Yes, this may be the crime of the century,
the solution Watson is elementary.
He did it! You see that's not so very hard,
so be a dear chap and inform Scotland Yard.

I am bored with this detective endeavour,
I am tired of being so ****** clever.
Sod it! And eternal damnation to all
I'll just wait for the House of Usher to fall.

Why? You ask my reference to Mr Poe.
It's this apathy that is starting to grow.
I cannot be bothered with all this tripe,
so Watson please fetch my violin and pipe.

The melancholy sound of a trumpet seeks refuge in the night,
as a snare is brushed gently and cymbal tapped light,
the far away strum of a guitars soft dreamy strings,
playing the music that compliments what a lone voice sings.

Cigarette smoke hangs heavy like fog on the old river,
the ****** sit at the bar sipping bourbon hand delivered,
the romantics dance on a floor that whispers charms,
planning their moves with the lover held in their arms.

The street light barely penetrates the grubby glass,
the bar winds down as yet another night goes passed,
customers sway at tables as they embrace a cloak
of the heady scent and high effect of marijuana smoke.

Winter is again upon me,
I stand at the window
and stare through scenes
of frost and falling snow.

An ache ascends through,
knotting from a dark core,
rising up like a free spirit
congealing lumpen in my throat.

I feel the chill creeping,
rub my arms and shudder,
the fire is burning so low,
and my eyes see dying embers.

The desire to stoke is dulled,
by apathy frozen in time,
my eyes turn to stare
through frost and falling snow.

1.
Nervous, her senses open and ready,
sitting in the shadows on full alert.
Her cubs are playing at hunting
and the ***** is seriously being mother.
They tumble and roll in the dust,
career and jump through the grass.
And she just waits for danger,
any sign that all is not well.
There is a crash and noisome grinding
as two cars collide on the main road.
She cannot see through the wooden panels
but the sound has her really spooked,
so she issues out a short bark
calling her cubs to run and hide.
They are soon away and gone
and a rat darts across the waste land.


2.
I bet you all know cone man.
He is the focused possessive  type.
He makes sure that his cones are straight
and in the correct position to work.
You see cone man is the obsessive fool
that puts out cones on the street.
He forgets that his property stops at his gate,
that the road belongs to everyone.
But he must have his own parking space,
his self-righteous right to park outside his home.
I wonder if he is aware?
Aware that he is breaking the law.
Private individuals are not licensed
to place cones out on the public highway.
Of course he is not aware.
He is to wrapped up in his ownership delusion.

3.
Kink. There is a kink in the hose.
That is what she should be told.
No! Don't point the nozzle at your face.
How can anyone be so stupid?
She eventually sees the kink and twists it.
The freed water erupts forcefully,
it soaks her slippered foot.
Seemingly uncaring or unaware
she starts on the climbing rose
and the cultivated bluebells beneath.
Slowly she waters the borders
then turns to look at the pots of flowers,
arranged with planters and an old sink
on the ancient cracked paving slabs.
Again the water subsides to a dribble.
Kink. There is a kink in the hose.

4.
He was running down the street.
Panic and fear on his face.
He was about to learn a hard lesson.
That selling drugs on the street
is a prison sentence waiting to happen.
The chasing blue light and siren
screeches up and stops with a bang.
He hops over a low wall
and realises that he is now cornered.
He makes a bold effort to run
so gets firmly pinned down on the grass.
The men in blue arrest him
and he is led back to the pavement.
The police car cannot move
its tyre had hit the kerb and punctured.
The suspect is taken away by another car
and disappears off into the justice system.
A lone officer is left and taps at his phone
casually leaning on the crippled cars bonnet.

I remember April.
Like a month of Sundays in the 1970's,
because Time lacked function,
passing more or less unnoticed.

I remember War.
Local violence in the aisles of consumerism,
because paper was currency,
passing more or less casually.

I remember Skies.
Crystal clear blue with no blemish,
because Nature stepped up,
passing more or less unfettered.

I remember Peace.
Like peace had never been known before,
because quiet reigned supreme,
passing more or less silently.

I remember Me.
Emerging from fog into a new world,
because I felt completely lost,
passing more or less phantomly.

I remember April.
Like dark nights of eternity in a coffin,
because Time didn't move,
passing more or less unnoticed.


(Sept '20 & Oct '23)

The other day I recognised Anubis
walking down the street smoking cannabis,
soon joined by his good friend Thoth
who was strangely disguised as a moth.

The jackal headed one fell into crisis
and cried out for his mother Isis,
who, puzzled, said she didn't get this
and called for her sister Nepthys.

But this was beyond even her art
so they summoned their cousin Maat,
She said only one could conspire this
blame must lay with the Lord Osiris.

Then up popped the hawkish Horus
to join his voice to the growing chorus,
followed in shadows by his brother Set
who hadn't a clue what was happening yet.

An angry Osiris appears with lips a'froth
denying he transformed Thoth into a moth,
this magic only one deity has mastered
so you can blame that ****** cat Bast..


