Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Dec 2017 · 1.1k
Pretty Garden Bird
Pagan Paul Dec 2017
.
Gold Finch on a tree,
she sings with sweet clarity,
gifting joy to me.
.


© Pagan Paul (20/12/17)
.
Gold Finches are a welcome flash of colour
in this miserable grey winter.
.
Dec 2017 · 1.6k
There Is Always One ...
Pagan Paul Dec 2017
.

The special speculative speculum
examined an orifice one day.
Upon its initial inspections
it was clearly heard to say

'I've been in some holes before
but this one takes the biscuit.
I should go in a little deeper
but don't know if I should risk it.
For there is a blockage here,
one I would rather not disturb.
I should really try to describe it
but I am struggling to find a verb.
It was always going to happen,
one day it would come to pass,
when in would walk a patient
with his head stuck up his ****'.


© Pagan Paul (14/12/17)
.
Dec 2017 · 1000
Snow Place Like Home
Pagan Paul Dec 2017
.
.      .
     .   .         .  .      .     
.   .     .        .
Snow kisses the sleepy mountains,
draping them with sheets of white.
Flakes drift down into the vales,
jewels sparkling in the full moon light.
A simple crystallised drop of water
delightfully whirls on a gentle breeze,
alighting softer than an eyelash kiss,
to find a home upon the trees.



© Pagan Paul (04/12/17)
.
Dec 2017 · 999
Ode to a Genius
Pagan Paul Dec 2017
.
Wine, enchilada and pickle sauce,
corks and safeties,
just like The Penguin In *******
in Ronnie and Kenny's shed.

The Idiot ******* Son
sits eating the deadly Yellow Snow,
whilst Joe hums Zombie Woof
at the Poodle in his Garage.

Dinah-Moe Humm finally gets off;
in the Dangerous Kitchen,
with the Muffin Man's ***** Love,
and the Illinois Enema Bandit.

The Fine Girl and the Latex Solar Beef
bathed in The Blue Light,
shout 'Pick Me, I'm Clean',
along Inca Roads, to Find Her Finer.

Cosmik Debris exclaims Zoot Allures!
From the fat, floating, maroonish Sofa
because the Bow Tie Daddy
sings Nasal Retentive Calliope Music.

Yo Mama! there's the Disco Boy
who gets in More Trouble Every Day,
so The Torture Never Stops,
with Damp Ankles, Peaches & Regalia.

Sam With The Showing Scalp Flat Top
dances with Camarillo Brillo upstairs,
catching Stink-Foot once again,
like In France from the Valley Girl.

And so the Watermelon In Easter Hay
rides off with the Duke Of Prunes
to the Carolina ******* Ecstasy,
visiting Billy The Mountain, and Montana.


© Pagan Paul (2016/2017)


Frank Zappa
(21st December 1940 - 4th December 1993).
Musician, Diplomat and Lyricist.
.
A tribute to a genius for the anniversary
of his death, and birthday (both in December).

There are a lot of Zappa song titles
and references in this write.
.
Nov 2017 · 2.0k
Moon Rain
Pagan Paul Nov 2017
.
Glistening droplets
form soft liquid spheres that spill
moon rain down wet cheeks.


© Pagan Paul (29/11/17)
.
Nov 2017 · 1.0k
I, Oak
Pagan Paul Nov 2017
.
I saw thee dancing betwixt the trees,
wearing the greenest of velvet dresses,
hair bouncing in a flow of wild wind,
cascading down in tight curled tresses.
Joyously giggling at Natures comfort,
her love surrounding thee in a cloak,
'Tis then thy truest feminine snares
caught the heart of this mighty Oak.



© Pagan Paul (25/11/17)
.
Lord of Green series, poem 14
.
Nov 2017 · 1.7k
Silent Vigil
Pagan Paul Nov 2017
.
He lays in peaceful repose upon a sheet of satin,
she moves up to his body and curls into him,
placing her head upon his unmoving chest,
unconditional grief shown in mute sadness.
She recalls his voice filled with love and affection,
his familiar scent now gone, cold and musty,
as deaths sweet perfume hangs heavy
like a drape of choking intoxicant trance.
Moments stretch blandly into minutes of ache,
the minutes career into hours of silent vigil.
And with her head upon his unmoving chest
she exhales and whimpers her final sigh,
a last breath and she submissively slips away.
Hoping, perchance, once more to hear
her masters voice.



