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Feb 2021 · 933
Pagan Paul Feb 2021
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)
Feb 2021 · 859
Melancholy Promise (10W)
Pagan Paul Feb 2021

Tomorrow it will be better.

You'll see.

You'll see.

© Pagan Paul (14/02/21)
Feb 2021 · 503
Pagan Paul Feb 2021
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)
Feb 2021 · 382
Fool's Diary 7
Pagan Paul Feb 2021
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)
Sep 2020 · 603
The Vessel
Pagan Paul Sep 2020
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)
Aug 2020 · 462
In Loving Memory
Pagan Paul Aug 2020
One One Seven Three Four Seven Six,
numbers written on little wood sticks,
markers on the graves of lower cost,
in the cemetery of the lost.

War, poverty, famine and disease
fill up the plots with apparent ease,
interred underneath the disposessed,
paupers, orphans, all neatly addressed.

Lives tabulated after living,
filed by the devout unforgiving,
so many pass with no claim to fame,
nobody ever remembers their names.

The poor have their final place to rest.
In Loving Memory, death undressed.

© Pagan Paul (26/08/20)
Jul 2020 · 604
The Painted Man
Pagan Paul Jul 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)
9 syllables per line.
Jul 2020 · 456
Pagan Paul Jul 2020
Upon tortured trails did Tandi go
weeping and wailing her wedded woe.
A burden for her to carry
for the man whom she did marry
was most violent and brutal
with no real morals nor scruples,
many blows she could not parry.

So she shot the source of her sadness
his gun giving both grief and gladness.
Whilst laying in his bed
a bullet in the head
ensured he was stone dead,
quiet now is his hate
gone beyond Hell's foul gate.

The limp lifeless legacy she left
bade boldness to bolt and be bereft.
So away she did flee
slipping into the night
her chance of being free
hiding out of plain sight
from those who find the body.

A horse she hounded and hurried fast
runs rapid in rain rinsing her past.
As memories slip away
she greets a promising day
smiling at the road ahead
the adventures she had said
were once only in her head.

Tandi toyed with travelling the lands
heart and harmony held in her hands.
With weather overcast
Riding away so fast
and although she has sinned
turns her face to the wind,
Hails the future at last.

© Pagan Paul (25/05/20)
A strange form of poetry.
!st 2 lines of each verse alliterative and rhyming.
Last 5 lines rhyming in different ways.
Jun 2020 · 665
Sentimental Walk
Pagan Paul Jun 2020
'Put your dreams into a bottle
and cast them away to the sea.
Let the tides carry them afar
then turn your back and forget me'.

The old lane meandered through the city
lined with stone walls, hedges and metal gates.
Out of the city it wended its way
to the site of many a fayre and fete.

On the edge of the field was an old mill
its waterwheel gone and timbers rotted.
But the stones of centuries stood up tall
around which vines of ivy were knotted.

It was here that I first saw her soft face
gliding from tree to tree shaking the leaves.
The mystery Lady from who knows where
dancing in the morning and misty eves.

A well worn path leads off down to a beach
a haven of beauty next to the sea.
As I felt the sand beneath my bare feet
I turned to see that she had followed me.

The mystery Lady from who knows where
smiled at me from behind her long dark hair.
Closing the gap across the warming sand
her slender fingers slip in to my hand.

Rock formations jut up to the blue sky
the scattered remnants of huge cliffs of stone.
Random sea shells pepper the shore line edge,
some flat and shallow, some shaped like cones.

Driftwood and kelp lay basking in the sun
in rhythmic notes the sea sings out her song.
I bend to pick up a blue glass bottle
finding that the girl had vanished and gone.

For this lack of attention I chided,
unlike the salt water I was angry.
Oh my manners appalled my very core
and I launched the bottle out to the sea.

The beach looked more deserted than forever
with its bleached driftwood and its flaccid kelp.
I saw the bottle arc through the still air,
as I turned I heard a whisper for help.

A glint from the blue glass in the bright sun
as it was swallowed by the ocean wide.
The mystery Lady from who knows where
sank below the white cap waves as she cried.

Heartbroken and sad I saw my dreams sink,
tears rose in my eyes and I turned my back.
Of a sudden the Lady fades from thought
and I re-traced our steps back to the track.

Thirty years to the day and to the time
I walk to the field down the old mill lane,
the many seasons have borne little change,
I dare to think of the Lady again.

But I truly knew I would not see her
shaking the leaves nor hiding in the green.
Still the melancholy hangs like a blind
of little glimpses of what might have been.

