Pagan Paul

Pagan Paul Feb 2019

.
Do you remember when time stood still
skipping naked, happy, upon Spring Hill?
Warm westerlies, do rebirth dominate,
brushing the flowers, each one to pollinate.

Do you remember when time stood still
running naked, joyful, upon Summer Hill?
Hot south wind, sun growth it gifts,
providing life, as Nature's head it lifts.

Do you remember when time stood still
walking naked, tired, upon Autumn Hill?
Cool easterlies, the harvest to reap,
just preparing, waiting, for the annual sleep.

Do you remember when time stood still
laying naked, spent, upon Winter Hill?
Chill north wind, the snows to bring,
patient listening, to the universe sing.

Do you remember when time stood still
exposed and naked upon Season's Hill?
No rain, no sun, no wind nor breeze,
could disturb the silence of the Trees.

© Pagan Paul (2019)

.

#tree #hill #seasons #poetry #love #nature

Pagan Paul Jan 2019

Note to the Milkman (10W)

.
No milk today.
Please tell the cows its nothing personal.

© Pagan Paul (27/01/19)

.
Silly one :)
.

#poetry #10w #milkman #cows

Pagan Paul Jan 2019

Slip Away

.
O where doth he wander my love,
the genius in cloth of the fool,
disappears with a wave of his motley glove,
and exits with the laugh of the cruel.

O where doth he roam my dear,
the costumed professor of musing,
a snap of his fingers, off he clears,
and leaves without permissive excusing.

Where doth he wander and where doth he roam?
He is upon a path so very far from home.
Look, see, his feet fall on shards of mica stone,
and the stars are all writing his story tome.

Where doth he roam and where doth he wander?
He is upon a path promising insanity yonder.
Look, see, take a moment to think and ponder,
is he an outcast or a willing absconder?

O where did he go my sweet,
the flaw that showed his cracks,
he left so quiet and incomplete,
the man who may never come back.

© Pagan Paul (27/01/19)

.

#poetry #slip #away #fool #broken

Pagan Paul Jan 2019

Song of the Great Mother

.
On the old porch outside her room
she sits a'spinning on her loom,
weaving memories of times long gone,
gently singing a Native song.
Of rivers running on the plains
swollen from the mountain rains,
of the deserts endless sands,
and of toil with calloused hands.
She sang of buffalo and of bear,
of a paradise for all to share,
she also sang of the forests deep
and of where wolves go to sleep.
Her song dies away like a friend
when her spinning is at its end.
The Great Mother retires in silent gloom
and snuffs out the candles in her room.
Thus stilling the night of a Woman's Moon.

© Pagan Paul (28/01/19)

.

#poetry #native #song #earth #mother #moon

Jan 2019

Robin Carretti

Birth Fingers

Start out baby paint
Hands inquisitive
So relative just live
Fingers baby prints
Cherubs to stirrups
Crying than smiling
Or going frantic

The womb over the
"Atlantic Ocean"

Her spell fingers
Has the potent
She's about to faint
The blessing their lifeline
So quaint love yourself
From birth

You're the Saint*

Art fingers bunked
into God

The world of modern
Click of the fingers
Her smartphone
Her gift of gab tone
Cute pup labs left
alone? I phone and apps

Her lips start to shrink
Does life truly stink
US debt dark ages
Her art fingers walk the
yellow pages
The triple play bait
Truly her unique trait

She's the honest most
sincere wife
And poems are her life

A birth what do you think
within the time so sublime
Light as a baby feather in
any weather birth gets beyond
better
A magical place admiring the love
Mother and Father with fingers like Grace

Birth fingers hearts linger how we were born to know its a natural thing
Creation and the masterpiece a love like no other begins

#spiritual #nature #fingers #poem #of #love

Pagan Paul Jan 2019

No Way Out

.
Cohesion has been fragmented,
merely an old dissolved memory.
A shroud darker than pitch black
heralds the omni-directional strangler,
seeking to crush the fragile neck
and slowly asphyxiate the minds reality.

The turbulence of mute non-existence,
trapped in an endless glass sphere,
a cold snow-globe paper weight,
screaming for the end of the world.
Terror dissipates all common sense,
the inner head explodes and implodes.

A wracked skeleton of fevered flesh,
the violated remains,
beautiful and torn,
left,
when the butterflies of darkness
******
the fire.

© Pagan Paul (2017/19)

.

#poetry #depression #sad #anxiety #****** #fire #butterflies

Pagan Paul Jan 2019

Sadness Borne Deep

.
A ghost walking the day
like a spy upon a dream,
she stares out of a window
arrayed in black bombazine.
Hair tinged with a little grey,
such sadness she bears alone,
drifting through the quiet rooms
of a cold and empty home.
Saving her love for loneliness,
wrapped in an airy husk,
night cannot come to soon
and the veil fall with dusk.

© Pagan Paul (21/01/19)

.

#poetry #sadness #loneliness #ghost #detachment