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Aug 15 · 1.7k
When A Dryad Cries
Pagan Paul Aug 15
.
When a Dryad cries …

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


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


… red and green leaves
drip
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
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Aug 12 · 446
Cometh the Hood
Pagan Paul Aug 12
.
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)
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Jul 17 · 1.3k
Rain Walk
Pagan Paul Jul 17
.
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)
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Jul 15 · 793
In The Moment
Pagan Paul Jul 15
.
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 14
.
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
Ex-why-low-fone.

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 8 · 949
Creation
Pagan Paul Jul 8
.
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
deep.


© Pagan Paul (30/06/19)
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Jun 27 · 3.9k
Sacred Tree
Pagan Paul Jun 27
.
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)
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Jun 27 · 324
Fool's Diary (Observed)
Pagan Paul Jun 27
.
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)
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Jun 23 · 1.3k
Pain (10W)
Pagan Paul Jun 23
.
Pain should be written beautifully,
achingly displayed upon a page.



© Pagan Paul (20/06/19)
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Jun 21 · 1.4k
Deja Vu
Pagan Paul Jun 21
.
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 20 · 662
Grave Expectations
Pagan Paul Jun 20
.
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.
Waiting.


© Pagan Paul (16/06/19)
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Jun 14 · 1.7k
Fire Inside
Pagan Paul Jun 14
.
… and the look of fear
co-existing with pain
     on a contorted face
that knows
it is in mortal difficulty,
as ragged fingers

     clutch,

          clutch,

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,
retracts
waiting,
presses down, searching,
retracts
waiting,

as breath is given freedom
in exhalation to the light,
     that slowly rolls back
the pitch hue of the void,
returning back images,
feeling,
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.
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Jun 7 · 3.5k
Chance Meeting
Pagan Paul Jun 7
Chance
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,
Meeting.


© Pagan Paul (2018)
.
Pagan Paul Jun 6
.
(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)
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Jun 4 · 1.1k
Fool's Diary 5
Pagan Paul Jun 4
.
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)
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6th poem in Fool's diary series.
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Jun 3 · 771
Last Poem
Pagan Paul Jun 3
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)
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Jun 2 · 751
Of The Night
Pagan Paul Jun 2
.
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)
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May 28 · 1.3k
Fool's Diary 4
Pagan Paul May 28
.
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)
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5th entry in Fool's Diary.
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May 14 · 5.7k
Apples
Pagan Paul May 14
.
     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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May 9 · 2.1k
She
Pagan Paul May 9
She
.
He is just another notch
     on her sterile bed of love.
He is just another victim
     of conquest for her thighs.
She is just another link
     in his daisy chain of woe.
She is just another span
     on his long bridge of sighs.



© Pagan Paul (21/05/17)
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May 7 · 1.7k
1433
Pagan Paul May 7
.
A vintage year.

Especially July.

It was the last time

one of my poems trended.


PPx
.
Just a piece of idiocy :)
.
May 7 · 1.2k
Fool's Diary 3
Pagan Paul May 7
.
So the smoke coils
surrounding a stray thought
clinging to the vine
as it weaves threads
into a tapestry
of fermented grape wrath.
His pen crawls
across the pages of life
and ignores the punctuation,
a plague infected word flow,
his stream of catharsis.
But the babble
intrudes and sounds irk,
sending resentment forward
like an advance guard
to meet the violence
and deflect the onslaught.
And the wave dies
as the aggressor retreats
before motley defence.
But the mood
has been tainted, spoiled,
despite a flirtatious distraction.
And the flame flickers
as the smoke coils,
and tired eyes avert their gaze
from the perceived ***** page,
the excrement of misery
smeared to make nostrils flare,
and the entry is left
incomplete …




© Pagan Paul (06/05/19)
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4th entry in the Fool's Diary
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Apr 25 · 1.1k
Rejection
Pagan Paul Apr 25
.
Impenetrable silence greets
as disappointment inside sweeps,
prey to another false start,
a fire needle to the heart.