Stones on the old mill have crumbled away
and the feeding stream long since running dry.
I wander to the path down to the sea
and on to the spot where my Lady died.

Sat on a log toes buried in the sand
I think of what may well have come to pass,
and note with a deep sense of irony
my toe cut by shards of bottle blue glass.

This sentimental walk has reached its end,
retreating I turn my back to the sea.
The mystery Lady from who knows where
ever remains a mystery to me.

© Pagan Paul (29/05/20)
May 2020 · 480
Pagan Paul May 2020
An eagle lands,
as an Empire falls
into the dust of history,
its eye catches the sunset
and it takes to its roost.
Buildings smoke
and climbers climb.
The remnants of what was
clings on hopelessly
seeking to avoid the future.
The eagle closes its eyes
focusing on one lost image.
A fading dream
as the bird of freedom
slips meekly into a coma.
And the serpent of control
oozes in to replace common sense,
tightening the noose
that strangles the eagles legacy.

© Pagan Paul (22/05/20)
May 2020 · 1.1k
Pagan Paul May 2020
A month of Sundays intrudes darkly
upon a beautiful soft new Spring.
Casting the shadows of confusion,
growing hope for what Summer may bring.

© Pagan Paul (06/04/20)
May 2020 · 523
Fool's Rose
Pagan Paul May 2020
To hold my heart in delicate fingers
is to hold a fool's rose in your hands,
shed no tears upon its brittle petals,
cry not for the fool that notice demands.

Let it flow like water from your soft palms
to scatter and fall through holes in the dream,
free diving in the space of emotions,
the fool's rose once cut exits the last scene.

So take care next time you happen upon
a fool's rose betwixt the lines of a song,
handle with love for if you hold it wrong
it will take your heart and be quickly gone.

© Pagan Paul (01/04/20)
Apr 2020 · 418
Pagan Paul Apr 2020
Smoothly is an utopian dream
and therein lies the troubles,
we are all set upon our paths,
all individual bouncing bubbles.

Each and every one of us
has our own journey to tread,
and the differences in our bodies
are matched by those in our head.

So accept the person you are,
into your being melt and immerse,
ignore smooth, embrace the rough,
revel in the beauty of being diverse.

© Pagan Paul (16/04/20)
written for
Apr 2020 · 331
Senseless (Run Run Away)
Pagan Paul Apr 2020
It builds over time,
weeks and months go by,
the wave rising higher.
That urge to run run away.

To leave all behind and flee
from what is to come,
from what cannot be controlled
from the darkness
that threatens to overwhelm,
and drown the unstable stability
of exiting this time and space.
The necessity for escape
growing from a panicked seed
shivering in the mind,
unaware of the root of danger,
yet perceiving something.
Something that is really there
but intangible in mist,
waiting in the shadows to consume
the logical and the rational,
promoting the need to withdraw,
to isolate with stark completion in chaos.

If you cannot see the sense in senseless
then you are missing the point.
But when the point of reference shifts
then the less sense the sense makes.
Disassociation and detachment occur
driving before them a storm surge
of discord and confusion,
crashing through the thoughts of order,
losing perspective to a dark aftermath.

Trapped within a nervous disposition,
an out of kilter anxiety
and gambolling out of control
towards a stillness of vaccuum.

And then implosion.
The big bang on time lapse in reverse
as self- absorption takes hold
and the isolation task is completed,
pleasing greatly that urge to run run away.

© Pagan Paul (07/04/20)
Apr 2020 · 451
Pagan Paul Apr 2020
The orb sinks below an horizon,
through a ***** window
bowing out with all grace,
concluding another day
and I write.
A stream of conscious falls
and fills a page with woe,
my heart cradled in dark
as another wave of nausea
interrupts a pleasant dusk time.

The pen rests but itches to scrawl.
The words are counted there,
the order somewhat confused.
And slowly, slowly, cautious,
they flow with random airs.
The darkness of day's end
seeping into every phrase
without prejudice.

The number 2 in relief
inscribed upon a brass disc
reflects the dullness of evening,
styled like a swan
in a maudlin funeral pose.
The day scurries away,
grey clouds tumble above,
another quiet night beckons.
I taper light a candle
welcoming the flame as company.
The pen still lays silent,
The itch to scrawl spent,
Dreaming in the mist.