© Pagan Paul (25/11/17)
.
Nov 2017 · 2.4k
Clouds at Dawn
Pagan Paul Nov 2017
.
Boiling clouds approach the dawn,
a profusion of sinister foreboding,
banking up to obscure the day,
a menacing storm just reloading.

A figure runs across the moor,
panic and purpose in hostile flight,
pursued relentless across the heather,
desperately chasing the receding night.

A treeline beckons promising safety,
a disguise from the hunters view,
open ground slips passed slowly,
the forests sanctuary calls anew.



I wake startled, heart hammering in my chest,
fight or flight images seek my mind to infest.
The pounding in my head, hooves on a forest floor,
provoke shivers, as rivulets upon a dampened moor.
My breathing slows and sweat dries upon my skin,
a sense of belonging starts to grow from within.
Dazed I slip sideways out of my comfort bed,
and stare into the mirror at the antlers on my head.
I return to the bed and casually slide back in,
wondering where my fantasy dreams had been,
but all I discovered was another fitful sleep
as the images form of a treasure I keep.

Memory bubbles up and I am in a glade,
sun shining bright and sat in the shade.
Billhook and bow saw propped by a tree,
the life in the forest feeling good to me.
Peace and tranquility, I counted my luck,
when out of the trees sprang a young buck.
So fragile but already magnificent and proud,
stomping his hooves, snorting out loud.
Brave and insolent he looked at my eyes,
staring me down, holding caution so wise.
A look passed between us, a mute reflection,
an instant mind meld of atavistic connection.
I was He and He was me,
my spirit guide for eternity.
And the sun shone upon us in that glade,
the forest spirits celebrating that bond made.



With failing energy, tired from the chase,
a thought of doom and my senses race.
Taking rest in the heart of a clearing,
a quick twang and the pain is searing.
Surrounded in a trap the hunters prepared,
there is no way of escape, I am ensnared.
The loosed arrows point is sharply felt,
as a crimson flood stains my pelt.
Mind is swooning and my legs bend.
This is not how the Old Tales end ...


The scythe of Death merrily reaps,
lightening strikes, thunder rolls.
The frigid grave waits so silent,
empty, for he whom the bell tolls.

Boiling clouds obscure Dawns pale skies,
as the hunters horn in triumph it cries.
This is the End, when the dream dies.
My heart is still and I gently close my eyes.



© Pagan Paul (11/11/17)
.
Not all stories have a happy ending.
.
Nov 2017 · 1.1k
Time and Space
Pagan Paul Nov 2017
.
Tunnels of crimson, splits the vision
as passion cruises through misty time,
the journey of the mage, passing through
the portals of seconds, the doors of millennia.

To encounter the turbulence, feel the butterflies
that threaten ill and ***** up minutes.
Chronology moves in pan-dimensions,
tempered to conformity, trapped in a clock.

The guardian of day and night, corrupted.
At journeys end, a travellers rest
parades upstanding to purvey its solace,
beckoning the beacon to sally forth.

Light space, occupied with vaccuum stars.
A macrocosm of possibilities, caves of wonder,
sends the horizon to eclipse blue moons.

In contrast, green symbols of pure abandon
triumph in ancient games of catching mist.
And the bed of Truth, a complete Lie fact.


© Pagan Paul (2016/2017)
.
Old Poem
.
Nov 2017 · 3.4k
Seduction
Pagan Paul Nov 2017
.
Lead me not into temptation of thee,
taunt me not with memory of thy desire,
tease me not with thy seduction of lust,
for thou hast cast a *** spell I admire.

Come hither, bring the grail of thy body,
take me as thy man and mark me,
cast thy symbol 'cross my naked skin,
submit to thy urge and smile at me darkly.

Cut deep, wield thy passion with honour,
thy tongue my ardour to bring alive,
thou employ wicked witchy womens ways
and I see Need deep within thine eyes.

