17)
Pagan Paul Feb 2017
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The scrape of stone on stone,
a shaft of light breaks through,
with a rush of air, fresh and new,
the chambers soul is bared.

Fractals dance enticingly
on millennia old rock,
catching shards of mica sparkles,
soft prisms copulate in the air.

The mist clears,
graceful in its retreat,
and reveals a scene from
another place, another world.
Another reality.....


© Pagan Paul (05/02/17)
I can feel my mood changing, for the better.
Think the SAD is in retreat :)
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Pagan Paul Feb 2017
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The Virginal one is a Maiden fair,
a girl adorned with long blonde hair.
Bold and brash, yet cautious and shy,
her dreams lift up and start to fly.

Raven hair falls in delicate tresses,
on the Mother of children Nature blesses.
Calm and firm, yet open and sure,
her dreams fulfilled are played out pure.

Cold and damp attack the bones,
trying to agitate the black haired Crone.
Old and steady, yet clever and wise,
her dreams forever light up the skies.

Walking through woods, warm and shady,
barefoot, confident, the Forest Lady.
She has her dreams and always will,
until the day her heart stands still.

© Pagan Paul (01/02/17)
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Lord of Green series, poem 11
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