And the secret twitch of an eye muscle
reveals the depth of pain in rejection,
the shame of being considered disposable
or a stop on the road to perfection.



© Pagan Paul (22/04/19)
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Apr 23 · 1.1k
Fool's Diary 2
Pagan Paul Apr 23
.
Wouldst thou not gaze again 'pon this humble fool?
For 'tis his script that doth countenance histories,
hence future repeats be 'pon his wither and whim,
thou shouldst see twice his story woven sisterlies.

Wouldst thou not read more of this humble fool?
Mayhap his words doth soothe thy enquiry,
his want and wander leadeth to a contentment,
thou shouldst not ignore content of ye Fool's Diary.

Wouldst thou not focus true 'pon this humble fool?
Perchance his poems doth resonate sweetness unbound,
pray do a'linger and a'loiter 'pon his fancy delicacies,
thou shouldst taketh thy fill of love and wisdom found.




© Pagan Paul (22/04/19)
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Follow up to poems Fool's Diary and Fools Diary (Addendum)
posted on Mar 6th and 8th 2019
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Mar 19 · 1.7k
Somewhere In The Night
Pagan Paul Mar 19
.
And then you were there
your presence touched my dream
I recoil at the beauty of it
unfamiliar with the feeling of love,
I feel your confused hurt
and wish you would withdraw
and wish you would stay
because the emotion scares me,
somewhere, somewhere in the night.

And then you were there
your fingers brushed my skin
I recoil at the softness of it
unfamiliar with the touch of fondness.
I see your confused hurt
and wish your eyes would laugh
and wish your eyes would cry
because your heart calls to me,
somewhere, somewhere in the night.

And then you were there
and then you were not,
and I yearn to find you,
somewhere, somewhere in the night.




© Pagan Paul (19/03/19)
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Mar 12 · 764
Moon Dance
Pagan Paul Mar 12
.
Peek-a-boo with clouds,
the moon dances in the sky,
the crescent at play.




© Pagan Paul (2018)
.
Mar 8 · 3.6k
Fool's Diary (addendum)
Pagan Paul Mar 8
.
And so he sits
once more
folding his life
into an origami box.
Paper walls,
cellophane ceilings.
Counting out syllables.
Sequenced
to twist-**** the mind.
And quietly
he sits
ghosting the room.




© Pagan Paul (04/03/19)
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An extra piece to my poem Fool's Diary posted 2 days ago.
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Mar 7 · 939
The Storm
Pagan Paul Mar 7
.
Alas we are cast into an ocean of grief,
prey to the monsters that lay deep beneath,
to shake and rattle the core of our beliefs,
rendered shipwreck shattered by jagged reefs.
Are we to grace our souls 'pon Neptune's teeth,
adorned and garlanded with a salt kelp wreath,
should our existence be so stunted and brief,
I beseech to expire like a storm silent leaf.




© Pagan Paul (03/03/19)
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Mar 6 · 3.8k
Fool's Diary 1
Pagan Paul Mar 6
.
At the table of eternal sorrow
sits a fool with a crooked smile,
faking interest in a world obscene
and feigning the mood of yesterwhile.
Couched over bent with quill extended,
he writes his heart with a bitter beat,
floating in the mire of a memory stained,
poised with nib to command the sheet.
Capering words form across the weave
with capricious intent and shadow play,
smoke and mirrors intersect and disperse
whilst his mind carries the story away.




© Pagan Paul (04/03/19)
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Feb 28 · 1.1k
Uni-Verse
Pagan Paul Feb 28
.
Four little lines you get,
just a sweet verse quartet,
please, take it home to pet,
a warm cuddle when you fret.





© Pagan Paul (28/02/19)
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Feb 26 · 1.7k
Spring Girl
Pagan Paul Feb 26
.
The early sun warms my veins,
Dawn chorus birds are chattering again
A heady smell of dew and flowers
sets the scene for the morning hours.

The mid-day sun warms my face,
dancing butterflies pass playing chase.
The intoxicating scent of life in bloom
carries the promise of the afternoon.

The evening sun warms my world,
Oracles smile at the cool Spring Girl.
Perfumes waft from way out of sight
holding the future through the night.




