.
The pained and broken often say
that the answers lay in the dark.
Amongst the old shattered pieces
each little torture leaves its mark.

Each scar born holds a sad story
containing fragments of feeling.
Therein lays the whole of truth
and the first spark of a healing.

So what of the shining light
that is supposed to show the way.
All the answers lay in the dark,
so the pained and broken say.



© Pagan Paul (28/06/18)

.
Darkness

          Starless

                    Voiceless

  ­   It yawns

      and swallows

                  the words ...



© Pagan Paul (20/06/18)

.
Standing atop this lonely hill,
my heart slow, breath near still,
tall and straight, arms out wide,
I summon the Wind from the skies.

When she arrives nobody knows
how much of her passion blows,
whispering zephyr, soft cool breeze,
or gale to strip the leaves from trees.


© Pagan Paul (18/06/18)

.

This forest night belongs to us,
with cool air so fresh and crisp,
held hands follow the tiny lights
of the dancing Will-O'-the-Wisp.

Guiding us through sleeping trees,
along paths that wend and twist,
across glades of woodland grass
bedecked with eerie evening mist.

Leading us to a magickal place
where inhibitions take a loss,
this forest night belongs to us
'pon our bed of soft green moss.



© Pagan Paul (16/06/18)

.
I'll never forget what you gave,
a look that could unwind time.
You froze that very moment
when I knew you would be mine.

A second where eternity passed
between us like a silver thread.
Your eyes betrayed naked emotion,
I knew no words need be said.

Without a seconds pause I take you,
lead you along a different path.
All because I had the audacity
to tease and to make you laugh.

I'll never forget that look given,
an invitation to come and play.
That frozen moment stretches out
into minutes and hours and days.


© Pagan Paul (2018)

.

Chase my heart through forests,
catch me if you can.



© Pagan Paul (25/05/18)

.
What is a poet to do
when his favourite muse
faints whilst making love,
a victim of passions fuse.

To carry on regardless?
Perhaps slap her lovely cheek?
Mouth 2 mouth no tongue?
Or maybe implore her to speak?

A lesser poet
shakes her anxiously
and writes a verse about prowess and spooning.

A True poet
carries on regardless
and writes a sonnet about his muse and swooning.



© Pagan Paul (23/05/18)

.

Love from a Poets Quill,
Oh Heart, be calm be still,
flicker not as the flame,
softly sleep holding her name.



© Pagan Paul (05/05/18)

.
There was a time
when a poet was the bane,
a thorn in the side of fathers,
seeking to protect their starry eyed daughters,
to keep their virtue intact and pure,
from the menace of romantic verse,
and the lure of a handsome wordsmith.

There was a time
women would queue to be his muse,
pray to be the next broken hearted tragedy,
in rhymes penned by his stroking fingers,
the fulcrum of an adventure in love,
to fulfil their private fantasies of destiny,
being the plaything of word woven desire.

There was a time
ladies in lace and fur and of status
raided accounts of rich and flaccid husbands,
to bestow favour and gifts,
upon the man who turned them on,
with *** for their lust starved bodies
and soft words for sensitive emotional need.

There was a time
and now its has long gone,
the poet barely catches a beautiful muse,
hardly ever breaks a heart,
nor seduces a benefactors second glance,
leading her to book and bed,
as the world offers her distractions new.



© Pagan Paul (25/04/18)

.
Some people search for a higher truth,
their lofty beliefs keeping them aloof.
They look past death to find out what?
Are they not content with what they've got?

Maybe they fear there is nothing beyond,
after the natural span they have donned.
Maybe they crave an extension on high,
but we are mortal, and mortals can only die.

So worry not about what comes after,
just enjoy life with love and laughter.
And as for the workings of eternity -
well – you'll just have to wait and see!


© Pagan Paul (18/02/17)

This is not the best haiku in the world ...
... its just a tribute.*
(to HaikuDonnajones and her Dean).

.
At the crack of dawn
me and dean go milk our cows,
pulling the udders.

Our cows milk is good
for cheese, yoghurt and butter,
very nice in tea too.

Vegetarians
are great, make good customers,
Vegans not so good.

What the hell is this
new coconut milk anyway?
Or soya butter?