Pagan Paul (02/10/23)

Have you noticed they are at it again?
Idiocy, insults, back biting and *******.
Infancy in a petulant mood shouting
'cant cook, won't cook, shan't cook'.

And the recipe :-

Take one ex-minister (slightly embittered).
Fold through with a poison pen (neither retractable nor redactable).
Add a pinch or two of smouldering resentment.
Allow to stew and ferment for about 12 weeks.
Then warm through with  an almond glaze of scorn
and liberally spread over several pages of resignation.
Finally wrap in a filou of vellum, and seal.

An ideal meal if you feel that your line manager
really needs a punch filled packed lunch.
And don't forget to garnish and serve with leaks
to the press and media.
Enjoy your meal Prime Minister!

Warning: This recipe contains home truths, scathing criticism,
ambition, nuts, betrayal, regret and crocodile tears.

I was going to bring my pet hamster tonight.
Anyone met my pet hamster - Picasso?
He is an impressionist.
No, honestly he does all the other rodents :-
Mice, rats, capybara, Donald Trump, Prince Andrew, all of them.
Unfortunately I couldn't bring him,
because he died this afternoon.
He fell asleep at the wheel.

.
I lay down on a bed of petals
I lay down on the flowers scent
I lay down on a bed of petals
I saw my Spirit and where it went

I lay down on a mossy carpet
I lay down on the forest floor
I lay down on a mossy carpet
I feel my Spirit was here before

I lay down on an icy glacier
I lay down on the frozen ground
I lay down on an icy glacier
I know my Spirit can be found.

Pagan Paul (25/09/22)

I was sitting in the waiting room at my GP surgery and noted that there was a distinct lack of reading material provided. Just a couple of leaflets about ****** and a few old Mills & Boon paperbacks.

Mills & Boon, a very strange corner of fiction indeed. A strange corner in which the sight of a ladies bare ankle can cause a dashingly handsome cavalry officer to positively swoon with desire. A strange corner where the mere use of the word 'hosepipe' can cause a nun to blush. A strange corner in which the heaving ***** of an 80 year old great aunt causes palpitations and sweat gland problems for her even older gardener.

Mills & Boon is a very strange corner of fiction indeed. A strange corner that makes Austen and the Bronte sisters  look like purveyors of ****** ****.

I reach for the leaflets, and wait.

I was walking here tonight and saw a billboard with an advertisement for a communications company with the strap line:
'Connects 100 devices in your home'.
'Connects 100 devices in your home'.
I'm sorry but if you have 100 devices in your home you deserve to get hacked.
'Connects 100 devices ...' and what are these devices?
This is my fridge freezer, its connected to the wi-fi, it Tweets me whenever I have the unmitigated audacity to have the door open for more than 3 seconds.
This is my washing machine, its connected to the wi-fi, it emails me when its cycle is complete, even if I'm stood next to it doing the washing-up.
This is my carriage clock, its connected to the wi-fi, it Tic-Tocs me when it stops.
This is my games console, its connected to the wi-fi.
This is my television, its connected to the wi-fi.
This is my stereo system, its connected to the wi-fi.
This is my central heating, its connected to the wi-fi.
This is my dog. Its collar is connected to the wi-fi.
What next? This is my *** toy, its connected to the wi-fi, it gives me pretty graphs on Facebook.

(To audience: From that reaction I'll conclude that that last bit is already out of date. You naughty naughty people!)

Pagan Paul (April 2022)

.
Poems are plush curtains,
of words,
pulled together
to hide the world
from the raw emotion
that flows
out of a writer
casting pearls.


© Pagan Paul (14/02/21)

.
Someone is waiting behind an unlocked door,
peek around the frame and tell me what you saw.
I am a little bit too scared to take a look,
like turning a page in an old horror book.

You see it may be someone who likes me
and that is dangerous for stability.
The hands are motionless on a timeless clock,
it would be easier if they would just knock.

In theory there is nothing I want more
than someone waiting behind an unlocked door.
I've rehearsed this scene so many times before,
but here and now there is a storm at my core.

It ties up the insides like thick knotted hair,
the thought, the fear, that there is nobody there.
So the man in the corner whom most ignore
has someone waiting behind an unlocked door.

But the uncertainty has its own high cost,
as the door locks shut and the moment is lost.

© Pagan Paul (14/02/21)

.
I lay here coiled foetal
in my cold cot of nightmare,
the candle that canutes the dark
has long since dimmed and died.

In but a few short hours
the **** will welcome the Dawn,
In but a few short hours
my wracked shivering frame will rise.

And frozen in the deepest night
I stare into the middle distance,
my eyes daring the still darkness
to intrude on my personal space.
But my minds eye blinks once
and I travel far far away,
back through the lonely years
to my tender sixteenth winter.
Directed and ordered to leave
I faced the cold day with all hope,
as gambolling in my ears,
voices of angry authority play.

