.
Feel my stream of passion,
it flows only through you.
.


© Pagan Paul (17/01/19)

.
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)

.
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)

.
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)

.
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)

.
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)

.
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)

.
She makes me feel vulnerable,
yet she won't hold me.



© Pagan Paul (09/12/18)

.
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)

.
Henry VIII was a deluded monarch,
he could never have ruled the Earth,
for he hasn't seen his **** for years,
hiding beneath the bulk of his girth.

And wobbling onto the battle field
is not the behaviour fit for a King,
he would have to sit nursing his cysts
and hoping the ointments don't sting.

His eating excess was cause for concern
but his syphilis remained largely unseen,
and one really has to feel so sorry for
whomever it is that is currently Queen.

His penchant for young and younger Ladies
made him a stranger to baths and soap,
and his bed hopping antics to sire a son
bought him much trouble from the pope.



© Pagan Paul (09/12/18)

.
Rider On The Storm of trances,
LA Woman led through ritual dances.
A Poet just Waiting for the Sun,
when The End was where it all begun.
The Spy trying to Break on Through,
a native sharing his Shamans Blues.
A Ship of Fools tinged with mirth,
destined Not To Touch The Earth.
Mr Mojo Risin', the acid dream rover,
taking rest When The Music's Over.



© Pagan Paul (04/12/16)


James 'Jim' Douglas Morrison
(Poet and Rock Star)
8 December 1943 – 3 July 1971.

.
Kalypso sports within the waves
luring sailors to watery graves
but if they make it to her isle
there they may tarry for a while.

Food and wine are given a'plenty,
they are rocked into lust so gently,
Nymph, Maidens, Bacchanalian revelry
lead the sailors into darkest devilry.

*** and sin are openly displayed,
a salacious procession, ***** parade,
And all men their vices expressed
seek the comfort of Kalypso's breast,
her hospitality soothes, allays their fears
as she slowly steals away their years.



© Pagan Paul (05/12/18)

.
The Moon doesn't love me anymore,
she may even have forgotten I exist.
Just a phantom roaming the Earth,
a mere trick of an eye in the mist.



© Pagan Paul (29/11/18)

.
A cloud falls from the sky,
a lead balloon of precipitation,
and cuddles the ground
like a long lost lover.
Dripping its cargo,
shedding tears along the way,
leaving a trail of damp memory
and a calm balm
for the Earth.

And a candle flickers
on a lonely table,
as a pen drifts across lines,
filling meaningless words
that never
convey the depths of separation.
The flame flares
as a waft, a draft,
creeps in a crack under the door,
adding a poignant touch
to the melancholy of atmosphere.
Gripping the pen with delicate unease,
the hubbub drowns inwards,
doubt rises in ascendancy,
the pen falls,
like a discarded relationship,
and the meaningless words
stop.



© Pagan Paul (21/11/18)

.
Feint is the Muse,
that looks upon me,
challenging my existence
with deep baleful interest.
Its struggles hard
to contain its indifference
at the mere mortality
that I conduct.
And conduct I do.
As melody takes
centre stage
in a flight of fancy,
constrained by rhythm
temperate, steady,
and insistent.
The cadenced beat
of skins keeping time
to a fanfare of sound.
But my voice is silent,
conspicuous by its absence,
in mute violation
of speechless freedom.
The words won't come,
no song message birthed
for altruism
nor benefit of composition.
The flight of fancy stalls
and gently rocks in a cradle
of anticipation.
Rhythm drops to a meagre
pelvic twitch,
insistence foregone and forgotten
in a cynical parody
of the vocal deficiency.
Velvet drapes lick
the wooden floor stage,
and the performance
has just begun.



© Pagan Paul (14/11/18)

.
Gaze ye not
'pon the misfortune
of the Harlequin,
his dead eyes
will see nothing
of your heart.
Pity ye not
the clown 'pon
his misery bed
of Narcissus petals.
Emotion has thieved
its own fortune,
carrying the weight
of bitter experience.
The furnace, long cold.
Never the embers
glow in his soul,
trapped in a world
when life cares not,
nor matters to the afflicted,
who is mocked
by thy Gaze.



