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May 8 · 91
Jazz Poem
Pagan Paul May 8
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.
Apr 23 · 107
Pyramid Spell
Pagan Paul Apr 23
I am birthed from an egg in the forbidden land,
standing proud I stretch my arms out wide.
I then open my eyes and open my heart,
emoting memories as they pour into my cold mind.
And the flames. And the flames. And the sacred flames.
Carry me out to the infinite stars of knowledge,
where the Twin Goddesses of Truth petition the serpent
to teach them how to deceive the future.
The barge of the Gone Forever sails past
and it bows its bows to the flail and the sceptre,
turquoise and gold with the face of millennia,
its image forever burnt into my countless lives.
I, Mighty One of Enchantment, now fly
from the shell that holds my long sleep
to the thirteenth direction of my smile.
And the flames. And the flames. And the sacred flames.
Hi all! I've not gone away I've just been concentrating on hosting my open mic night and recording some of my poetry in a studio with an audio presentation coming out later this year, so I've not been writing much.
Pagan Paul Feb 27
I open my eyes.
The darkness is blackness.
The stillness is complete.
The silence is deafening.
I breathe in once
and the air is so warm.
The exhalation slow.
Why do I feel dizzy?
I move my limbs.
Realisation bites,
it is then that I scream.
A scream nobody will hear.

Jan 3 · 233
The Yearn
Pagan Paul Jan 3
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.
Dec 2023 · 772
Strike A Light
Pagan Paul Dec 2023
The speed of light matters little,
even from its initial burst.
It changes not the basic fact
that the darkness got there first.
A little philosophical thinking!
Nov 2023 · 171
Scenes From A Second Storey
Pagan Paul Nov 2023
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.

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.

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.

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 live on the 2nd Floor, but my name is not Luca! :)
Nov 2023 · 575
April 2020
Pagan Paul Nov 2023
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)
Some of this poem was written in 2020 but it was lost, now found and finished. PPx
Nov 2023 · 1.4k
Pagan Paul Nov 2023
Feeling low is not all wrong.
Feeling down is absolutely fine.
Crying out pain is OK friend
and being sad is not a crime.
Just a piece of advice for anyone with low mood.
Pagan Paul Oct 2023
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)
Sep 2023 · 1.1k
Of The Night
Pagan Paul Sep 2023
#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
Sep 2023 · 629
Life Cycle
Pagan Paul Sep 2023
From a gamete to a corpse
this life that time warps,
a blink and it is ended
no more than intended.
In the course of eternity we a but a brief blip!
Pagan Paul Aug 2023
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.
Ref: Nadine Dorries who finally got around to resigning from the govt. after saying she would many weeks ago. Her resignation letter is scathing of her Tory colleagues and the PM, with a few hometruths being flung at them from her. Its refreshing to hear a politician say the truth, even if born from spite and resentment.
Pagan Paul Aug 2023
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.
This was a short stand-up comedy introduction I did at the beginning of the Spoken Word Open Mic that I organise, run and host.
Aug 2023 · 409
Blues Power
Pagan Paul Aug 2023
Saturday night will make you smile
just reach out and turn that dial.
Honk on bobo and pick that guitar,
you know exactly where you are.
You are getting some Blues Power
to take you to the midnight hour.
But wait! Here comes the crunch -
its also available for Sunday Lunch.

Pagan Paul (21/06/23)
Poem written for Blues Power programme presented by Bernard Docherty on Planet Rock radio.
Bobo = Harmonica
Aug 2023 · 1.1k
A Capella Song
Pagan Paul Aug 2023
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)
Thought I'd write a song for vocal harmony's, this was written last September and a friend has picked it up for her group to sing. I wasn't going to post it ever, but what the hell!
Aug 2023 · 2.7k
Pagan Paul Aug 2023
Poor, poor girl.
Frightened of her own shadow.
So I turned her around
to face the Sun.

© Pagan Paul
Jul 2023 · 375
For Hours of Time
Pagan Paul Jul 2023
The candle flickers silent as night
as an owl hoots at the dark.
Launching into flight from on high,
poised to strike at its mark.

From the window the flame shines
shredding shadows to and fro,
attracting the moths and fireflies
to bathe in the soft light glow.

The owl shrieks as it strikes
and the candle continues to shine.
I sit, watch and marvel at the show,
lost in the spectacle for hours of time.
For hours of time.