I don't understand,
its not real dairy goodness,
its all fake dairy.

Our cows are organic,
no artificial cow feed,
just grass and fresh air.

After milking cows
me and dean have our breakfast
to give us energy.

I may turn Veggie,
but love my deans big sausage,
bacon, eggs fry-ups.

Our goats have kids to,
tidier than our own lot,
don't complain as much.

Me and dean are happy
with our kids, cows and our goats,
on our dairy farm.


© Pagan Paul (01/04/18)

.
The ether shimmers.
Time slips.
Your words float,
and dance for my eyes.
But we belong apart,
destined never to meet.

Yet...

There is a connection
as images assault me,
directly from your pen,
wrenching my soul,
drawing the pain,
painting the pleasure.

And...

Your words found out
emotion is not dead,
its just a sleeping child,
waiting to be loved.
But we belong apart,
destined forever to be...

… perfect strangers.



© Pagan Paul (2017)

.
The blink of an eye would have missed it,
a brief glimpse of pure beauty
and then it was gone.
The passing of a gloriously sublime moment.
Darkness drew its curtain around
and it was forever vanished.
Folded away and filed eternal
into the vaults of history passed.
Catalogued and captured in an instant
from within the blink of an eye.

The afternoon sun lights the mountains,
reflecting the sheen of the forest
in a riot of greens and yellows.
Bathing the vista of sight in a scene of serenity.
The air, still and warm, echoes a kind of magick,
seeking to manifest.
An event approaching with certainty
yet waiting for the correct second in time.
And the day hangs
like a cloak on a winters morn,
unmoving and timeless.
Anticipation drips from the instant,
taking its ease at the imminent
moment of intensity.
A brief glimpse of pure beauty,
and the blink of an eye would have missed it.


© Pagan Paul (21/03/18)

.

'pon your voyages through my mind
mingling with memories cruel and kind,
amongst the shattered dreams that do lay
'neath darkened clouds so distant away.
Amidst the chaos of random thoughts
strands of discord forged and sought,
chasing nightmares you must flee
the ugliness deep inside of me.
Be you close or be you far,
Please think of Me,
wherever you are.




© Pagan Paul (20/03/18)

'Neath the waves a wonder grows
with delicate hues of blue and green,
the beauty of the turquoise rose
a secret flower still and serene.

Visited only by the Siren Ula,
with a song so crystal and clean,
and the graceful Mermaid of the sea,
whom the shells all call Nerine.

But away they went to follow a dream,
and now the rose is seldom seen,
its bloom failing and aching to die,
the petals floating away to the sky,
and 'neath the waves no longer grows
the delicate beauty of the turquoise rose.


© Pagan Paul (17/03/18)

.
I thought of you the other day,
saw your face and kindly laughed.
Remembering how we used to play,
and cried at the times now passed.

The clock ticks, and tocks.
But strangely with no sound.
There is a timely silence,
now that you are not around.
My heart aches and cries,
but strangely without a tear.
There is a brutal loneliness,
now that you are not here.

Do you ever think of me,
see my face and kindly smile?
Lose yourself in my memory,
and linger on the thought awhile?


© Pagan Paul (2016)

.
I hear music.
Coming from nowhere, filling up everywhere.
A ghost of a phantom
whispers in my ear
“Let the music take you;
let the words free you”.

It waits like a shroud,
misty, comforting and open,
for my caveat-less submission.
Insistent soft etherical tendrils
take me to the source.

I feel music.
Coming from everywhere, filling up nowhere.
A voice of a Goddess
whispers in my ear
“Let the girl take you;
let the woman free you”.


© Pagan Paul  (2016)

.

I capture an image
as you flitter
through my dreams,
never resting to say hello,
never staying long enough
for me to enjoy
or appreciate your visits,
your mist like touch
as St Vitus Dance drives
you fidgeting
amongst my inner thoughts,
no care for the damage caused
nor the trails
of scented confusion,
yet wraith-like or feral ghost
your imprint leaves
traces of perfumed attention
in a tortured mind,
that linger with a hope
of a fleeting glance,
replaced with a second look,
and the tender torment
persists in the clinging grip
of pictures
sequenced to evade notice.