© Pagan Paul (11/11/18)

.
The hypotenuse stretched
as far as the eye could see,
across a vast lateral plain
an horizon mathematically perfect.
And yet …
In the main square of the hypotenuse
the town crier bellowed out tidings.
The Triangle Triumvirate was unstable,
the discovery, nay re-discovery,
of the Mystery, the most horrific of Mysteries,
the Mystery of the missing
Fourth-Side.

Dweeb was a box standard barbarian.
Quick to anger, slow of wit.
Like last night at dinner.
He had Three potatoes, his sister had Four.
He shouted and thumped the table,
his angry voice expunging his ire.
Then his sister had explained,
to calm and reassure him.
Three was more than Four
because it had Five letters in it.
And Five is more than Four.
He thought about his axe,
then about his abacus,
and then he ate his spuds.

The Fourth-Side drifted in spacial isolation.
Of course now it wasn't a Side.
Being attached to nothing, it was just a line,
but it had some tricks.
It could coil and curl itself
to form rude words in joined up writing.
It floated on reminiscing,
about the **** angles it had made
with all its previous adjacent lovers.
The memory caused spasms
and it formed into a rude word
that should never ever be written down.

Teena, Dweeb's sister, vomited.
She had kissed a puppy,
and was being sick in the morning,
was she pregnant?
But, it was never a puppy, always a stork.
He mum had told her, warned her
'never kiss an errant stalk'.
Her mum died of the pox, whatever that is.
Something clicked in her head.
Oh! Stork and stalk!
Well they do sound the same,
especially in a harsh barbarian accent.
But the puppy had sneezed
as she had kissed it goodnight.
She thought about her axe.
And then she threw up again.


Equations to be solved #7
Vlad the Impaler was a Barbarian
+
Vlad the Impaler was a Libra
=
Dracula was a Librarian?


Right Angle was worried.
Duly so.
If the Fourth-Side Mystery was solved
he'd have three other Right Angles to deal with,
instead of a sixty and a thirty.
The Triangle Triumvirate would cease.
An intense Quadrilateral Mexican stand-off
would ruffle his perfect two-seventy external.
He had to divert attention away,
far, far away, from the Fourth-Side.
By Jove he had it! Bingo!
Let them try to solve
the Mystery of
The Back-Side.

Dweeb loved winding up his sister.
So he hid her puppy in a box.
But now he was worried.
Was the puppy still alive?
Or dead? Or both?
This may sound like a ****** stupid question
but where did that last thought come from?
Yes!
Yes what?
Yes, it was a ****** stupid question!

Teena though it very strange.
When she rang the dinner Triangle
the cat sat on the mat,
Salivating!
Curiouser and curiouser.
Conditioned response or learnt behaviour?
Teena dismissed the thought line,
she didn't ask ****** stupid questions.

It had no idea
about its status as a Mystery.
The Fourth-Side has issues.
Complicated issues.
It had somehow conspired
to tie itself in a knot.
And spacial isolation had become crowded.
Missing links everywhere, the sofa of time,
excommunicated integers, 1970's wallpaper,
it all floated about in spacial isolation.
Above all Fourth-Side was intensely agitated.
Couldn't anyone quieten that yapping puppy?




© Pagan Paul (06/11/18)

.
i.
Tam had cornered the little ******* in an alley,
his detestation of small people teased his mind,
taunted him to ever more sadistic exterminations,
he considered child killing to be no real crime.
His method of death was pain and tortures,
make them scream until they breathed no more,
he knew nor cared not from where the hatred came,
he just enjoyed murdering the children of the poor.

ii.
The globe shone and took her far
through and between space and stars,
along time lines ever changing fast,
vacillating betwixt the future and past,
a trip that so few had made or survived,
but in point she found she had arrived.

iii.
A yellow glow cascades around
from street lamps aligned in rows.
A feint hint of oil in the chill air
perfumes the night, assaults her nose.
Cobbled streets with carriage ruts
are quiet with few walking abroad.
The Seers Sphere travelling in Time
lands her in a place to be explored.

iv.
Tonight Tam felt the cold like never before
shivering hard as he scowled at the kids
herded underground to his special prison.
The chill sinks deeper and deeper
attacking the bones from the inside out.

v.
Her instincts bristled, advising caution,
as she strolls along the cobbled streets,
homing in on her victims location,
just at the moment the rain turns to sleet.

vi.
Tam had been mutilating the boy
in full view of the other brats,
scaring the little ******* shitless,
feeding pieces to his pet rats.

