.
Two lines of cold grey cottages stand,
like decaying teeth in the mouth of Hades.
Grim acknowledgement to a long dead past,
monuments to the what if's and maybes.

A dark stain on the undergrowth of Nature,
the mud filled pond reeks of sick disease.
Brick and concrete tumble down slowly,
as She reclaims land in shallow degrees.

But peace and tranquility live here now,
under the pall of a decomposing host.
Trees grow, birds sing and flowers bloom,
perhaps to entertain the departing ghosts.



© Pagan Paul (2017)

.
I hear my hair growing,
my being dancing,
like a candle flame,
black, illuminating nothing.

I smell my heart beating,
my mind flickering
like a promiscuous eye,
invitingly void and delicious.

I ******* stomach churning,
my moods changing,
like a pupating monster,
waiting in the pitch dark.


© Pagan Paul (26/12/17)

.
The branches of the trees bend and sway
as the breeze plays its tickling games.
Sitting beneath the mighty Oak
he closes his eyes and drifts back home.
His thoughts, like his arrows, true,
finding its destination with consummate ease.
A figure, a face, a smile, he sees.
The portrait of Her.
Burning a cold image in his mind.
An alien sound he hears, and startles,
intruding on his moment of reverie.
A bird lands on a tree, close,
giving him the eye, akin to the intelligent
stare of the capricious corvid.
It whistles and takes flight
calling him to follow.
Thoughts of Her portrait, now wisps of smoke,
disappear as intrigue beckons.
Insistent chirping, the clever eye,
leads him hither and thither,
ever away from home.
Caught in the enchantment, of following the Never bird.....

The mist crawls and curdles and climbs
in a rising, coalescing film of fog.
To befuddle the unwary, alone in the Trees.
His nerves, his eyes, captivated
as the Never bird commands attention.
Leading him on, deeper.
Home is but a distant sigh in his heart,
ignored with intensity, unloved.
The journey steps take him far, wayward
with no direction, no destination.
Singing sweet, swooping swift
the bird stops. Disappears into the gloom,
not once looking back, abandoning he who followed.
Lost. So very lost. So very lost.
Moments fly, rustling, footfalls, an apparition.
A Goddess of beauty unveils herself,
and steps, soft and gentle into the light.
Enraptured he takes her into his arms,
they sink and rut like animals, primal,
on the cool mossy carpet.
Banished are the thoughts and portraits.
Caught in the enchantment, of loving the Never bird.....

The cobalt sky in a haze of heat
swirls about before his eyes.
Laying beneath a Mighty Oak.
Goose-bumped skin. Alone.
He wakes. The forest still and silent.
His thoughts like drunken dogs
blurred by memories that excite and disturb.
The Portrait of Her.
Awakening a fuzzy, picture in his mind.
Scanning the trees, the lady is gone,
and missing is the Never bird.
Unknown magiks have been worked on him,
he felt, rather than observed.
The sigh in his heart for home, broke forth,
strange noises burst the mood.
The ache in his heart,
constrained within by abnormal form,
teetered on the edge of pain, sorrow.
A song of hope escapes, a decision made,
as wisps of smoke form a Portrait.
He spreads his wings,
caught in the enchantment, of being the Never bird.



© Pagan Paul (2016/2017)

.
She sits upon the cold grey stone,
waiting for he whom she craves,
counting down the longest moments,
perched beside the Ancient Grave.

Soon he will be wooing her,
making her heart swell like a wave,
taking her safely into his arms,
standing beside the Ancient Grave.

So entwined shall the lovers be,
to each a love they willingly gave,
naked and intimate in complete ecstasy,
laying beside the Ancient Grave.

And when its time to part again,
it would surely sadden the brave,
she watches until he disappears,
and settles into her Ancient Grave.


© Pagan Paul (20/12/17)

.
Gold Finch on a tree,
she sings with sweet clarity,
gifting joy to me.
.


© Pagan Paul (20/12/17)

.

The special speculative speculum
examined an orifice one day.
Upon its initial inspections
it was clearly heard to say

'I've been in some holes before
but this one takes the biscuit.
I should go in a little deeper
but don't know if I should risk it.
For there is a blockage here,
one I would rather not disturb.
I should really try to describe it
but I am struggling to find a verb.
It was always going to happen,
one day it would come to pass,
when in would walk a patient
with his head stuck up his ****'.


© Pagan Paul (14/12/17)