Horns call from the ether
floating through the mind,
as a quill dips ink
ready to be born and flourish
in a better world.
As the first word
is inscribed across the page,
the rest tumble race
to be arranged in neat rows,
to entice the eyes of readers.
The continue to flow
with increasing agony
in a far-seeing mind-scape.
The memories of time rise up,
breaking the fragile surface,
and over-run the quill pen.
Words fighting to get out
and be immortalised
upon a crisp white leaf page.
The fine strokes go on
until the thread ends.
But instantly picks up the next
and starts to weave and sew,
stitching another stream of words.
The tapestry starts to form,
an image for a story.
But the mist returns and coils
and the pen sleeps on.
Its dreams just wisps of smoke,
a candle snubbed and extinguished.

I stare at the redundant pen,
a white feather waiting.
I think of another story,
a white feather waiting.
A call to tickle the pages,
a white feather waiting.
But there is a spectre also,
the black ink of nightmare.

The pen dreams of eloquence,
I dream in the dark.
The pen wishes for permanence,
I wish for the spark.
Ignite me! Ignite me!
Don't try to fight me.
Ignite me! Ignite me!
Take words and write me.

Scribe my name across your heart and read,
words my pen writes and my mind bleeds.

© Pagan Paul (28/03/20)
Apr 2020 · 547
Morning High
Pagan Paul Apr 2020
Eyelids flicker, close again.
Then slowly part allowing focus.
The morning welcomes sleepy eyes
and a window beckons.
Light streams through
and the view is of Spring.

The sun up in the sky
brilliant and ablaze with life.
From one horizon to another
clear blue light hangs,
lazily draping the world
and not a vapour trail in sight.

Silence is no longer a pause
between bursts of open noise,
rather, noise is an intruder
hectoring the moments of peace.
Until the sleep dirt clears
and the chorus of birds singing
is in harmony with serenity,
complimenting the absence of sound.

Different light in hidden places
shine a hue of emerald green,
flecked with orange and yellow,
single rays of playful sunshine.
The streams of brilliance persist
like the radiance of a palette,
if the painter is Mother Nature
and the picture is crystal clear.

And sleep though only minutes gone
is a forgotten rest memory.
The dreams faded and passed on,
given free, as a gift to the night.

© Pagan Paul (25/03/20)
Mar 2020 · 452
Pagan Paul Mar 2020
Watch the morning tide
wash them all aside,
my castles by the shore
are gone forever more.

A billion grains of golden sand,
the remnants of my dreams,
float suspended in the current
and I drift along with them.
They in their watery solution,
me in the spaces of my mind.
The grains of sand sink and fade,
replaced by neon chain linked stars
and the sense of being completely empty,
not at all devoid. Just .. empty.
The floatation tank of loss
clasps the dreams with frigid fingers,
shrieking to be given its toy,
threatening never to open again.
But the Suns call from faraway skies
heralding to opine freedom,
release the fragments to individual broadcasts,
reaching out, out, out to the deep.
An umbilical tether for a fragile boat
is slipped to play adrift in a storm.
Letting go. Letting go.
Watch the morning tide wash them all aside.
Letting go.

I cast a mind spell,
wish them all farewell,
my castles in the sea
are evermore set free.

And my mind though now it be thought less
has no need of castles, for it is a fortress.

© Pagan Paul (15/03/20)
My 300th poem on hp!
Mar 2020 · 751
Pagan Paul Mar 2020
A speck on the horizon grows,
dark grey, foreboding and cruel,
stunting the sun's warm rays,
eclipsing the sky's perfect jewel.

Roiling clouds gather their skirts,
spewing across the azure blue,
spreading threads of droplet rain,
morphing the light into different hue.

Static is just the anticipation,
the excitement before the wonder,
the throb as high overhead
peels a belly roll of thunder.

© Pagan Paul (17/03/20)
Mar 2020 · 469
A Casual Glance at Vanity
Pagan Paul Mar 2020
You stand alone in a crowd,
fully clad and yet naked,
open to the scrutiny of others,
a target for acceptable prejudice.
Do you look like them?
Do you act like them?
Do you think like them?
Does your conformity make you like them?
The group, the herd.
Is their outer vanity enough
for you not to care what they think?
The truth is that vanity
is not tangible.

The outward manifestation of thought,
thought that nibbles at the edges of reason,
invading and undermining confidence,
an acceptable target for prejudice.
Do they like me?
Am I of their kind?
What are they thinking?
Does my confusion make me like them?
Part of the crowd.
Is my inner vanity sufficient
for me to not care what they think?
The truth is that vanity
is transitory.