It was then the cold gripped him,
rattling his teeth, freezing his spine.
The children sat rigid as statues,
as a ghost appeared from out of Time.

The door frame shattered.
An unspoken command to depart.
Out the children clattered.
As ice took hold of Tam's heart.

Unseen frozen fingers gripped his throat,
he ****** himself as he is dragged out,
his bones snapping likes sticks of ice,
throat to dry to scream and shout.
And he feels the rain turn to sleet,
it was time for him and Death to meet.

Death came a'calling with intense pain,
frigid blades slice through flesh real slow,
at the last he feels one of his pet rats
as it starts to nibble at his naked toe.
Flies lay eggs in cuts on the near deceased
ensuring their maggots a royalist feast.

The last thing he saw as he died
the strangest of women walking his way.
Ice blue eyes of fire and malevolence
tinged with the anger of dismay.

vii.
She approached the scene like a stalking cat,
had felt her victims life drain away,
someone had got there before her,
she looked at the body with spiteful dismay.

viii.
A thousand lifetimes away
in another Time and place,
Grimly looks at two empty cradles
a sardonic smile upon his face.

ix.
Ice blue eyes of fire flash raw power,
she turns to see the shadow stop dead.
Fighting the cold creeping up her spine,
staring at the darkness straight ahead.

The shadow moves out of him,
lamp glow revealing his form.
Fire green eyes of malice show
he is the heart of a storm.

x.
She looked at him with interest and disdain
but her Sphere sang out a greeting song.
Somewhere in history Time and Space shifts.
She glances at the shadow, but he was gone.

Yet … She knew his name ...


Shivermage.




© Pagan Paul (13/10/18)

.
Fig leaves suit you,
but I can't wait 'til Autumn ;)


© Pagan Paul (2018)

.
I awake in the night and whisper your name,
is it just a dream when only silence replies?
a melancholy descends like a blanket of shame
at the arousal of remembering your Siren's eyes.

Such sleep as I had not enjoyed in long ages
disturbed by the intrusion of an old lovers face,
rearing up to unbalance the serenity pages,
your name passes my lips with yearning grace.

Unsettled by your surprise and quiet arrival
I lay back, anxiously sigh to the waiting void,
uneasy closing my eyes, craving dream survival
but the illusion of rest has now been destroyed.

I sleep in the night and whisper your name,
is it a dream as the silent in mute rejoice?
A sadness drops slow like a blanket of shame,
at the distance of remembering your Siren's voice.



© Pagan Paul (21/10/18)

.
She had walked the path every day
since her love had gone to sea.
To the woods upon the cliffs
to tie a ribbon on their secret tree.

Every noon for a thousand years
since her love had sailed away.
A thousand green ribbons hang
as testament to their lovers play.

At midday on the thousand and first
she broke down and loudly cried.
No need for her ribbons now,
the secret tree had fallen and died.



© Pagan Paul (17/10/18)

.
Stars shine behind clouds
peeking through on occasions
the sky's hide and seek.



© Pagan Paul (10/10/18)

.
Like a watermark through crisp white vellum
a face appears through the veil of dreams,
to colour wash away a montage of image
and decorate a mosaic of sleep dust seams.

As halcyon lakes waterfall into prism nebulae
and the courtesan face evades its emotions,
inevitably slipping between the chasms of space
like golden dolphins through plasmic oceans.



© Pagan Paul (01/09/17)

.
i.
And it grips her submissive mind,
sweeping her along unbidden,
through timelines inducing nausea,
passed worlds previously hidden.
Tumbling stones rumble unheard,
a slide that sends gravity shifting,
starting a new path through time,
the butterfly effect begins shifting.

ii.
The images stop swirling,
a vision fades slow into sight,
a row of glowing Seers Spheres
racked in the pale moon light.
Eleven cradles for resting orbs,
four relieved of their weight,
claimed by other time travellers
already gone through the Gate.

iii.
And she sees Grimly approach,
picking a Sphere from the rack,
carrying careful in clean hands,
then through the door turns back.
She sees herself seated rigid,
watches Grimly hand her the Sphere,
a bolt of understanding hits and
her mind becomes crystal clear.

iv.
She realises these are tests
for the next vision is of her,
as a child in a camel train
leaving the great city of Ur.
Crossing the desert once again
with oils and perfumes so pure,
amidst the most luxurious goods
of gold, silver, silks and furs.