Come hither, bring the paragon of thy want,
give nymph chance to thy beating soul,
shatter me softly with thy perfumes,
take thy fill of love and sagely lose control.




© Pagan Paul (11/11/17)
.
Nov 2017 · 1.0k
Winter Girl
Pagan Paul Nov 2017
.
Soothing winds from the north
spread neatly across the world.
Bringing chills and ice and quiet,
hailing the arrival of the Winter Girl.

Her sire, Jack Frost, so proud.
Her mother, the Moon, is waiting.
Her silver white hair grows wild,
a testament to their Spring mating.

Her eyes sparkle and smile,
orbs riding on a golden tide.
Her head bows with mute consent
like a first time blushing bride.

And her entrance is most stately,
announced with a carpet of snow.
The Winter Girl is birthed anew
as northern winds begin to blow.



© Pagan Paul (2015/16/17)
.
Old poem previously unpublished
.
Nov 2017 · 4.3k
Love Remains Elusive
Pagan Paul Nov 2017
.
Links in the chemist chain
laced in a double helix
defy the laws of the universe,
and the atavistic resurgence
creates isotopes of dream passion.
     Elements conspire in panic
     with a symmetry of casual chaos
     that mimics an atomic bomb,
     destroying its own creator
     in a cruel parody of birth paradox.
          Arresting the Iris of Dissolution
          with cuffed anxiety drowning
          in a pond of helium ore,
          carelessly drifting on acid flesh,
          coagulating in a soup of memory.


And the paradigm shifts again,
reality unfocussed clears, strains,
revealing your shuddering form,
next to me, keeping me warm.
Lids flicker and you open your eyes,
shining, smiling in cute surprise.
Moving my finger up to my lips
whilst I gently untangle our hips.

     Do you remember this night?
     Last night, tonight, tomorrow night?
     Time begins to slowly rewind,
     on the night you blew my mind.


My essence is filled with your heart,
a love I have yet to discover.
Whilst you wander between the stars,
my universe starts to recover.

So please don't break this silence now.
Please don't shatter this moment long,
I want this post ****** memory to remain
in the morning when you have gone.

© Pagan Paul (04/11/17)
.
Oct 2017 · 1.0k
Serenity
Pagan Paul Oct 2017
.
<>
Shady summer pond
Dragonflies hover in air
Welcoming the day
<>




© Pagan Paul (2016/2017)
.
Pagan Paul Oct 2017
.
The night the Veil is thinnest
between the living and the dead.
Samhain eve reverberates darkly,
Worlds hanging by a single thread.

The Moon is high and midnight approaching,
as she slips from beneath the sheets so warm,
gently placing her wand in the secret drawer,
dressed in her hooded cloak, making for the door.
Barefoot along a path so long and  dark,
accompanied by the sounds of insects chirping,
the night songs creeping around her body,
Spirits of the Night smile at her wanton flirting.
Her legs carry her across green meadows
and on through the deep woods to a field,
drawn by hunger to a lonely figure on a hill,
she lets drop her cloak, her nakedness revealed.


Alone and pinioned, arms extended,
a warning stood upon a mound,
the guardian, a sentinel unbended,
statuesque, and tithed to the ground.

Her voice lifts high above the wind
and soft incantations fall as spells.
The Enchantress sings songs of yearning,
chiming along with Samhains bells.
And the warm midnight air shimmers
as the figure starts to turn to flesh,
reconstruction from the sacred heart,
for her painful memories to redress.

Thunder rolled, lightening flashed,
as she sank down to her knees,
reaching out to release his manhood,
and the howling wind began to ease.
His responsive flesh quickens with blood,
but not one sound does he make,
as she spies a grin upon his face,
a true sign that he was fully awake.
Lips and tongue work hard to arouse,
so his wand would stand with pride.
She stands up trembling and bending over
reversing a step to take him inside.
The storm rages with wild abandon,
like their frantic mating upon the hill.
Then as conjoined lovers reach ******
the storm is spent, and everything is still.


And the Spirits of the Night smiled upon her bliss,
at the Enchantress Crossing the Veil of the Abyss.

And with the passing of the storm
the spell died and was no more.
The one thing that her lover left,
her ****** purse filled with straw.