© Pagan Paul (29/02/20)
Feb 2020 · 1.2k
Last Night
Pagan Paul Feb 2020
Last night
she said I was cold.
Surrounded in a halo of frost.
It burnt her fingers
as she dared to touch,
but there was little there.
Just … frost-bite,
and the sense
that she was alone in the room.
In body I was there,
but the Boat of Millions of Years
was sailing through my eyes
to the intended destination,
my lost mind.
She called to me
but I was to far to hear.
Down her soft cheeks
the tears did stream,
as she screamed my name
over and over.
She screamed until
the screams turned to sobs,
as the slow realisation
that I no longer knew her,
knew me, knew anything,
hit her like a wave of grief,
freezing her emotions dead.
Last night
she said I was cold.
And I was cold
because I knew that it was
our Last Night.

© Pagan Paul (16/02/20)
Feb 2020 · 502
She Turns The Wheel
Pagan Paul Feb 2020
She appears in the dawn mists of Autumn,
in yellows and gold, in reds and in browns,
painting shades and hues, Nature's decorum,
blushing the trees in her fine harvest gowns.

Dispensing her bounty for all to reap,
walking so confident through woodland scenes,
she prepares the trees for their Winter sleep
with distant thought of leaves and shoots new green.

Come Spring she wears riotous colour dress
in purple and mauve, a spectrum of blues,
showing reds and yellows, pinks to impress,
attracting the eyes to see as they choose.

In summer she arrives in hazy days
basking in new warmth, eager to be shown,
naked to the Sun, exposed to its rays,
Nature's beautiful daughter now full grown.

© Pagan Paul (09/02/20)
Lord of Green Series - Poem 17
Finally a new Lord of Green poem!
Jan 2020 · 528
Night Train to Dawn
Pagan Paul Jan 2020
The goods trains roll on by,
passing my window at night
and I wonder, wonder,
where are you going to?
May I come?
May I lay back slowly
and let you take me somewhere?
Anywhere but now.
For here I lay
counting the rhythmic pulses
of iron wheels on iron rails.
As goods trains roll on by.

I need to feel in my bones
these rhythmic pulses
like temperate rain on tin roofs
soothing the beat of a heart.
I want to go and to expand,
to flow through the world
at an even metronomic pace,
to find a place of balance.

And my inner eye like a clipper
sails into the void of dreams,
yet, somehow, more real to me
as I watch myself explore.
Teasing out the dark corners,
bringing light to their inherent terrors
and exposing myself to fears.
But who's fears?

Individual pieces or the whole puzzle?
Pieces missing, the puzzle incomplete.
Its hidden away in my mind
disjointedly interlocking around holes.

I wrote about my sanctuary.
A special garden in a special forest,
providing me with safety
for when the holes become to large.
To this retreat I speed
when the sensory input overloads,
blows a fuse or severs a link
to the circuit of attachment
and fractures the edges of the puzzle,
scattering the composite pieces.
The further dislocation of logic
as I sit in my sanctuary and weep.

And through tears I can see
light flooding in to me,
the blush of morning sky
as goods trains roll on by.

© Pagan Paul (30/01/20)
Jan 2020 · 434
Old Crow
Pagan Paul Jan 2020
I yearn for a lark
in a National Park
to land upon my shoulder.

I ache for a bird
with a secret word
to make me a little bolder.

Were I a peacock
to show what I've got
I may feel a little less colder.

But I'm an old crow
with no place to go
now that I am getting older.

© Pagan Paul (31/12/19)
Jan 2020 · 305
Pagan Paul Jan 2020
There is a presence here,
can't you feel it crackling
through the evening air?
Creeping into the mind
as an invasion by consent.

A candle flame flickers
as an errant string thrums,
a note of announcement
and precedent to an army
set to join the invasion.

There is a presence here,
can't you feel it cloying
at open waiting ears,
seeping over the babble
as an intrusion most welcome.

A chord breaks silence
as a voice slow gently hums
a prelude to old new songs,
an accompaniment to a jangle
as the errant string conforms.

There is a presence here,
can't you hear it calling
to the blood in your veins,
freezing the moments solid,
speaking at corpuscular levels.

An excitement of particles
agitate an expectant atmosphere,
curved air starts to resonate
an apocryphal truism that
there is a Presence … here.

© Pagan Paul (15/01/20)
A poem inspired by Presence open mic nite.
A place that gifts me 10 mins a week to
perform my poetry to an audience.
10 of my most appreciated minutes per week.
Jan 2020 · 831
Pagan Paul Jan 2020
You are the future
but already a ghost,
and I sit tapping a pen
waiting for you to come.

Invade my empty mind,
crowd it with wisdom
that can be flow written
across lines of emotions.

Just as an ear for poetry
harkens to a moving soul.

Pagan Paul © (15/01/20)
Dec 2019 · 2.4k
Faraway Bird
Pagan Paul Dec 2019
Upon the warm winds of time
glides a perfect single word,
a flick of a wing sublime,
takes flight the faraway bird.