v.
And the images diffuse, refocus, Judderwitch by a grave,
of an unfortunate sacrifice, the girl she could not save,
a flame handled dagger marks a headstone epitaph,
and her weeping grief slowly turns into a manic laugh,
as in the grave paces away, a woman screams out loud,
buried alive with a nest of spiders, no forgiveness is allowed.

vi.
And the scenes change, redefine, Judderwitch on a street,
with a mutilated corpse, an horrific sight for her to meet,
as a black rat starts to happily nibble at the naked feet,
and she shivers. She shivers? The Empress of Evil cold,
an anger courses through her at this alien feeling untold,
whilst her body stiffens at the answer she beholds.

vii.
Grimly sees her body stiffen,
a knowing smile graces his lips.
His eyes move to a vacant cradle,
as Time plays out one of its tricks.

viii.
And she knows.
She understands.
The Seers Sphere is Time itself.
Exactly one eleventh of
All Time.

ix.
The race through Time gently slows,
the globe feels warm as it brightly glows,
and deep inside she already knows
she is accepted and with Time she flows.
Connection with the Seers Sphere grows,
as the Ritual comes to its joyous close,
and the Seers Sphere hummed as it chose,
Judderwitch, and on its journey goes.



© Pagan Paul (05/10/18)

.
Tumbling stones rumble unheard,
a slide that sends gravity shifting,
starting a new path through time,
the butterfly effect begins shifting.

i.
The ancient track
is solid beneath her feet,
though she has walked
between the stars.
She knows not the place
but has been there before,
And the trail wends its way
through forest dense and dark
to a hags tooth mound
and the Tomb of Travellers,
upon the stone door
an inscription, a warning.
'Prepare to go everywhere.
Prepare to go nowhere'

ii.
“Let time take me wither it will,
be it fluid or be it still”.

iii.
The slow grating of stone on stone
as the door swings open,
light penetrating the gloom,
and the Tomb reveals its treasures.
She enters with reverence
and moves to a vacant plinth,
a marbled seat warm and empty,
her place for the connection ritual.

iv.
A mix of herbs into a secret potion,
preparing herself to swim Time's ocean,
clear cool water to bathe her skin,
awaiting the pendulum of life to swing.
The symbols in her third eye complete,
she eases so gently into her travel seat,
bringing the brew to her expectant lips,
a bitter taste as over her tongue it slips.

v.
Oh gently rock her mind to sleep,
just one last barrier for her to leap,
through Times gate to other places,
as the drug through her mind races.

vi.
A small squat figure emerges
in a midnight blue hooded robe,
Grimly the Guardian of the Gate,
carrying careful an ancient globe.
And her eyes glow with wonder
as she receives the Seers Sphere,
cloudy with the hue of pearl,
its significance is so crystal clear.

vii.
She places it in a depression
in the arm of the marbled chair,
settles herself and closes her eyes,
letting her mind drift on the air.
The connection ritual reaching ******,
acceptance or rejection time is near.
Will the bond form betwixt them?
She places her hand on the Seers Sphere …




© Pagan Paul (30/09/18)

.

You can see I am a stranger
but you are in no danger.

If you only took
the time to look

into my pale blue eyes
you would then realise

I Am a stranger

to myself.



© Pagan Paul (10/09/18)

.

I wish I could fade,
lay back,
close my eyes,

and fade...

through the continuum,
to a desolate place,
where peace reigns majesty,
and birds sing me awake,
as dawn paints the starry sky,
over a silver mountain lake,
clear as a mirror.

Stone monoliths rise to peak,
feet on moss and grass
make electric natural connection,
the smell of fresh air
and the scents of the flowers,
isolation tastes like honey,
sweet as a dream.

I wish I could fade,
lay back,
close my eyes,

and fade …


never to return.




© Pagan Paul (01/09/18)

.


The table lamp

The single book of verse.

The ornament standing alone.

The photo in an unforgiving frame.

Or just
the dust

gathering comfort
in a bitter room.





© Pagan Paul (2016/17/18)

.
You are there,
stalking my memories,
a series of pornographic tapestries
woven deep into my mind,
Hand stitched together
with a cold blunt needle,
threatening to unravel fast
when the sun kisses the horizon.