© Pagan Paul (2015/18)
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Feb 18 · 955
Tongue In Cheek (12W)
Pagan Paul Feb 18
.
I may make a useless boyfriend,
but I do give good poem!




© Pagan Paul (18/02/19)
.
Feb 17 · 2.4k
Whispering Door
Pagan Paul Feb 17
.
I have one hand on the handle of the mad sane door,
the other is scraping shards on the missing floor,
my mind dissolves away into a hurricane squall,
and my face is the mirror on a stark naked wall.

My life is a fluid flowing through images weird,
dripping through the cracks, tactile and veneered,
pouring dark thoughts into a head once cleared,
the door whispers promises of nothing to be feared.



© Pagan Paul (14/12/17)
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repost
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Pagan Paul Feb 11
.
The future was heading its way very fast,
it pondered the alternatives.
It could gently levitate
and reveal its magickal powers.
But now was not the time.
Not quite yet.
It relaxed, in the way swords relax,
and waited for the drop,
a tune humming along its full length.
Tension just a distant memory.
Its point tipped over the edge.
It fell,
in the manner of magickal swords.
Gracefully.

The waterfall felt the ripple of enchantment
as the iron thing crested its … crest,
and failed to plummet.
That disappointed the waterfall.
It also felt the girl,
in the swirling flow on the edge,
fail to catch it before it fell.
It 'heard' the naughty words
and the scream …

… she had screamed
as she lunged for the sword
and missed,
the Poet had been unceremoniously
ejected from her pocket
and disappeared over the edge.
So Jerrica screamed.
She didn't know what else to do.

Kelm was stalking fish.
They hadn't been hiding in the river
so they must be in the trees.
He had his catapult ready
and maggots to fire at the fish.
Then he heard a scream
so he started off towards it.
He saw the girl staring in horror
and then she bolted off.
Down the side of the waterfall.
“What the hell are girls for?”
he wondered as he wandered off.
He decided to go and hector Bruce.

They had abandoned ship.
Well, jumped barrel.
And now they had gone awol.
But the author didn't care
about a couple of slap dash bit parts.
He hoped the Troll had got them.

The sword floated serenely.
Mattering not in the slightest
that the water was vertical
and flowed quicker in that direction.
Then it felt a jolt,
a ripple in its pond of calm.
It was slightly amused
as something grabbed its hilt.
And held on.
It felt the panic, it felt the relief.
Then it felt … a connection.
Something tingled along its length.

As his tiny arms clutched the sword
a wave of dread passed by,
waving at him with a sharp smile.
A wave waving in waves.
The Poet considered the images
and clutched harder
as nausea also comes in waves.
Instead he thought about physics.
How could it be he fell faster than
an iron sword?
And how was it possible
to slow descent to a mere saunter?
Most of all he asked
“What does this all over tingling feeling mean?”
A barrel plummeted by
too fast and too **** close.

Kelm was exploring
and had found the tiny bridge
upstream from the excitement
and was poking about,
as is the want of curious little boys.
Thats when he found the clay doll.
**** in a crude kind of way.
He wondered if dolls could swim
and attached it to his fishing rod.
He dunked it.
Like a biscuit in tea.
The result was a sticky mess
so he threw it in the river.
He made a decision and wandered off,
he was going to look for fish nests.

The Troll was confused.
He had accidentally discovered Hide and Seek.
But didn't understand the rules.
Morfine and Choklut were hiding
and he was out of ideas.
A fairly normal state of mind for a Troll.
And now his body was dissolving.
He remembered his doll familiar.
It must have got wet.
And he was fading out of the story.
“Goodbye reader. Thankyou for knowing me”
he says with a regretful voice.

The astonishing thing about light
is it stops you bumping into things.
And the sword was very light,
as the tingling pulsed through it.
It did not bump into the boulder
at the bottom of the waterfall.
Rather, it slid gently
into the middle of the large stone.