So smiling at her naughty nights play
she set her feet towards her home,
on this the very darkest of nights,
where both the living and dead roam.
Along the paths and back to her bed,
she giggles manically and starts to sing,
hoping the future reveals her joy,
of what her scarecrow lover may bring.


Samhain night over, to deep sleep she goes,
and soon Winters Solstice bells will ring,
It is then her dreams will surely know
whether her belly will swell in the Spring.


© Pagan Paul (15/10/17)
.
Oct 2017 · 877
Never Ending
Pagan Paul Oct 2017
.
The night sky reflects the macrocosm,
swollen Universe in all of its glory.
Laying girdled in repose and hush,
across time with an endless story.

The sun light reflects the microcosm,
miniature Universe in celebration regail.
Laying gilded in gold and dewdrops
riding time with a ceaseless tale.

The microcosm reflects the macrocosm,
the Universe mapped in a tiny mind.
Laying guarded, cradled in rainbows,
through time with its Nature confined.



© Pagan Paul (2017)
.
Oct 2017 · 1.4k
Mediaeval Muse
Pagan Paul Oct 2017
.
A gemshorn and a mandolin
strike up counterpoint melodies,
as a harp and viola
caress the notes of a minuet.
Soft waves of music creep
around the joy of the Hall,
cuddling the fibres of granite stone
with a warming fire for all.

And she steps to the fore,
slippers of silk gliding so slow,
eyes as blue as robins eggs,
smile sweet as a full moons glow.
Hair laced with summer flowers,
a long dress of velvet green,
and the shawm she is ready to play
held lightly by fingers so keen.

Her tongue moistens shyly,
as the reed approaches her lips,
with fingers dancing over holes,
and deftly into a trance she slips.
Descending chords in choral hue,
drip colours into an aching heart,
the sweetest of mediaeval muses,
playing well her minstrels part.



© Pagan Paul (21/10/17)
.
Shawm, Gemshorn - mediaeval musical instruments.
.
Oct 2017 · 945
Black Rose
Pagan Paul Oct 2017
.
O' Widow of the Worlds, embrace thy darkest hours.
Breathe evenings cold perfume, recall woods and flowers.

Glide proud amongst thy memories and foggy dreams,
pause pensive, gently pick a black rose for thy hair.
Give tears, settle 'pon thy fate as destiny deems,
walk through the mist and dissolve into the air.

At peace 'pon thy darkest hours,
sigh alone, a door to close,
sadness sleeps for all eternity,
the silent death of a rose.



© Pagan Paul (10/10/17)
.
Final poem of 'Rose' trilogy
.
Oct 2017 · 845
Extinction
Pagan Paul Oct 2017
.
It seems all around the world
something is happening to the girls.
The problem unto which I refer,
is their propensity to de-fur.

Deforestation is not so nice,
not for the humble ***** lice.
Extinction beckons for this bug,
for the want of a nice warm rug.

© Pagan Paul (2017)
.
Oct 2017 · 823
Red Rose
Pagan Paul Oct 2017
.
O' Lady of the Forests, hold thy woodland form.
Smell blossoms sweet scent, calm within a storm.

Take umbrance through meadows and mighty trees,
pause delicate, gently pick a red rose for thy hair.
Hold a tear and muse 'pon thy children's pleas,
walk by sacred lakes and be one with the air.

And stood 'pon thy woodland form,
bleed love to all exposed,
pain becomes still until forever,
the silent blood of a rose.



© Pagan Paul (10/10/17)
.
Part 2 of 'Rose' Trilogy.
.
Oct 2017 · 1.8k
Puzzle
Pagan Paul Oct 2017
.
Random components in a broken box,
all there is of the jigsaw dreams.
Unaligned pieces distorting the picture,
a wooden tapestry split at the seams.
On the perimeter frame of insipid ice
molten images interlace in mist,
reaching for completion, a solid visage,
defying the puzzle a right to exist.


© Pagan Paul (09/10/17)
.
Oct 2017 · 1.0k
White Rose
Pagan Paul Oct 2017
.
O' Maiden of the Garden, still thy flowery swing.
Inhale dawns fresh dew, as birds take to wing.

