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  Oct 2017 Pagan Paul
Lora Lee
in this
pocketful
        of limbo
          the distance rises
               in curls of smoke
        a prairie fire
siphoning into
crisp edge
           of forest
          Inside my
uncloaked ventricle
primeval forces
turn my blood into
dusted gold
as they pump
        sacred texts
into my oxygen
      They roll your quintessence
upon my fingers,
            playing inside
     my psyche's  
wild ache
a spread of orifice
in spellbound mantra,
       as I spit out
          the
            hairy thorns,
a holy purge of
   internal
        engravings
    
Somehow ---
like a miracle,
I grow ripe seedlings
from deep within
            my womb
as I trip into
a universe rising
I take wisps
of your grace
as it brushes
the jut of my
astral collarbone
You are always
         grounding me
                    like this,
               my tongue
              tripping
         over velvet
stance of warrior
        assuaged into silk
    
        Without you,
I might be
whisked off into
the periphery
of chaos
but instead
       I am simply
tied to
      the urgency
of the little novas
about to
        explode

While I wait
            I tend to
              the wildfires.
     to make sure they
                   are still burning
I keep my honey
wet and fresh
upon your
                   lips,
let my pores
drip moonpools
    into your glistening
wet of mouth
and only when
          it is time
I let the whole of
           me burst
into the
      fire -wrapped
tips of
   stars
suits the mood!!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pqnMkUcTmys
Pagan Paul Oct 2017
.
O' Widow of the Worlds, embrace thy darkest hours.
Breathe evenings cold perfume, recall woods and flowers.

Glide proud amongst thy memories and foggy dreams,
pause pensive, gently pick a black rose for thy hair.
Give tears, settle 'pon thy fate as destiny deems,
walk through the mist and dissolve into the air.

At peace 'pon thy darkest hours,
sigh alone, a door to close,
sadness sleeps for all eternity,
the silent death of a rose.



© Pagan Paul (10/10/17)
.
Final poem of 'Rose' trilogy
.
Pagan Paul Oct 2017
.
It seems all around the world
something is happening to the girls.
The problem unto which I refer,
is their propensity to de-fur.

Deforestation is not so nice,
not for the humble ***** lice.
Extinction beckons for this bug,
for the want of a nice warm rug.

© Pagan Paul (2017)
.
Pagan Paul Oct 2017
.
O' Lady of the Forests, hold thy woodland form.
Smell blossoms sweet scent, calm within a storm.

Take umbrance through meadows and mighty trees,
pause delicate, gently pick a red rose for thy hair.
Hold a tear and muse 'pon thy children's pleas,
walk by sacred lakes and be one with the air.

And stood 'pon thy woodland form,
bleed love to all exposed,
pain becomes still until forever,
the silent blood of a rose.



© Pagan Paul (10/10/17)
.
Part 2 of 'Rose' Trilogy.
.
Pagan Paul Oct 2017
.
Random components in a broken box,
all there is of the jigsaw dreams.
Unaligned pieces distorting the picture,
a wooden tapestry split at the seams.
On the perimeter frame of insipid ice
molten images interlace in mist,
reaching for completion, a solid visage,
defying the puzzle a right to exist.


© Pagan Paul (09/10/17)
.
Pagan Paul Oct 2017
.
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)
.
Part 1 of 'Rose' trilogy.
.
Pagan Paul Oct 2017
.
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)
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