© Pagan Paul (10/02/19)
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Part 3 of 4
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Feb 10 · 2.3k
Tree Hill
Pagan Paul Feb 10
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Do you remember when time stood still
skipping naked, happy, upon Spring Hill?
Warm westerlies, do rebirth dominate,
brushing the flowers, each one to pollinate.

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

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

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

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





© Pagan Paul (2019)
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Pagan Paul Jan 31
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No milk today.
Please tell the cows its nothing personal.



© Pagan Paul (27/01/19)
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Silly one :)
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Jan 31 · 1.5k
Slip Away
Pagan Paul Jan 31
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O where doth he wander my love,
the genius in cloth of the fool,
disappears with a wave of his motley glove,
and exits with the laugh of the cruel.

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

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

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

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




© Pagan Paul (27/01/19)
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Jan 29 · 2.0k
Song of the Great Mother
Pagan Paul Jan 29
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On the old porch outside her room
she sits a'spinning on her loom,
weaving memories of times long gone,
gently singing a Native song.
Of rivers running on the plains
swollen from the mountain rains,
of the deserts endless sands,
and of toil with calloused hands.
She sang of buffalo and of bear,
of a paradise for all to share,
she also sang of the forests deep
and of where wolves go to sleep.
Her song dies away like a friend
when her spinning is at its end.
The Great Mother retires in silent gloom
and snuffs out the candles in her room.
Thus stilling the night of a Woman's Moon.



© Pagan Paul (28/01/19)
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Jan 27 · 1.9k
No Way Out
Pagan Paul Jan 27
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Cohesion has been fragmented,
merely an old dissolved memory.
A shroud darker than pitch black
heralds the omni-directional strangler,
seeking to crush the fragile neck
and slowly asphyxiate the minds reality.

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

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



© Pagan Paul (2017/19)
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Jan 22 · 406
Sadness Borne Deep
Pagan Paul Jan 22
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A ghost walking the day
like a spy upon a dream,
she stares out of a window
arrayed in black bombazine.
Hair tinged with a little grey,
such sadness she bears alone,
drifting through the quiet rooms
of a cold and empty home.
Saving her love for loneliness,
wrapped in an airy husk,
night cannot come to soon
and the veil fall with dusk.




© Pagan Paul (21/01/19)
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Jan 18 · 950
Stream (10W)
Pagan Paul Jan 18
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Feel my stream of passion,
it flows only through you.

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© Pagan Paul (17/01/19)
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Pagan Paul Jan 18
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Jerrica had found Lost.
The treasure buried above ground.
The memory foam with dementia.
The quill with no nib …
she thought about feather pens.
Catching herself from falling
the swoon had caught her cold.
This **** ****** sword
was proving to be elusive
and now she was under sustained attack.
From a personal fetish.
It just wouldn't leave her alone,
creeping into her mind unbidden.
She needed to scratch an itch,
if only she knew what that itch was.

Trolls are magickally bound to their bridge.
Leaving it is usually fatal.
But Gyb had bones to gnaw,
and once he had his teeth employed
his mind was a captive onlooker.
A crazy plan formed in his head,
possibly avoiding the brain.
He took mud and formed a figure,
then some of his hair clippings
moulded into the head.
Then he took a leap of disbelief!
He looked into the river and … Click!
Snapped his fingers and fixed the image.
He cut it out of the meniscus
and attached it to the doll familiar.

“Did Achilles have damp ankles
or was he well heeled?”
Morfine had asked Choklut.
“Neither. He was the one who sneezed
and opened the Fête of the Suitors”.
“No. I think he was called Telemarketing,
he sneezed and they drew the tombola raffle”.
“Wasn't there a Goddess involved as well?”.
“Um … Yes, maybe the Goddess of Tissues?”.
“Snivel? No, she is more tears than snot.
I think its the one who turned her husband
into a swan, and made him ****** her handmaiden”.
“Oooo Nasty!”
“No, Nasty fell in love with his own profile,
and called things off with his nymph,
the reverberations can still be heard today”.
There was a brief pause … then,
“What are we doing Choklut?
We found a magickal sword and …
talking of which, where is it?”.
“I don't know. You had it last”.
Just then a serving girl gave them a note.
It said. Tomatoes, Peppers, Onions, Eggs …
“Not that side you dyk” she said.
Morfine turned the note over and read.
“Quick, no time to lose.
Someone saw the sword in the river.
We have to get to stanza 8
before it goes over the waterfall!”.
“Oh” said Choklut “I've never seen a stanza belly flop”.