Space leaves room for another
who's adventure now would fly,
whispers the faraway bird
'Peace to thee, farewell, goodbye'.

© Pagan Paul (19/11/19)
Nov 2019 · 822
Book of The Azuneas (Pt 1)
Pagan Paul Nov 2019
A door opens with creaking sounds,
inwards to a dark and cool room,
untouched for many hundreds of years,
barely a flicker lights the gloom.

Peeling decoration whispers
at a past richly bottled in wealth,
now nearly empty except for
a curious book upon a shelf.

Bound and covered in lizard skin,
with words that swim on the pages,
shades and shadows cross together,
spells cast by the ancient sages.

A long bony index finger
tracing symbols down an old spine,
pre-history condensed in leafs,
that unfold through space and time...

© Pagan Paul (09/11/19)
The Azuneas (Ah-thoo-nay-***), invented by
me for this new mystery series of poems.
Nov 2019 · 1.8k
Letting Go
Pagan Paul Nov 2019
Lay me down upon the moss,
cover me with autumn leaves,
rest my body in the forest
to be swallowed by the trees,
and let the fleeting moments
whisper my name to the breeze,
as the cool earth welcomes me,
let me go with comfortable ease.

© Pagan Paul (27/10/19)
Nov 2019 · 1.1k
Pagan Paul Nov 2019
So feint the rhythm of life,
a weak pulse seeking to hide,
the smell of fresh rain coming,
as clouds build high on the side.
Long waiting for cool moisture,
the promise is close at hand,
teasing out the breaking heart,
the rhythm of life unplanned.

© Pagan Paul (28/07/19)
Oct 2019 · 801
The Tournement
Pagan Paul Oct 2019
Two Knights out and two Knights in,
two Knights in the tourney ring.
With a lance and sword and shield,
no quarter must either Knight yield.

With each muscle and each breath
they must fight on until death.
With mace chain and insult calls,
two Knights stand 'til one of them falls.

The white Knight is a charmer,
black Knight in polished armour,
to win a fair Princess to wed.

The white Knight is a chancer,
the black Knight is a dancer,
who will die on a grassy bed?

© Pagan Paul (25/05/19)
Sep 2019 · 1.5k
Sail Boat
Pagan Paul Sep 2019
Do you remember the time
that we built a boat to sail?
I taught you to use tools,
chisels, mallet, plane, knives.
Moving your wrists, touching hands,
guiding your fingers to feel.
We joked and laughed together
as we gouged out the trunk.
We were going to make a canoe
but you wanted a sail boat,
so we worked on the shape
carving the bow to a point.
You taught me how to sew
and I had lots the scars,
little white dots on my fingers,
but we stitched that cloth together.
And when we had made our sail boat
we looked around for the water.
But found we were stood in a desert.
Do you remember the time
that we built a boat to sail?
Do you remember?
Do you?

© Pagan Paul (19/09/19)
Aug 2019 · 5.2k
When A Dryad Cries
Pagan Paul Aug 2019
When a Dryad cries …

… the bright red leaves
and the tree stands
in a pool
of blood

… forest green leaves
and the tree stands
in a pond
of heartbreak

… red and green leaves
and the tree stands
in a lake
of sorrow

There is no sadder song
than when a tree dies,
there is no deeper grief
than when a Dryad cries.

© Pagan Paul (01/07/18)
Old poem re-written
Dryad - A Tree Nymph/Sprite
Aug 2019 · 838
Cometh the Hood
Pagan Paul Aug 2019
Blush the sky with teardrop rips,
let the blood flow free
to spill 'pon the cheeks and fall,
creating puddles of coy crimson.
A mind slowly disintegrates,
no-one tries to halt the decline
and it washes away reason,
the victim unable to resist submission.
Corpuscular clashes with synaptic
and the result transforms tragedy
from the root of all sadness
into an icon of blind worship.
The teardrops freeze on a blank face
that masks a venomous enemy
wrapped in a Hood of poison
that swallows the blushing sky.
A cage of pitch black threads
patiently studies the inner pendulum,
the tick tock of search and destroy,
time weaving its panic dark webs.
Psychotic anxiety in the waiting room
as horses dance on candle flames,
the Knight checkmates his own King,
the pawn is an easily taken prisoner.
The coy puddles of crimson burst,
shattering the mask to reveal another,
a shadow-hand coils its claim,
and the journey begins, cometh the Hood.