Glide casual across the grass and dainty moss,
pause quaint, gently pick a white rose for thy hair.
Shed a tear and cry for thy saddest love lost,
walk through the mist and float away in the air.

And seated 'pon thy flowery swing,
in quiet and soft repose,
draped so nonchalant until Spring,
the silent ghost of a rose.



© Pagan Paul (10/10/17)
.
Part 1 of 'Rose' trilogy.
.
Oct 2017 · 906
Lady Roxy
Pagan Paul Oct 2017
.
Lady Roxy keeps her lover private,
hidden in a box under the bed.
The only conclusion one can arrive at,
she prefers something that buzzes instead.

Lady Roxy doesn't bother with dating,
just an occasional change of battery.
No reason to hang around waiting,
for compliments and blushing flattery.

Lady Roxy's lover does as she bids,
deftly wielded as a weapon of pleasure.
With no exchange of ****** fluids,
'tis truly her most joyous treasure.


© Pagan Paul (10/10/17)
.
Oct 2017 · 748
Lonely Orbit
Pagan Paul Oct 2017
.
Isolation explored and typified
by the corona of the sun,
forever within touching distance,
but never to be as one.

An absence of a true connection
exists between the pattern,
loneliness drifting in deepest space,
distant like the rings of Saturn.



© Pagan Paul (08/10/17)
.
Today, Oct 10th, is World Metal Health Day.
.
Oct 2017 · 794
Kut
Pagan Paul Oct 2017
Kut
.
Pain.

Like sliding down bannisters
made from razor blades.

Like bathing in rose bushes,
swimming in broken glass.

I bought an Emo lawn.
It cuts itself.

Because I'm too busy ...

... cutting Me.



© Pagan Paul (04/10/17)
.
For Claire.
I know you joke and make light of your self harm
but I look passed the smiles and bright eyes,
and see the pain still there waiting to come out.
I also know you didn't mean to take it so far this time.
Maybe by the time you read this you will be getting
the help and support you need.
I send love and best wishes for a speedy recovery.
<3 Paul.
Oct 2017 · 6.1k
Winters Ball
Pagan Paul Oct 2017
.
Come! Come! One and all,
come to my woodland hall,
attend ye all mid-winters ball,
in friendship harken to my call.

Paths awash with candle light,
in the branches burning bright,
such an enchanting magical sight,
to guide you gentle through the night.

Friends with whom to drink and eat,
cuddled warm in a sylvan heat,
while dancers fling to keep the beat,
songs are sung, lovers meet.

And by a fire in a little glade,
words are spoken, promises made,
the Bonding tree with hearts displayed,
brings memories that will never fade.

.

And when the party is at an end
I'll lovingly embrace my dearest friend,
and quieter than what lies beneath,
whisper sweet poetry to my Lady Leaf.



© Pagan Paul (04/10/17)
.
Poem 6, Series 2 of my Lord of Green collection.
.
Oct 2017 · 1.7k
Game of Poems
Pagan Paul Oct 2017
.
A shepherd gently tends his flocks,
on the night of the Autumn equinox.
Patiently guarding his wayward sheep,
as the Oak King prepares for sleep.

And the Holly King from slumber wakes,
with solemnity his tired head he shakes.
Then joyous laughter he openly roars,
his half year reign once more restored.

Guiding all Nature to a bed of rest,
to energise, regrow, is his duty quest.
Bringing his peace and tranquility serene,
for the comfort of his bridal Queen.

For She is Nature, there all year long,
loved and celebrated in many a song.
No greater love could She invoke,
her two wild husbands, Holly and Oak.

So Oak pens his warm Summer verse,
and Holly writes of cold Winters' worst.
Her heart draped upon their royal thrones,
bringing joy to this eternal Game of Poems.



© Pagan Paul (03/10/17)
.
Oct 2017 · 762
The Dream of Fame
Pagan Paul Oct 2017
.
I'm sure you know this scene,
its set inside your dream.
A stage set for the apprentice
dressed up like a little princess.

An actress, moon-draped in pearl,
lighting up your fantasy world.
A satin curtain opens the play,
as the crowd settles, holds their stay.

