.
O' Maiden of the Garden, still thy flowery swing.
Inhale dawns fresh dew, as birds take to wing.

Glide casual across the grass and dainty moss,
pause quaint, gently pick a white rose for thy hair.
Shed a tear and cry for thy saddest love lost,
walk through the mist and float away in the air.

And seated 'pon thy flowery swing,
in quiet and soft repose,
draped so nonchalant until Spring,
the silent ghost of a rose.


© Pagan Paul (10/10/17)

.
Lady Roxy keeps her lover private,
hidden in a box under the bed.
The only conclusion one can arrive at,
she prefers something that buzzes instead.

Lady Roxy doesn't bother with dating,
just an occasional change of battery.
No reason to hang around waiting,
for compliments and blushing flattery.

Lady Roxy's lover does as she bids,
deftly wielded as a weapon of pleasure.
With no exchange of ****** fluids,
'tis truly her most joyous treasure.


© Pagan Paul (10/10/17)

.
Isolation explored and typified
by the corona of the sun,
forever within touching distance,
but never to be as one.

An absence of a true connection
exists between the pattern,
loneliness drifting in deepest space,
distant like the rings of Saturn.


© Pagan Paul (08/10/17)

.
Pain.

Like sliding down bannisters
made from razor blades.

Like bathing in rose bushes,
swimming in broken glass.

I bought an Emo lawn.
It cuts itself.

Because I'm too busy ...

... cutting Me.



© Pagan Paul (04/10/17)

.
Come! Come! One and all,
come to my woodland hall,
attend ye all mid-winters ball,
in friendship harken to my call.

Paths awash with candle light,
in the branches burning bright,
such an enchanting magical sight,
to guide you gentle through the night.

Friends with whom to drink and eat,
cuddled warm in a sylvan heat,
while dancers fling to keep the beat,
songs are sung, lovers meet.

And by a fire in a little glade,
words are spoken, promises made,
the Bonding tree with hearts displayed,
brings memories that will never fade.

.

And when the party is at an end
I'll lovingly embrace my dearest friend,
and quieter than what lies beneath,
whisper sweet poetry to my Lady Leaf.


© Pagan Paul (04/10/17)

.
A shepherd gently tends his flocks,
on the night of the Autumn equinox.
Patiently guarding his wayward sheep,
as the Oak King prepares for sleep.

And the Holly King from slumber wakes,
with solemnity his tired head he shakes.
Then joyous laughter he openly roars,
his half year reign once more restored.

Guiding all Nature to a bed of rest,
to energise, regrow, is his duty quest.
Bringing his peace and tranquility serene,
for the comfort of his bridal Queen.

For She is Nature, there all year long,
loved and celebrated in many a song.
No greater love could She invoke,
her two wild husbands, Holly and Oak.

So Oak pens his warm Summer verse,
and Holly writes of cold Winters' worst.
Her heart draped upon their royal thrones,
bringing joy to this eternal Game of Poems.


© Pagan Paul (03/10/17)

.
I'm sure you know this scene,
its set inside your dream.
A stage set for the apprentice
dressed up like a little princess.

An actress, moon-draped in pearl,
lighting up your fantasy world.
A satin curtain opens the play,
as the crowd settles, holds their stay.

Enter stage left, turn and smile,
close your eyes and dream a while.
Delivering lines to warm applause,
a powerful ******, the audience roars.

Now rest in sleep, and be content,
its all over, your performance spent.


© Pagan Paul (2016/2017)