© Pagan Paul (11/08/19)
Jul 2019 · 1.9k
Rain Walk
Pagan Paul Jul 2019
My love and I went out a'walking,
that is when we both ceased talking.
Loving, being free and alone together
despite the rain and inclement weather.
Yes the rain fair soaked us through
but it felt just like a shower for two.
All of this along with chirping birds
the moment we stopped using words.

© Pagan Paul (17/07/19)
Jul 2019 · 1.2k
In The Moment
Pagan Paul Jul 2019
A hundred strong flock of birds
glide slow circles in the sky,
no care for the world below,
no mind for a reason why.

Meditation on the wing,
freedom flying on warm air,
no hurried destination,
just enjoying being there.

© Pagan Paul (15/07/19)
Pagan Paul Jul 2019
The barrel hit the bottom
with a sound something like 'thwelp'.
The first was a 'thud' on mud,
the second definitely a 'Help!'.
Slim rolled from the wreckage
doing his best to look nonchalant,
and failing.
Its hard to look casual
sprawled face down in the dirt,
a help speech bubble floating overhead.
But he did his best
picking himself up slowly,
no-one else was going to do it.
Remarkably, or not, he was unhurt.

Kelm found a rib-cage,
the remains of a large fox,
and he was delighted.
Do barbarians dream of culture nights?
Kelm had, and he liked hitting things.
He had lost all interest in fishing,
in Bruce, in dolls, in girls,
even with the story he was in.
Because now he was, as stated, delighted.
He had his very own

She reached the bottom
blind panic in her open eyes.
She saw the figure of a man
picking himself up slowly.
“Poet!” she shouted at him.
“No” Slim said off-handedly
though he had a few select words.
“Then … I've killed him” she wailed
“Badly?” asked Slim
“No. Rather well actually. He's dead”.
Then she spied the sword
stuck fast in a rock, at a jaunty angle.
Aesthetically pleasing in fairy tales.
And a tiny figure grimly holding on,
reached up for a better grip,
touching the Green stone in the hilt.
Jerrica and Slim were blinded by a flash.

The tingling increased
and the sword felt power
surge through its length
and explode in a bright light.
The connection was complete.
The sword sneezed.
It knew him, he knew it.
Neither of them particularly liked it.

The moment he touched the stone
he felt the tingling feeling
and he felt the connection hit
like a brick wrapped in wool.
His head exploded in pure light,
the sword sneezed
and his future was sealed.
He felt so powerful and … elastic.

“What can you see?” shouted Slim.
“Nothing” Jerrica replied
“Which way is it going?” Slim asked.
They had sunspots, flash-spots,
dancing on, in and through their eyes.
They both needed a *** ***.
But as vision cleared
a shape, a shadow, a form, a man,
greeted their returning sight.

The poet stretched and kept on stretching.
He took stock, he looked great.
From 6 inches to 6 foot
in a matter of moments,
he had grown up.
He took a look around him.
Jerrica and Slim were gawping at him.
The sword felt warm in his hand.
And very smug.
He was a sword wielding poet,
he spoke.

“I do thank thee kindly Princess.
For being my friend and rescuer”.
She blinked quite a lot.

Her body was telling her what boys were for,
but her mind was really not quite sure,
and what if there was no known cure,
but he did make her think thoughts impure.

Seeing his effect upon Jerrica
he smiled in that Poet's flirtatious way.
She blushed even more.
“What is its name? Slim piped in.
“What?” the Poet asked.
“The sword, what's its name?
Fairy tale swords have to have a name”.

Tink, tinky, ******, tong, tung.
Kelm hit the bones with a stick.
Each cracked bone had its own tone
but lacked volume.
He used a bigger stick
and invented bone-shaker music.
He even became famous
with his own backing band
The Clandestine Trolls.

He held the sword
and asked it its name.
It maintained silence
in an embarrassed sulk.
“Aw c'mon” crooned the Poet.
Silence replied.
“Come to think of it” said Jerrica
“what's your name Poet?”.
That got him right in the logics.
He looked back in baleful silence.
The sword chuckled.

The singing bowl woke up,
aware of the presence of Magick,
it started to gently hum.
The sword started to hum.
With its own resonance
aware of the presence of Magick.

Startled Jerrica stumbled
falling through the waterfall
that had with immense interest
being watching proceedings.
Her arm flailed
and knocked the small plinth.
Jewel encrusted, humming, alive,
the bowl landed upside down
on her head.
And the connection was made.
Tingling Jerrica, tingling bowl.
The sword joined in
with a song of joyful union.
Quick as a flash
Jerrica was up on her feet
smoothing down her attire.
A princess neither flounders nor trips.