Enter stage left, turn and smile,
close your eyes and dream a while.
Delivering lines to warm applause,
a powerful ******, the audience roars.

Now rest in sleep, and be content,
its all over, your performance spent.



© Pagan Paul (2016/2017)
.
Sep 2017 · 5.4k
I Think I Like You
Pagan Paul Sep 2017
.
The Sea and you are Sisters,
your eyes Green as she.
Her waves skip like your kisses.

Soft, rhythmic, with gentleness,
soothing my tempest.
You are daughters of the Moon.



© Pagan Paul (2016/2017)
.
7-5-7
.
Pagan Paul Sep 2017
.
Within the salty swirl of foamy loam
where depths collide with rushing tides
mystical creatures' hearts do roam
their secret desires, they so carefully hide

But one day among crystalline shadows of light
in shades of turquoise and emerald,
two beauties emerge from dark into bright,
and in their meeting a shared destiny heralds.

One with a voluptuous feminine grace,
swaying hips, fullness of ******* and velvet thighs
auburn-haired, with lips made of cherry
and her mellifluous voice her treasured prize.
The other a magical alchemy
of shapely woman and magnificent fish
her violet eyes and iridescent smile
would fulfil Poseidon's deepest wish.
With gemlike scales and long, lithe limbs
a glow lights up her mystic aura
yet behind it a sadness and longing for love
hide behind the coral reef's gentle flora.

Chancing upon each other,
at first hazy shadows
in the blue-green light
the Siren and the Mermaid
started to discover
that they shared a similar plight.

"Are my eyes really seeing what I think?"
breathed the Siren into the salt
"I've never seen a more beautiful creature,
I thought the chances would be nought"
"My name is Nerine," said the Mermaid. "For a sea Nymph I truly am
who has roamed the oceans day and night
feeling more empty the harder she swam"
"And I, am Ula," declared the Siren, in a voice like crystals , fine-tuned
"They say that my voice is as clear and smooth as a sapphire
which is why I am called a 'sea jewel.'"
The two embraced and began to talk, speaking of their pasts,
their present and future
and both realized that they wished for spiritual and ****** mates
to mend their hearts that were achingly sutured
"Oh darling," said Ula
"Let us journey to the land of the forests
for surely as they day I was born
we may find our blessing a-waiting us
in the spell of the wondrous Unicorn"

And so a sacred pact was made
as they swore unto each other
that their vigour would not fade
until they found their one-horned lover
and with knowing eyes,
pressed palm to palm
the beauties made their choice
Nerine would give up her tail for legs
and Ula her singing voice

Foreheads together, arms raised in light
their prayer was spun to sky
and suddenly, the two enchantresses
found themselves on land, quite dry

Excited, giggling like nymphets
they jumped and twirled in delight
and set off for the forest green
For their hearts they were ready to fight

I feel their presence first
a Fey being knows another Fey being.
The magic of the Otherworld,
announcing arrival long before seeing.

Into view they came walking along the forest path,
fluid movements hinting at an elemental source.
Chitter-chattering, the same way that finches laugh,
feet strong, steady, never straying from their course.
Two carefree girls, making trails through my Green,
I feel a purpose brooding, so sound out a call.
They stop, gracious, as if surprised to be seen,
whispering these words as on their knees they fall.

“We are Sea-sisters of the ocean,
we are here to follow our notion.
Searching the forest in gentle kind,
for the Unicorn we wish to find”.

Hark! Hear your wild Lord speak,
listen as your mind he frees,
leading you on a fantasy journey,
through valleys and betwixt the trees.
His stories weave a forest dreamscape,
a sylvan land of purest Green,
leading you by a cautious hand,
he'll show you things you've never seen.
Twisted hazel and the mighty oaks,
meadows and glades of sweetest light.
Streams that catch the moons cool rays
and secrets held within the night.
But the Unicorn, a law unto himself,
is one thing this Lord cannot show,
a creature to be sought for alone,
so off through the forest you must go.

Following deer tracks and mystical ways,
strange paths that turn and twist.
Deep into the woods the wanderers stray,
yearning the fabled Unicorn to exist.