The cities arms embraced me,
wrapped me in the mantle of adulthood.
A cooper? A Baker? An Iron-smith?
Nay! For me the cloak of the Fool.
And the Court of a Lord called,
capricious capering for entertainment.
Music. Poetry. Stories. Vitriol.
From song to spit spanning an eve.
I amuse the transient courtiers,
fake love, fake hate in delicate balance,
kiss the feet then stab the heart
and the duplicity is just an act.

In but a few short hours
the night will welcome them all.
In but a few short hours
the darkness will claim their souls.

Saints and shadows now sleep
in soft warm beds of feather-down,
the bones of feasting lay cold
like the dead ash in the inglenooks,
and their minds wander through dreams
that no scribe may steal.

The focus of my madness fades
as the horizon is neatly sliced
by a shiver from the sun,
my eyes watch the darkness retreat.
I release a long-held breath
that I stole at the Dusk of a day,
of a yesterday that matters no more,
to embrace the new day with hope.

I confess.
To the moment of Dawn:
I said the duplicity is just an act.
I lied.
And now … I may sleep.


© Pagan Paul (14/02/21)

.
The vessel was empty. It was always empty.
The vessel was a body. A Nobody.
Too young to fend for itself yet abandoned to face
the onslaught of a life unprepared for.
It was a satellite, a burden, an unwanted encumbrance
upon the lives of those that spawned it.
Those that should guide, educate, encourage and love.

The emptiness had begun early
and grown into a void of isolated disfunction.
The ship of emotion sailing into a dark sunset
and the cold loneliness of night seeps easy
into the vessel already devoid and senseless.

There had been early years but forgotten
were the vessels memories and experiences.
An era of ancient history with no notations,
undocumented and lost in the ether.
No sense of belonging or conformity
were instilled by those meant to teach.
Instead the blind vessel gropes dangerously
around a world unfamiliar.
To make sense of existence.
To justify its worth.

But worth is subjective.
Of no worth to its peers it protects itself
absorbing the cloak of the worthless.
A litany harshly reinforced by cruelty
dealt out by the tongues of resentful tormentors.

And so left to its own devices
attachment becomes an arbitrary concept.
The revolving door  of brief and useless association.
Meaningful liaisons few and far between
as its walls provide protection from feeling hurt.
So the vessel was a body. A Nobody.
And the vessel was empty. It was always empty.
Always... always... empty.


© Pagan Paul (Aug 2020)

.
She walked slow through Her home the forest
loving the feelings that made Her laugh,
when a strange shiny thing caught Her eye,
Her first ever sight of a photograph.

She bent to pick up the new object,
its smoothness feeling nice on Her skin,
at first She saw the reverse blank page
then She stared at a picture of Him.

What fey enchantment could well capture
an image of so handsome a man?
She stared at His face with mute wonder
as an owl hoots and the sky grows wan.

Slipping it into Her warm bodice
finely laced on Her long dress of green,
she smiles and meanders to shelter
thoughts of Him into Her mind did teem.


He and friend Tia were out walking
with Tem the dog around the big wood,
a rare visit He was paying her,
filling up the day as best they could.

A memory of that day she took
as good fortune offered her the chance,
a secret photograph she stole when
He stopped to watch a butterfly dance.

Slipping it into her skirt pocket,
a polaroid keepsake gained by farce.
But as they walked on her skirt wavered,
the picture fell to lay on the grass.

Unnoticed the wind blew it away
landing it in a glade so shady,
and the picture of Him lay face down
until found by the forest Lady.


Daughter of Nature She roamed the trees,
His image She held with growing need.
A wise face that looked kind and gentle,
enough to make Her lonely heart bleed.

She reached for Her paints and easel,
pinned His image to a wooden frame,
touching her pencil to reed paper
she sketch copied for to know His name.

The sketch layered into a drawing,
Her hands moving deftly and with skill,
to capture His form and His likeness
with every fibre of Her will.

She paints around Him filling detail,
background grass, the butterfly and trees.
Delicately Her brush touches Him,
strokes building His image by degrees.


He closed His tired eyes and heavy yawned
laying in the guest bed for to sleep,
the cry of the forest calls to Him,
the feeling to answer draws Him deep.

His mind begins to wander away
on its night journey it does embark,
sliding into the open dream world
as an owl hoots and the sky grows dark.


As an owl hoots and the sky grows dark
She completes the last stroke of the brush.
She steps back to view Her painted man,
a brief panic hits Her with a rush.

A brief panic hits Him with a rush,
he started then slow opened His eyes.
He found He was in a woodland glade
getting brighter under clearing skies.

She started then opened Her eyes,
He stood there made flesh and oh so real,
He stared at Her face with mute wonder
and watched as Her smile She did reveal.

Staring silently at each other
they stood in the glade cool and shady.
He smiled back at Her with eyes and mouth,
and He spoke soft “Greetings my Lady”.


© Pagan Paul (25/07/20)