The Poet had had his hand extended
to help her to her feet.
She looked and smiled
'thanks but I'm ok' at him.
Their eyes locked,
their hearts threw away the key.

Slim got the familiar feeling of
I don't need to be here.
He looked at the smashed barrel
and thought philosophically
'something to tell the grand-kids!'
He headed for a tavern, any tavern, anywhere.

And our hero and heroine?
Well ..
they lived fairly contentedly ever after.

Except for the incident with
the anarchist fortune cookies …
but thats another story.

© Pagan Paul (June 2019)
Finally! The last part of this story typed up and posted.
Please enjoy :)
Jul 2019 · 1.3k
Pagan Paul Jul 2019
Creation of a character,
a personality extension,
allows freedom to fly
and all the things wanted,
needed, to be expressed
will explode through
and be birthed in purity
from the core.

So give yourself permission,
play, imagine, conjure,
bring forth a new you
'guised and naked,
broadcast your words
with a mouthpiece
created from your own

© Pagan Paul (30/06/19)
Jun 2019 · 6.2k
Sacred Tree
Pagan Paul Jun 2019
Through a forest glade
and down a narrow path
there stands a sacred tree
with its heart torn in half.

Bramble clings to its trunk
ivy covers over its bark,
reaching up for the light
fighting against the dark.

Forgotten by the woods,
ignored in a crowded place,
for it yearns for attention,
just a little tender grace.

© Pagan Paul (27/06/19)
Jun 2019 · 557
Fool's Diary (Observed)
Pagan Paul Jun 2019
All was quiet
the Lord and Lady retired,
courtiers all gone to bed,
the Great Hall silent.
Hounds slumberingly snored
next to the dying embers
of a cooling Inglenook,
occasional crackles popping
as the heat catches wood resin,
it splatters and dies.
A lute lays idle
amongst the mess of banquet
as a lonely secretive figure
detaches from the shadows,
prowling through the detritus.
Slim fingers pick up the lute
and gently strums a chord,
the Minstrel exits stage left,
to compose and construct
new songs and ribald stories
from this nights celebrations.
Retiring to his chamber
his eyes stare balefully
at an uneaten bowl of stew,
the gruel of his station,
a metaphor for the content
of a nearby journal,
closed but waiting,
for a quill rich in ink
to fill its void
with the musings of a Fool.

© Pagan Paul (26/06/19)
Jun 2019 · 2.8k
Pain (10W)
Pagan Paul Jun 2019
Pain should be written beautifully,
achingly displayed upon a page.

© Pagan Paul (20/06/19)
Jun 2019 · 2.3k
Deja Vu
Pagan Paul Jun 2019
A rose from a window
looks like any other rose,
but as the old lady stares
out through the thin glass
a fondness develops,
begins to form a memory,

reaching back,
grasping the past,

that very slowly forms
the image of a rose,
proud in an old garden,
upstanding to catch the eye
of a young girl
staring out of a window.

© Pagan Paul (19/06/19)
Jun 2019 · 890
Grave Expectations
Pagan Paul Jun 2019
A chain of lights
lead off into the distance,
illuminating little
but so bright in their own world.
Along an old animal track
to a standing stone
ancient in peaceful repose,
a family sigil,
weather worn by time,
proud of its place
marking the passing of aeons.
The light blinks out
and darkness falls like a drape
of lightlessness,
and the Crest crackles,
miniature lightning
caressing the old frigid stone.

© Pagan Paul (16/06/19)
Jun 2019 · 3.0k
Fire Inside
Pagan Paul Jun 2019
… and the look of fear
co-existing with pain
     on a contorted face
that knows
it is in mortal difficulty,
as ragged fingers



at a fire they cannot reach,
ripping agonies react,
     to an enforced cardiac episode,
as blackness closes in
gravity heaves its hardest,
but the fall is fake,
a red herring in the event,
     and the weight of the world

presses down, searching,
presses down, searching,

as breath is given freedom
in exhalation to the light,
     that slowly rolls back
the pitch hue of the void,
returning back images,
a new belief,

          and the fire inside quietens,

                    and the fire inside quietens,

to the intense glow
     of a burnt aching heart.