Then it happened, inclement weather,
rain soaked the bracken and heather.
So Nerine and Ula, a decision made,
took to shelter in a canopied glade.
The irony was, to them, quite plain,
creatures of the sea hiding from rain.
The forest floor did start to steam,
creating an eerie warm sylvan dream.

And the girls so excited hugged and kissed
as a mighty beast emerged from the mist.
Slowly coalescing and so taking its form,
the raw masculine power of the Unicorn.

I had felt their presence as soon as they touched land,
emerging from the foaming waves, crawling hand in hand.
I heard the echoes on the ether, as they made their Sacrifice,
the resonance throughout feydom as they gladly pay the price.
I knew their wandering had led them a merry crooked dance,
and now they shivered before me, they think as if by chance.
But I am a law unto myself, the Unicorn of the trees,
roaming at will in the forest, showing myself to whom I please.
So these Maidens come from the sea where they were born,
two adventurous girls' brave quest to find the Unicorn.
Nerine and Ula looking awestruck statues in my presence,
rooted to the spot, rigid liked scared and paralysed pheasants.
Their deepest wish fulfilled, they marvel at my existence,
and I in turn marvel at their resilience and raw persistance.
But the Sacrifice means that the sea is no longer home,
tied well to the land, destined now to forever roam.
And what of love, their desires and lust to find a mate?
Well, for Nerine there is no choice, feelings came so late.
Parting from the Forest Lord, latent attraction she had felt,
and knew she would return his way, in his arms to melt.
The Siren Ula was very quiet, looking frightened and forlorn,
her greatest dream had always been to follow the Unicorn.
So now we walk together through glades beneath the Moon,
my primal urge keeps calling for her to sing a tune.

Sacrifice made, quest fulfilled, to her Lord, Nerine has gone.
Ula happily rides me, never once missing her Sirens Song.
And here, for now, is where this story sadly ends,
Nerine and Ula Sacrificed their gifts, forever sister-friends.


© Pagan Paul & Lora Lee (25/09/17)
.
To Lady Lora Lee : A long pregnancy, labour of love, and we have given birth to a wonderful story poem :) Thankyou for writing with me <3 PPx
.
Sep 2017 · 619
Poetica 3
Pagan Paul Sep 2017
.
Far atop the highest clouds,
down below the deepest seas,
all the space thats in betwixt,
words will flow with skilful ease.

At every point upon the compass,
around about three-sixty degrees,
the tumbling omni-present sound
of words upon Poetica's breeze.

So fly high above the clouds,
and swim deep beneath the seas,
Poetica is freedom to express,
and Her words no law decrees.


from 'Selected Works'  
by Lord Pagan of Poetica


© Pagan Paul (23/09/17)
.
3rd of the poems stolen from Lord Pagan :)
.
Sep 2017 · 1.6k
Mood Swing
Pagan Paul Sep 2017
.
In a garden fair with flowers
is where she whiles away her hours.
Especially in the months of Spring,
gently rocking upon her mood swing.

Flying high and dipping low
she lets her emotions freely flow.
Not caring what the feelings bring,
gently rocking upon her mood swing.

Hanging beneath an apple tree
a virginal symbol of her purity.
Listening quiet to the songbirds sing,
gently rocking upon her mood swing.


© Pagan Paul (25/09/17)
.
Sep 2017 · 1.3k
Proverbial Conundrum
Pagan Paul Sep 2017
.

If

He who hesitates is lost

then why

Look before you leap?
.




© Pagan Paul (19/09/17)
.
I realise these are British proverbs, so some poets
may not have heard them before,
However, they do contradict each other.
.
Sep 2017 · 3.6k
Silenced
Pagan Paul Sep 2017
.
Tapioca sky,

feel the knife curve
like a Moon-hook,

wrenching a tourmaline ****
into hallucinating gums,

ritualised in immortal agony.


Lemon clouds,

see the portrait smile
like a nightmare,

feasting on famine entrails,
of sacrificed words,

scything off the tongue.



© Pagan Paul (2017)
.
Old psychedelic poem.
.
Sep 2017 · 947
Poetica 2
Pagan Paul Sep 2017
.
Far away across the sea
an island cloaked in mystery.
Where nothing is as it appears
because it exists between the spheres.