The petals of paper flowers
yellow with time passing,
presenting a weathered view
of a love that once thrived,
but is now moon dust
gathering on a dark web
of lust laced
with delicate ****** fragments.



© Pagan Paul (25/08/18)

.
Which crimson bud
doth burst forth white,
which lovely flower
doth perfume the night,
flourish and flutter
doth stamen and petal,
the bee upon beauty
doth gently settle.


© Pagan Paul (15/08/18)

.
The larks playing on a summer breeze,
and finches darting in betwixt the trees,
my mind is enthralled by what it sees.

A lark lands on my shoulder,
and it sang to me a secret,
I would love to tell it to you,
but I promised I would keep it.


© Pagan Paul (15/08/18)

.
A whirlwind of stagnant breeze
disturbs the warmest stillness.
Solar rays shimmer and coalesce
forming images of the Summer Girl.

Fragrant scents in light colours
float gently from her hair.
Flowers laced with golden thread
adorning her head like a wreath.

Chasing the shadows of clouds
across the heat haze so strange.
Her body lithe and newly alive
darting and flitting dragonfly style.

Arriving at the painting of the dawn
and here to nurse the day.
Leaving at the doom of sunset,
wisping images of the Summer Girl.



©Pagan Paul (07/06/14).

.
i.
Smoke coils up and dissipates,
soon the images will be clear,
as she stares with cold contempt,
into the depths of the Seers Sphere.
And she stands toking her pipe,
watching as the story unfolds,
soon her hate will boil once more,
unleashing her vengeance of old.

ii.
Smoke coils up and dissipates,
a thousand lifetime's away,
blackened stone and charred bodies,
the remains of a village destroyed.
The flames still licking at the flesh
and melting mortar of cottage walls.
Raiding horsemen ride off cheering,
with swords, shields and firebrands,
carrying amidst them a prisoner,
their prize and sport for the victory feast.
Savages are these violent men,
barbaric in their wanton lust for war,
the red mist and the ****** fury,
it's all they really have a care for.

iii.
She waits with patient seething,
her moments will arrive so soon,
the spilling of her black arts,
witnessed by a Woman's Moon.

iv.
The Vale was so beautiful lush and green.
Steep sided, oak trees, clear blue stream.
With fresh grass on which horses grazed,
and smooth rocks where wild fowl lazed.

v.
But the leader here was not a man,
she was the daughter of this warrior clan.
Fierce, cold, she barked out her orders;
build a fire, make food, secure the borders.
Her status unquestioned by her riders,
they would all fight and die beside her,
and as the camp grew out much wider,
her boot casually crushes a hated spider.

vi.
Manacles held her ankle fast,
shackled as she was to a tree.
Withdrawn, shivering with cold,
still seeing her burning family.
Images scorch her private intimacy,
awaiting the moment of her epiphany,
eyes watching with careless vacancy,
preparations for the nights ceremony.
But she would not co-operate,
would not give her jailers pleasure,
as she knows these last few hours
would seem to her like forever …

and Nature weeps with a prelude to grieve,
as the Maiden pulls a dagger from her sleeve.

… deny them their sport she will,
placing the dagger 'neath her breast,
a sharp tug towards her heart,
a thousand nightmares laid to rest.

vii.
A thousand lifetime's away,
smoke coils up and dissipates,
a cackle rents the air like ice,
the time her Woman's Moon anticipates.
And the instant arrives with joy,
as the Seers Sphere is thrown,
shattering and cackling hold hands,
as the glass touches solid stone.
At that moment of contact with rock,
time slips into a reverberating shock.

viii.
The Vale was so beautiful lush and green.
Steep sided, oak trees, clear blue stream.
With fresh grass on which horses grazed,
and smooth rocks where wild fowl lazed.