© Pagan Paul (2018)
This poem was actually written during a panic attack I had last year.
I have suffered from them for most of my life.
Jun 2019 · 7.3k
Chance Meeting
Pagan Paul Jun 2019
is being in the right place
at the right time,
coinciding with the orbit
of another searching
the aspirations that you to seek.
A connection needs attention,
a compliment, a smile,
an enquiry of mutual interest
that engages instantly.
The abdication of convenient norms,
a shift in behaviour,
adopting a new travel direction.
It requires no discrimination,
but an open welcoming mind,
conjoining parallel convergence,

© Pagan Paul (2018)
Jun 2019 · 377
Fool's Diary 6 (The Dream)
Pagan Paul Jun 2019
(The Dream)

A single ear of corn,
in a meadow of flowers,
stands proud
in its enforced isolation,
marvelling at the beauty
around its placing,
a sense of envy
as its pale golden yellow
fades in the ensemble
of majesty's riotous colours,
and the scene shifts …

Ravens screech in flight
breaking their shackles
as a dragon
dances on a honeycomb,
and empires fall
chased by ribaldic skeletons
into history's cesspool,
the Maiden reeks havoc
in a harem of vice,
guarding the purity of life
from scavenging sins,
watching as the fat maggots
crawl under the skin,
they devour and destroy
spreading rancid disease within,
and the scene shifts …

the ear of corn
sways with unexpected breeze,
as the floral attraction
surrounds its ugliness,
it bleeds to shy away,
hide its foulness,
so as not to taint or scar
this panorama of life,
The offering as ritual
to keep so dear
as a drop of morning dew
slides down a leaf
to hang suspended, inert,
and the scene shifts …

and a chair stays silent
waiting by a desk,
a book and quill lay idle
as he dreams disturbed
in a cot, cold and hard,
an internal dialogue
complete with visions
as the warring parties ride
in subconscious battle,
the raven screams,
the dragon dances,
the ear of corn stands proud,
the Maiden cries.
And the quill is a symbol,
a badge of honour,
adopted for the heart
to capture his dreams …

© Pagan Paul (05/06/19)
Jun 2019 · 2.0k
Fool's Diary 5
Pagan Paul Jun 2019
Walk through the silence
of a lonely tapestry,
its mute single thread
trying to Canute the night,
knowing it must ride the Moon
to dance with the stars.
Blood red ink.
Ink red blood.
Across pages it falls,
words of needlepoint pain
screaming at the audience,
the Moon has been deflowered
and the stars dance alone.
Cedar wood smoke perfumes
the stench of lethargy,
from an open log fire
throwing flickers of hopeful light,
flame fingers burn the Moon
as the stars cry for the weaver.

© Pagan Paul (02/06/19)
6th poem in Fool's diary series.
Jun 2019 · 1.0k
Last Poem
Pagan Paul Jun 2019
It will be written long,
when Nature takes her own
and quenches life's flame,
when all the sadness
has been noted and versed,
packaged as final words,
having ******* with regret
or discourse with nostalgia.
The taming of the mortal coil breeds
the Last Poem.

© Pagan Paul (03/06/19)
Jun 2019 · 925
Of The Night
Pagan Paul Jun 2019
Of the night,

comes a delicate veil,

wrapping like a cuddle,

heralding comfort,

whispering dreams to lovers,

blowing kisses to the dark,

teasing peaceful promises,

of the night.

© Pagan Paul (02/06/19)
May 2019 · 2.5k
Fool's Diary 4
Pagan Paul May 2019
Light hits my retina
through the prism of a tear,
distorted faces pass
with images fragmented
inside out
and the smell of tallow
as a candle splutters,
falters and winks out
for the wick collapses cruel
like a hamstrung dancer.
The tear exits stage left
and rolls down the wings
of a thoughtless cheek,
teeters on the brink of catastrophe
and falls upon a blank page,
reviewing its brief life
as a lazy metaphor,
so I look at the remaining solitary candle
and grieve for the lost tear,
as an understudy takes its place.

© Pagan Paul (28/05/19)
5th entry in Fool's Diary.
May 2019 · 8.8k
Pagan Paul May 2019
     I stare down at the plate of toast and beans
     wondering why this was never part of my dreams.
     Looking for the future with an illusional pretence,
     hoping good apples will fall on my side of the fence.

And as the fork dances slow
around the legumes in spirals,
the tedium of a wasting life
bears the burden and scars
of missed opportunities in paralysis
and the colour of once bright lights
          glow black,
shining a shadow into the void
covering the bruises
that were once achievements of worth,
     now tender patches
          of failure.
I drop the fork ...

     … pushing away the plate and leaving food uneaten,
     my desire for its nutrition fought and beaten,
     Looking at the apple tree with sombre regret
     maybe its fruit will fall and save me yet.

And disappointment
is worse than anger,
it begins with the stench of loss
the nasal whiff of
what if …

And what if the little apple tree
drops all its fruit down to me?
Would I recognise fortune on my side
or fear the illusions and run to hide?

© Pagan Paul (17/02/18)
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