I had the title of this poem in my notebook for over a year before the words came to me. Odd, as usually I write a poem and the title comes out of that!
Jul 2023 · 1.2k
Pagan Paul Jul 2023
Deep is the heart of the Forest
a sound stirs sending shivers of sorrow
through the undergrowth
to where wonderful willows wildly weep.

Deep is the voice of the Forest
its core carefully calling clipped chords
through the luscious canopy
to aptly announce an autumn abundance.

Deep is the love of the Forest
in light lancing little lazy legacy lines
through the fresh downpour
to relish rain rapidly replenishing roots.

© Pagan Paul
Jul 2023 · 354
Snuggle (Acrostic)
Pagan Paul Jul 2023
S – Sit down with me
N – Nibble my neck
U – Undo my top button
G – Gently massage my chest
G – Glance at me longingly
L – Let your inhibitions go
E – Enjoy the moment.

© Pagan Paul (04/12/18)
An old poem revisited :)
Jul 2023 · 377
Bleep Klub
Pagan Paul Jul 2023
Phonics in a symphony
assembles into an unreality,
swirling into trance worlds
and opens the minds door.
Tic Toc bass intrudes at whim
and images fragment out,
mimicking psychedelia in the stars
as heavens trip the music flies.
Fading slow in audible waves
through a keyhole in time,
the insistence of journey's end
adopts the guise of deity.
Jul 2023 · 1.6k
Wishful Thinking
Pagan Paul Jul 2023
Take my hand and let us go so lightly,
walking 'pon the lake of lovers dreams,
gentle ripples interlace our smiles brightly,
lighting the stars within romantic streams.
Making love as we sink beneath cool water,
drowning lustful in passions liquid embrace.
The dream shimmers, as the images falter
and the still lake reflects your delicate face.
Jul 2023 · 291
M & B
Pagan Paul Jul 2023
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.
Mills & Boon - A popular publication in Britain for the Lady of a certain age and disposition :)
Jun 2023 · 478
Its Connected to the Wi-Fi
Pagan Paul Jun 2023
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)
A monologue I performed at an open mic nite that I actually wrote in my head on the 15 min walk to the open mic nite.
Jun 2023 · 2.1k
Pagan Paul Jun 2023
The acid that runs cold through my veins
wishes that it just rains and rains,
to wash away my darkest pains
and cleanse me 'til nothing remains.

Playing evil with my deepest fears,
tapping my strings all these years,
the truth unblind at last appears,
nothing is worth the salt of my tears.

Deep within my soul slowly breaks,
the toll that this reality fire takes
has scarred me with fantasy flakes,
and scorched me with so many mistakes.

Pagan Paul (April 2022)
Jun 2023 · 212
Tech-Tonic Shift
Pagan Paul Jun 2023
The old beliefs are dying
religion is an arbitrary concept,
new waves are flowing
and crashing on the ancient tales
spelling out a new way.

Charting a course unknown,
yet single minded and fast,
the onslaught of abrogation
and the feeling of freedoms
as responsibility is the loser.

Tech washing by giants
of a corporate invasion
with an aggressive compass
that considers morality a sin
and humanity obsolete.

Can you fathom it?
Decisions made by algorithm
working inside a solid core
through the medium of chips
that do not compliment fish.

Will these tiny machines
determine guilt or innocence,
make judgements on character
and condemn the organics
to be governed by sterility.

And this species of flesh
is running headlong fast,
creating its own destruction,
moving far from the feeling
of being unashamedly living.

Where have they gone?
The simple pleasures in life,
the frailties, vulnerabilities, flaws,
the inherent personalities and basics
of just being human.

Pagan Paul (11/06/22)
Jun 2023 · 1.3k
Pagan Paul Jun 2023
Like the Empire of Rome
the dogwood
that thought it was an oak
has fallen.

It lays sideways to reality,
its cold roots
cling on for grim death,
the vainest hope of survival
is indeed vain.
Its assassins laugh
as the death knell rings.

Like the Empire of Rome
the dogwood
that thought it was an oak
has fallen.

Pagan Paul (07/07/22)
Feb 2021 · 1.2k
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 · 1.2k
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 · 644
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 · 540
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 · 437
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 · 304
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 · 361
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 · 251
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 · 394
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 · 294
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 · 406
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 · 266
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 · 405
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 · 180
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 · 221
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 · 304
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 · 418
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 · 215
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 · 245
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 · 361
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 · 173
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 · 220
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 · 174
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 · 258
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.
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