And the earth heaved and tremored,
shaking the Vales languid peace,
uprooting trees with tremendous urge,
rending the loamy soil from beneath.
Frenzied horses scatter with fright,
and men are thrown up high,
screams and shouts of piercing pain,
and the stream suddenly runs dry.
The quake unsettles the warriors camp,
leaving many broken bones and blood.
Then an ominous deafening roar
heralds the arrival of the coming flood.
And water coursed fast into the Vale,
no longer pretending to be calmer.
All living men drowned and dead,
encumbered by their heavy armour.
But she was much fleeter of foot
and ran hard as the waters rose.
Tripped by a treacherous branch,
head banged, stunned, her eyes closed.

ix.
Sunrise saw many things.
Smoke coiling up and dissipating,
over the ruins of a village,
crows and dogs feasting well.
It saw
the hooded robed figure of a woman,
squatting on top a new grave,
smoke coiling up from her pipe,
cackling …

x.
She awoke in darkness.
It didn't take long to panic and scream.
It took no time to realise,
she was sealed naked in a coffin.
And she screamed and screamed.
Pushing at the sides, the lid.
The air was heavy, stifling, stifling, stifling.
Precious oxygen running out.
The coffin moved, and she screamed,
desperately scratching and scratching.
And in the box she heard … cackling.
Her frantic screams turn to sobs of pleading
to be let out, to breathe, to live.
She felt something touch her inner thigh,
she screamed, as it touched again feint.
Brushing it away as the voice cackled on,
more tickles on her thighs, she screamed.
And something landed on her face.
The feel of a large spider on her mouth,
and she screamed and screamed.
But the cackling persisted
as she scratched at the wood,
her fingernails shredding to pieces,
but the wooden prison gave no quarter,
the skin raw and bloodied,
scratching, scratching, scratching.
And in her tomb she screams,
she screams and screams and screams.

xi.
… sunrise saw many things.
It saw a new river,
wending its way to the sea,
caressing the contoured land,
it saw horses running wild,
across the lush grass on plains.
It saw
the hooded robed figure of a woman,
standing beside a new grave,
as she places the flame dagger
upon the Maiden's final resting place,
it saw
ice blue eyes of fire and malevolence.
Weeping.


© Pagan Paul (02/08/18)

.
And quiet, a cemetery of the ancients,
fondled by the coiling mist of morning,
snuggles deep in the heart of the forest,
its quintessential stillness undisturbed.

And the sun ignites the darkened glade,
with a light that transfixes time itself,
heralding the infernally ponderous day,
when life endures the basics of survival.

And the moon shines in silver shards,
slanting beams with mystical hues,
announcing the delicious dark night,
where once again lies endless sleep.

And the shades of ageless dead relatives,
gravely sit and tell old ghost stories,
silencing the cold stone walls of tombs
with historic wisdom of times long gone.



© Pagan Paul (2017/18)

.

What floats your boat babe,
Archimedes' Principle of Water Displacement?



© Pagan Paul (20/07/18)

.
Pray excuse me Lady, I do beg thy pardon,

but I saw thee walking in the lonely garden,

chestnut hair falling over a long white gown,

and sadness deep in eyes of almond brown.

Forgive mine intrusion, please take a glance,

agree to accompany me to the lovers dance,

for thy loneliness to mine open heart screams,

so take mine hand and show me thy dreams.




© Pagan Paul (16/06/18)

.
As his words flow like honey onto the page
with a nod of approval from a linguistic sage.
Long gone are the days when a woman's plays
would look at the poet with a romantic gaze.

His sad verse no longer makes her cry,
his love poems fail to lift her heart to fly.
Her attention wanders like a lonely voice
away from sanctuary, towards more choice.

And as his pen drifts across a blank page
he remembers the ladies, being centre stage,
the looks of adoration in a beautiful face,
deep pools of experience for his art to embrace.

Melancholic he dips his pen again and tries,
imagination musing her gorgeous ****** eyes.
But the words won't flow, so defeated he cries,
and arranges poets tears into convenient lies.


© Pagan Paul (2017/18)

.
It really happened this morning
you'll never guess what I saw,
happily playing in my bath tub,
was the ghost of a dinosaur.

Not knowing quite what to do,
feeling sorry for his poor soul,
I reached in, pulled the plug,
and he disappeared down the hole.


© Pagan Paul (15/07/18)

.
Speak to me, your acolyte,
from high upon your chair.
Gaze down at my simplicity,
catch me with your stare.
Reach out with your fingers,
touch me with your smile.
Embrace me with your heart,
and lay with me a while...

...The gentle waves of lovers grace
fall soft across your perfect face...

...Whisper to me, your apprentice,
from the pillow next to me.
Gaze across at my paradise,
catch me with your need.
Together we painted the dawn,
but at the ending of the day
its time the curtain descended
and closed our passion play.



© Pagan Paul (2017/18)