.
Kalypso sports within the waves
luring sailors to watery graves
but if they make it to her isle
there they may tarry for a while.

Food and wine are given a'plenty,
they are rocked into lust so gently,
Nymph, Maidens, Bacchanalian revelry
lead the sailors into darkest devilry.

*** and sin are openly displayed,
a salacious procession, ***** parade,
And all men their vices expressed
seek the comfort of Kalypso's breast,
her hospitality soothes, allays their fears
as she slowly steals away their years.



© Pagan Paul (05/12/18)

.
The Moon doesn't love me anymore,
she may even have forgotten I exist.
Just a phantom roaming the Earth,
a mere trick of an eye in the mist.



© Pagan Paul (29/11/18)

I thank you all poets poetessess moderators this thanks giving.
To one or two foe serpents in my paradise writing uglily to me on HP, I am sorry I had to block you and your friends since I am highly intuitive.
One of you posing as female sent me to your page drawing a page full of scissors! without a word in it very cruel sadistic of her an old poisonous snake from my old paradise hanously destructive. Another a female wrote mocking a woman aborting her child!! Abortion is legal to me only if medically adviced.
Grow a brain write, don't mock or judge me. The only child I aborted was one whose heart had stoped due to massive antibiotic dose prescribed by a butcher because MD he was not. That was my missfortune and your oportunity.
What is it to you anyway to write to me derrogatorily so?. It happened in my teens! Long ago. ENOUGH!
I had to block you. I am highly intuitive and gifted first pure blood RHO negative.
I know it's you even when you hide masked behind this HP mirrors.
Please make peace with your ghosts, head voices or seek medical psychiatric help, many of you need it. Poetry isn't to mock hate assault the mind heart and soul of fellow men and women who communicate beautifully even in their distress but evil won't be rewarded or tolerated not by me, if you play your holier than me role.

Theres plenty malice where I am no need for me to pay monthly to be cursed on here.
Please spread love, live life forgive yourself be genuine, share your true life experiences, instead of looking who to dishonor and hate.
For the one or two females who created an account just to spread evil grow a heart a brain and then tell us how you did it.
we might even apreciate your courage to share!
My past love life with wealthiest elite true love, sweetheart soulmate, twin flame isn't any of your business.

G* d, and cause and effect in the universe are my only judges not a malignant infective fungus poor excuse, a human **** like yourselves who tried to defile me unprovoqued undeserved and unsolicited.
You are forgiven and loved still but I had to block you. I don't reward or ignore destructive behaviors.
To all genuine poets moderators and poetessess be well
Happy Thanks giving this November 2018.
All the best to you all

As for killing a turkey,
for six years now, I forgive the turkey and spared it's life but I still have fun eating all other delights of season's greetings.

also I love and pamper myself
I am my own best friend
so that loving, tolerating and understanding others becomes that much easier and enjoyable.

.
A cloud falls from the sky,
a lead balloon of precipitation,
and cuddles the ground
like a long lost lover.
Dripping its cargo,
shedding tears along the way,
leaving a trail of damp memory
and a calm balm
for the Earth.

And a candle flickers
on a lonely table,
as a pen drifts across lines,
filling meaningless words
that never
convey the depths of separation.
The flame flares
as a waft, a draft,
creeps in a crack under the door,
adding a poignant touch
to the melancholy of atmosphere.
Gripping the pen with delicate unease,
the hubbub drowns inwards,
doubt rises in ascendancy,
the pen falls,
like a discarded relationship,
and the meaningless words
stop.



© Pagan Paul (21/11/18)

.
Feint is the Muse,
that looks upon me,
challenging my existence
with deep baleful interest.
Its struggles hard
to contain its indifference
at the mere mortality
that I conduct.
And conduct I do.
As melody takes
centre stage
in a flight of fancy,
constrained by rhythm
temperate, steady,
and insistent.
The cadenced beat
of skins keeping time
to a fanfare of sound.
But my voice is silent,
conspicuous by its absence,
in mute violation
of speechless freedom.
The words won't come,
no song message birthed
for altruism
nor benefit of composition.
The flight of fancy stalls
and gently rocks in a cradle
of anticipation.
Rhythm drops to a meagre
pelvic twitch,
insistence foregone and forgotten
in a cynical parody
of the vocal deficiency.
Velvet drapes lick
the wooden floor stage,
and the performance
has just begun.



© Pagan Paul (14/11/18)