It was true.
Contrary to the laws of physics.
Kelm saw the sword floating down river.
It looked like any other sword.
So he let it be, dismissed it.
He couldn't swim anyway.
He mused on the irony of that.
Nobody learnt to swim and yet drowning
was an undignified death for a barbarian.
If he could swim
he could find the fishes hiding places.

Jerrica had also been musing.
With a Poet.
That was during the last 3 stanza's.
But now …
she saw a sword floating in the river.
Something didn't quite fit.
Something was not in the right place.
She placed the Poet back in her breast pocket.
'If only he wasn't just 4 inches high' she thought
'he is rather handsome and intelligent'.
Bingo! She had it. But she didn't want it.
Armydiseases Principle of Liquid Dispersement!
It states!
Introduce a solid object into a body of liquid,
then the corresponding volume of liquid is dispersed
back to the nearest solid.
So, right now there is a very small flood
in the shape of a very small sword
ravishing the local area.
She decided, quite rightly as it turns out,
that she was feeding herself a red herring.

Slim stood on the bridge
staring at the churning water below.
How did it happen?
A stanza all of his own,
ruined by the intrusion of morons.
“Morfine and Choklut” he bellowed
“I'm going to eviscerate you”.
The wind carried a few of the words away,
but that was the gist of it.
“Hello” a voice said.
Slim had an accident, and jumped out of his skin.
And plunged into the cold water.
A strong arm pulled him out,
and he was face to face with a troll.
“My name is Gyb. I hate Morf Chok also”.
Nothing had prepared Slim for meeting a troll.
Not even the etti-queue-etti lessons at school.
'Would you care for afternoon tea?'
seemed rather inappropriate.
Gyb broke the awkward silence.
“Look! Sword floating”.
Slim didn't look.
Convinced the troll would eat him.
Thats their way. Distract and devour.
But he couldn't help it, he snuck a look.
And the sword slid on by gently bobbing,
tiny little runes glinting in the sun.

For its part the sword was serenity itself.
Chilled out to the max.
Resting on the water. Relaxing and reclining.
Life was good for the sword.
It had just passed a boy fishing,
poking his rod down a fish hole.
It had passed a young woman,
who looked confused and flustered.
It slid under a stone bridge.
A troll with a doll,
and a man with questionable odour.
And then he heard the roaring.
He sent out his senses,
no mean feat for a sword,
and 'felt' its surroundings.
Its image eye caught sight of the future.
It was an effing great waterfall.
And the future was the way he was heading.
For now.

Narrative Interlude

At this point in the story the author, Pagan Paul, is compelled
to inform the reader/listener of a complaint received
from Messrs Morfine and Choklut.
The substance of which amounts to the following:
That the said author is willfully under using their talent
as supporting cast and denying them access to many stanza's.
Furthermore they are threatening to expose the authors
'irregularities' in his relationship with Princess (name redacted).
The author, Pagan Paul, responds thus:
I should like to remind Messrs Morfine and Choklut
that, with astroke of my quill, I can eradicate them.
Drop them from the story all together.
And with reference to Princess (name redacted) -
'Its my Poem and I'll irregularit if I want to'.
Dear reader/listener prepare yourself for stanza 9.
It has a waterfall in it.
Maybe Morfine and Choklut will appear, maybe not.
They are the ones over a barrel.