© Pagan Paul (05/03/18)

.

Why am I so hot,
handsome, clever, talented,
yet so very lonely?


© Pagan Paul (17/02/18)

.
And the waves crash down on a distant shore,
as worlds collide in a dramatic final encore,
a panic birthing universe, the original sacred chao,
bellicose suns carve furrows like a plough,
seed stars ******* from the maelstroms core,
illuminating that which was not there before.

The universe is a cell inhabiting a bigger store,
a microcosmic component born and newly restored,
internal explosions of chemistry creating divisions,
warping space about ideas, moulding time's schisms,
imagining life as the accident of a misplaced spore,
as the waves crash down on a distant shore.


© Pagan Paul (24/02/18)

.

She knows her love will never return,
so through the wind she softly calls,
her leap of faith was grace magnificent,
her ghost still walks the castle walls.
The forest below wails sylvan grief,
at the end of a life so sweetly pure,
a Springtime leaf fall marks the day,
when Lady Amarylis breathed no more.
A single rose now spends its days
beneath the walls its love displayed,
and come the wind it gently sways,
hoping to catch that faraway call,
perchance to answer with tidings sore,
The Lady Amarylis breathes no more.


© Pagan Paul (24/02/18)

.

She kneaded her dill dough.
.


© Pagan Paul (04/02/18)

.
I could kiss you through the words of a rhyme,
letters delivered with tender exquisite affection,
each syllable a moisture drop on delicate lips,
velvet verse licking porcelain, tasting perfection.

Stanzas saturated with the metaphors of love,
dripping salaciously upon your excited sighs,
I kiss your lips through the words of a rhyme
as they glisten like a jewel between your thighs.


© Pagan Paul (20/02/18)

.
Walk toward the North,
your foot falls on solid Earth,
be sure of your way.

Fly away off East,
you are floating on the Air,
be sure of your wings.

Take a trip down South,
you are playing with Fire,
be sure of your skills.

Swim far to the West,
the sun sets over calm Water,
be sure of your flow.

Stand within Yourself,
connect the inner Spirit,
be sure of all things.


© Pagan Paul (20/02/18)

.
She walks the castle walls at night,
with a rose held fast in her fingers,
the mist rolls away across the land,
the memory of her lover still lingers.

Cold flagstones beneath her slippered feet
hold the histories of the aeons tight.
Old battles, wars, and terrifying sieges,
ghosts of ancient warriors wail in the night.

And still she clutches his parting gift,
she wears the bond burden of his ring,
his love weighs upon her broken heart,
tears flow free with a melancholic sting.

They fall upon the stones and disappear,
additions to the heavy tomes of history,
little gems writing sadness in a story,
as she stares into the distance so wistfully.


© Pagan Paul (10/02/18)

.
I travelled the lands out to the West,
of all the cities I am most impressed,
with Melk, by mountains and sea it rests,
ruled by the Queen, Lyenna of Cressed.

Her beauty is famed throughout the land,
with many suitors for her vacant hand,
none of whom will ever understand,
she will marry only her own hearts plan.

I met Lyenna in her Palace of Green,
and my eyes saw beauty they had never seen,
so mysterious and delicate this foreign Queen,
seductive and distant with charms unseen.

Invited to an audience within the walls,
how could I not reply to this royal call,
these affairs tend towards a chaotic squall,
a chance to meet a Queen in her Great Hall.

“Lord Pagan of Poetica, I'm pleased to meet you,
its so nice for me to personally greet you”.
Her soft voice designed just to defeat you,
her ravishing beauty on show to unseat you.

With reddened cheeks I was able to say
“Its my pleasure indeed to meet you this day,
though the ground is cold and the sky is grey,
your presence brings the warm sun my way”.

My charm raised a blush and a smile,
she was happy to tarry with me awhile,
in the gardens we must have walked a mile,
her suitors barely concealing jealousy and bile.

Then Queen Lyenna whispered a secret to me,
she was waiting for a man from across the sea,
until he came she would hold on with assurity,
to her chastity, her love and her purity.

Her confidence in me was by no means assuaged,
but her secret I keep dear like an animal caged,
as deep within a raw and primal fire still raged,
I felt this moment could not have been better staged.