Minutes after the sword floated by
something else caught her eye.
To boys on a barrel, in the water.
Boys barreling along or a barrel buoying along?
Choklut noticed her by the bank.
'funny place to have a cash machine' he thought.
Doing his best to impress and look brave.
Morfine waved and nearly fell off.
Suddenly the barrel lid opened
and Slim poked his head out like a tortoise.
“What the …?” said Choklut.
“Just repaying a debt boys” he said.
“But you owe us nothing” Morfine replied.
“Oh but I do” snarled Slim
“I owe you one times intrusion into your own stanza”.
He ducked back inside, and slammed the lid.
“Of all the fatherless ...”
“I blame the author” said Choklut.
“Yeah well, he is the one who's gonna be sorry,
we've just muscled in on stanza 8,
and relegated that waterfall to stanza 9” Morfine chimed.
“Morfine. Morfine! I hear the waterfall coming”.
“No! Not now. He has to leave it until 9 now,
we are about to cross the finish line on 8”.
The waterfall loomed.

Actually the waterfall knew nothing of weaving.
It just stayed where it was, pouring.
Spectacular, it was a very pretty waterfall.
It must be. It attracted tourists.
And it had fun!
It loved watching detritus tumble,
teeter on the brink. And fall.
Especially tourists.
It was over 300 paces high,
less than 40 paces wide,
its descent magnificent liquid ballet,
sparkling droplets shining like jewels,
forever transcending light refraction,
and plunging, plunging, plunging,
into a gorgeous azure puddle.
About ankle deep.



© Pagan Paul (17/01/19)
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3rd poem in my Strange World collection.

Part 3 out soon :)
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Pagan Paul Jan 16
.
Morfine and Choklut were trapped,
searching for a sword,
they somehow hit a dead end
and were being attacked by fear.
The fear of being Lost.
But Choklut had an escape plan
“Quick!” he said “head for stanza 4,
we have some friends waiting there”.

Kelm was a difficult child.
“Ten green woggles round ten boy-scouts necks,
ten green woggles round ten boy-scouts necks,
and if one green woggle should accidentally
be ripped from the throat by a giant killer wolf,
there'll be nine green woggles round nine boy-scouts necks”.
He sang,
as he pulled the legs off a centipede.
He wanted a worm to go fishing,
but couldn't be bothered to dig.

Jerrica also sought a sword.
She was a Princess!
But she had a point to prove.
A very deliberate point about girl power.
Girls can go adventuring too!
She championed Girlyism.
'Herb up your life!'
Her favourite slogan.
Why was it always a sword?
It was just so … fallick.
Why not a magick singing cup?

They waited. And waited.
Then they lurked about a bit.
They waited and lurked for ages.
Then they went down the Tavern.

The words ******* and sheep
crept into his little mind.
Though not necessarily in that order.
It happened when he met Bruce.
Bruce was on Walkabout.
Kelm was fishing by the river
and was thinking his luck would change
if he fished in the river.
That must be where the fish were hiding.
Bruce had walked straight passed Kelm
as he was watering a tree.
He zipped up and slapped the tree.
Bruce had an accident.
“Geez mate, I thought you was a croc”.
Kelm suddenly felt intellectually superior
“Its salt water, so I'm an alligator”
he paused “or a camen”.

Morfine and Choklut missed stanza 4,
had slid right through 5,
and slapped 6 right in the face.
It got in a huff and walked away …

Jerrica put out her herbal cigarette,
she took her slogan seriously,
today's herb was marjoram.
Now she was hungry
so she wrote the word 'lunch'
on  a piece of paper.
And swallowed it.
Completely veggie and only 3 calories.
Jerrica flinched when she saw the males.
The first – late teens, silly shorts,
carrying an Abbey Winters catalogue.
The second – pre-teen boy with a big stick.
She sneakily approached, circuitously,
she could hear them talking.
“Maybe I'll turn you into a pair of shoes”
“I think a clutch bag would suit you more mister”
“My name is Bruce” said Bruce.
“Bruce? Kinda boring name
for a fantasy farce poem isn't it?”
“Oh yeah. I suppose you got given a better one?”
“I” stated the boy “am Kelm the Barbarian”
Bruce felt sobriquetiously inadequate.
Jerrica watched.
And asked herself girl questions.
About boys.

It seemed there was a lack of interest,
nobody wanted to know their story.
Morfine and Choklut couldn't find
a welcoming stanza anywhere.
Its seems they were all full.
Dejected they trudged to a Tavern.