Her shy request to become my lover,
gifting to me what she would give no other,
my desire and lust I could no longer cover,
my heart was hers, no longer for another.

Disillusioned with the men in her land,
refusing them all she had made her stand,
not acquiescing to what her father planned,
the smile in her eyes said “I've got my man”.


From 'Selected Works'
by Lord Pagan of Poetica


© Pagan Paul (08/02/18)

.

The unknown depths call out to me
promising oceans of tranquility,
so let me slip down silently
'neath the waves of a midnight sea.
Addicted to this supplicant swoon,
witnessed only by the waxing moon,
the descent into a liquid room,
as Sirens wail their plangent tune.
Surfing out the softest of tides,
'pon the crest of love my being rides,
to where the deepest of feelings reside.
I sink with ease most graciously.
So let me slip down silently
'neath the waves of a midnight sea.


© Pagan Paul (04/02/18)

.
For some it is a poetic crime
to ever use an imperfect rhyme.
As the Emperor of enunciation
I embrace differing pronunciation.
So chain not words up in a prison
let them go with their own rhythm.
.

© Pagan Paul (Sept 2015)

.
Three tears is all that I can almost shed,
I'm wound up tighter than any thread,
as you lay on white sheets upon the bed,
I can't help but think you look beautiful dead.

My hand would love to touch your skin,
my head is full of the most atrocious sin,
but you are so cold and won't let me in,
and how can a veil of lust be so thin.

You can not be any older than thirty,
the way your ******* curve is so **** flirty,
and my mind is full of images salaciously *****,
you are so so tempting, naked and skirt free.

And even though I despair to caress you,
its pointless now to seek to impress you,
my job is to clean, arrange and dress you,
make you up to look just like the best do.

But oh! my lovely corpse I have a need,
to see you buried carrying my seed,
nobody will ever know, for secrecy I plead,
you will look beautiful in spite of my wicked deed.



© Pagan Paul (21/01/18)

.
Yestermorrow
the void yawns,
teasing and exciting me,
as I float serene
in an endless grey fog,
a timeless relapse,
murdering the will to live,
embracing and fondly
kissing eternity.


© Pagan Paul (21/01/18)

.
The wind moaned out loud

"oh my ****** back hurts."

© Pagan Paul (18/01/18)

.
Once upon a time
my quill danced across your skin
as raindrops on a blade of grass.
The ink spilled like tears,
words formed around your beauty
tracing the curves of a Goddess.

Once upon a time
my heart flirted with your love
as bees above a flower head.
The feelings poured like honey,
caresses formed around your beauty
crying and caring for a Woman.

Once upon a time
my body moved with your body
as waves on a lonely beach.
The pleasure flowed like water,
tides formed around your beauty
ebbing the moans of a Lover.

Once upon a time...


© Pagan Paul (2017)

.
When the feelings run and hide
and when there is nothing left inside.
I cannot even begin to disguise
the fact that I have cemetery eyes.

An empty shell, a carcass, a husk,
autonomic movement from dawn to dusk.
I will not allow my emotions to rise
and bring back life to my cemetery eyes.

There are words I just cannot repeat,
questions and probing, an enforced retreat.
The shutters fall, there is no compromise,
nobody sees behind my cemetery eyes.


© Pagan Paul (2018)

.
And so; Zeus condemned Sisyphus
'to Tartarus thou shalt henceforth go.
Thou hast cheated death now twice,
not thrice shalt thou escape below.

And so; Sisyphus again descended
passed Hades and on further down,
eternally pushing a boulder up a hill
from the base up to the crown.

And so; for eternity did Sisyphus
employ muscle, sweat and pain,
to gain the summit with heavy stone
which rolled slowly back down again.


© Pagan Paul (2018)

.
My mind works in mysterious ways,
sometimes a haze, and clear some days,
with words and images is constantly plays,
to create an art that will delight and craze,
seeking inspiration for the perfect phrase
and win a place in your heart always.


© Pagan Paul (01/01/18)

.
When you pinned the daisy to my lapel
you said 'that is where the fairies dwell',
and this special gift from you to me
was because you loved me beautifully.


© Pagan Paul (03/01/18)

.
The conquest notch on the heart,
a symbol of success and achievement.
But another year closer to the grave
reflects the sadness of old bereavement.
The love of life has long driven passed,
a life of love into the darkness been cast.
The symbol has slipped so far away,
the notch has healed and had its day.
So now the heart is as cold solid stone,
and I climb the stairs to bed alone.

© Pagan Paul (01/01/18)

.
Two lines of cold grey cottages stand,
like decaying teeth in the mouth of Hades.
Grim acknowledgement to a long dead past,
monuments to the what if's and maybes.

A dark stain on the undergrowth of Nature,
the mud filled pond reeks of sick disease.
Brick and concrete tumble down slowly,
as She reclaims land in shallow degrees.

But peace and tranquility live here now,
under the pall of a decomposing host.
Trees grow, birds sing and flowers bloom,
perhaps to entertain the departing ghosts.



© Pagan Paul (2017)

.
I hear my hair growing,
my being dancing,
like a candle flame,
black, illuminating nothing.

I smell my heart beating,
my mind flickering
like a promiscuous eye,
invitingly void and delicious.

I ******* stomach churning,
my moods changing,
like a pupating monster,
waiting in the pitch dark.


© Pagan Paul (26/12/17)

.
The branches of the trees bend and sway
as the breeze plays its tickling games.
Sitting beneath the mighty Oak
he closes his eyes and drifts back home.
His thoughts, like his arrows, true,
finding its destination with consummate ease.
A figure, a face, a smile, he sees.
The portrait of Her.
Burning a cold image in his mind.
An alien sound he hears, and startles,
intruding on his moment of reverie.
A bird lands on a tree, close,
giving him the eye, akin to the intelligent
stare of the capricious corvid.
It whistles and takes flight
calling him to follow.
Thoughts of Her portrait, now wisps of smoke,
disappear as intrigue beckons.
Insistent chirping, the clever eye,
leads him hither and thither,
ever away from home.
Caught in the enchantment, of following the Never bird.....

The mist crawls and curdles and climbs
in a rising, coalescing film of fog.
To befuddle the unwary, alone in the Trees.
His nerves, his eyes, captivated
as the Never bird commands attention.
Leading him on, deeper.
Home is but a distant sigh in his heart,
ignored with intensity, unloved.
The journey steps take him far, wayward
with no direction, no destination.
Singing sweet, swooping swift
the bird stops. Disappears into the gloom,
not once looking back, abandoning he who followed.
Lost. So very lost. So very lost.
Moments fly, rustling, footfalls, an apparition.
A Goddess of beauty unveils herself,
and steps, soft and gentle into the light.
Enraptured he takes her into his arms,
they sink and rut like animals, primal,
on the cool mossy carpet.
Banished are the thoughts and portraits.
Caught in the enchantment, of loving the Never bird.....

The cobalt sky in a haze of heat
swirls about before his eyes.
Laying beneath a Mighty Oak.
Goose-bumped skin. Alone.
He wakes. The forest still and silent.
His thoughts like drunken dogs
blurred by memories that excite and disturb.
The Portrait of Her.
Awakening a fuzzy, picture in his mind.
Scanning the trees, the lady is gone,
and missing is the Never bird.
Unknown magiks have been worked on him,
he felt, rather than observed.
The sigh in his heart for home, broke forth,
strange noises burst the mood.
The ache in his heart,
constrained within by abnormal form,
teetered on the edge of pain, sorrow.
A song of hope escapes, a decision made,
as wisps of smoke form a Portrait.
He spreads his wings,
caught in the enchantment, of being the Never bird.



© Pagan Paul (2016/2017)

.
She sits upon the cold grey stone,
waiting for he whom she craves,
counting down the longest moments,
perched beside the Ancient Grave.

Soon he will be wooing her,
making her heart swell like a wave,
taking her safely into his arms,
standing beside the Ancient Grave.

So entwined shall the lovers be,
to each a love they willingly gave,
naked and intimate in complete ecstasy,
laying beside the Ancient Grave.

And when its time to part again,
it would surely sadden the brave,
she watches until he disappears,
and settles into her Ancient Grave.


© Pagan Paul (20/12/17)