As she withdrew she wondered
'What is the ****** point of boys?'
It was during her retreat, circuitously,
that she found a Poet.
He was underneath a rock,
so she put him in her breast pocket,
for safe keeping.
Boys were useless, but Poets were useful.
They knew all about love and romance.
And for some reason
feather pens excited Jerrica.

After a long day waiting and lurking
Shadow Boxer had got drunk,
tipped a serving girl a wink,
and retired to bed.
Slim Grainy was drinking alone.
He was rather miffed.
All that waiting and lurking in stanza 4
and his mates hadn't shown up.
Maybe Shad had had the right idea.
Drink and bed.
The door of the Tavern opened,
his friends walked in.
Morfine saw him and smiled
and greeted him with a hiya.
Slim fixed him with a baleful look and spoke
“Of all the stanza's in all the poems,
you had to walk into mine”.

Somewhere under a bridge too far
an anxious troll shook and shivered.
He wouldn't make it. He would never recover.
Why had he agreed to hear their story?
3 ****** days to tell 3 ****** segments
of a quest that could have been summarised
in 3 ****** phrases.
Went there. Found it. Came home.
Over egging the pudding.
Spinning a pointlessly long yarn.
A thought struck him,
in the head.
A rare occurrence for a troll.
He was going to devour
Morfine and Choklut.




© Pagan Paul (11/01/19)
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2nd poem in my 'Strange World' collection.

Part 2 out soon!
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Jan 14 · 6.4k
Want Me, Find Me
Pagan Paul Jan 14
.
Midnight sees a chain
of lights,
heading into the forest
so dark.

Follow the Will-O the Wisp
at night,
walk with the lone wolf
that barks.

Take that step into the unknown, the path that leads to me,
and I'll be waiting there somewhere, deep within the trees.

So walk that long path
in peace,
follow your dream as
it winds.

Keep purpose in plain sight
to release,
love that is not left
behind.



© Pagan Paul (13/01/19)
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Jan 3 · 1.4k
Mote
Pagan Paul Jan 3
.
Dust hangs in the still air,
caught by a shaft of light,
shiny sprinkles float serene,
in space a string-less kite.

A particle catches the eye,
playing tai-chi within a ray,
the stationary free dance
of a mote at indulgent play.




© Pagan Paul (25/12/18)
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Jan 1 · 1.0k
Red Kite
Pagan Paul Jan 1
.
The string trails away down
I tug it with all of my might,
I am the hue of setting suns,
I am a sporting red kite.

I wanted someone with scissors
to so deftly cut the strings,
transform into a real Red Kite
with eyes and feathers and wings.

Floating free upon the winds,
and marvelling at all that I spy,
swooping and diving at high play,
the flying master of the sky.

But now something has changed,
a strange and different feeling,
I think I'd like to be grounded,
for someone to start in-reeling.

I would like to feel so treasured,
a possession of the hearts cry.
Wishing to be the real Red Kite,
the pleasure in someone else's sky.



© Pagan Paul (30/12/18)
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Dec 2018 · 2.3k
Silly Seasonal Stanza
Pagan Paul Dec 2018
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Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat
and is getting strange looks from the family cat,
cleaning its claws and making them sharper,
if I were the goose then I would scarper.
.


Pagan Paul (24/12/18)
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Just something silly for xmas eve.
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Dec 2018 · 1.9k
Unrequited (10W)
Pagan Paul Dec 2018
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She makes me feel vulnerable,
yet she won't hold me.




© Pagan Paul (09/12/18)
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Unrequited admiration, desire, lust, love, - its bad for a poet!
For what is a poet without a muse?
We all need to be held/cuddled/loved.
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Dec 2018 · 2.3k
In Absentia
Pagan Paul Dec 2018
.
It is cold on the dark side of the Sun.
There is no heat,
not even in a thousand summers.
There is no light,
not even at the end of a tunnel.
Because on the dark side
there is No Sun,
not even in a billion Stars.



© Pagan Paul (09/12/18)
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