Poetica speaks as she spins
flying high within the winds.
Words flow in rivers deep
climbing mountains to fall asleep.

Resting fair on velvet green
in secret valleys so serene.
Shady glades in woodlands snore,
comforted beyond misty shores.

It is there verse and rhyme are born,
upon Poetica's burgeoning dawn,
floating away and out of sight,
into Poetica's beautiful night.

from 'Selected Works'
by Lord Pagan of Poetica


© Pagan Paul (10/09/17)
.
Companion poem to Poetica (posted June 2017)
.
Pagan Paul Sep 2017
.
Fulfilled, satisfied, a gentle kiss,
and a promise to return ...


© Pagan Paul (12/09/17)
.
Sep 2017 · 971
Darklust
Pagan Paul Sep 2017
.
Your name burns acid on my tongue,
a visceral hydrochloric distaste,
drool, despised, forms on my lips,
grey, venomous from your serpents kiss.

Your fingernails, biting knives in my skin,
slicing open old scars to bleed anew.
The crimson trickle, like dripping honey,
drying rotten about hairs, to scab.

Your body consumes my passion,
regurgitating it thrice seven-fold.
Vomiting lust over the dining table
designed by Nature to make you gorge.

Your intentions, elusive, wild and fey,
twist-**** my mind like knotted stars.
Secrets on the tail of a comet, lightness,
darkness, spitting from a moon girls lips.


© Pagan Paul (23/03/17)
.
re-published by request :)
.
Sep 2017 · 1.1k
Autumn Girl
Pagan Paul Sep 2017
.
Threading dainty upon eggshells
a free spirit dances lightly.
Passing through and in between
to mesmerise the casual ******.
Her smile, with soft collision,
scatters colour on dim memory.
Her presence, autumn made flesh,
stirs the stones of ancient thought.
Shining gems of mute understanding
sparkle for her tapestry mind.
Casual silver lines of wisdom
weave her playful astral patterns.
Reaching coyly beyond old walls,
lips silent, holding unspoken secrets.
Her eyes framed with amusement
taking shy pleasure from grace.

© Pagan Paul  (2017)
.
Sep 2017 · 1.8k
India
Pagan Paul Sep 2017
.
Silver charms on an anklet ******
as her foot stamps down once,
crossed dainty in front of the other,
and her hands start a slow ascent.
From hips up into the air
in the nonchalant action of the flame,
arcing a half circle about her waist
she turns to face the assembled crowd.

A tabla starts a sleepy beat
and the sitar player awakens,
or returns from a meditation,
readying himself for his introduction,
to blend a melody of the Moon
with the woven movements of dance.
The beat increases and four taps
signal a change in the rhythm.
The following note is punctuated
by the tinkling of the charms
and the first strum of the sitar,
sending music to the starry sky.

And her hips sway in gentle waves
as her hands mimic the lotus flower
in cups of dreams above her head,
and the anklets jangle a soothing sound.
The wrists twist and move graceful,
delightfully twinned with the neck of a swan,
and her body sways like a leaf in the wind
to the melody from ages past.

The tabla starts a frantic beat
as the sitar player lets fly,
his new unrestrained chords
dilute the night with ecstasy.
And she dances in her trance,
skin shining with the dew of reflected joy,
her lithe body telling the story
that began before the dawn of time.
A crescendo summons the dance to end
and silence fills the void,
but far into the deep dark night
silver charms on an anklet ******.

© Pagan Paul (01/09/17)
.
An evening spent in the Rajasthan desert in a nomads camp,
with the stunningly beautiful Jaiselmer sandstone fort in the
background changing colour as the sun set in the west.
.
Aug 2017 · 1.0k
Autopilot
Pagan Paul Aug 2017
.
Bare feet pound along the pavement
yet there is not feeling.
The connection with the tangible solid
has with it no true healing.

The detached mind floats up high
a million miles away.
Terra firma are just empty words,
stout rock becoming clay.

As retraction of the emotions sits
apart from what is real.
A no-man's land of security shrieks
'this is what I feel'.

Withdrawal has its positive notes,
protection from the pain.
Keeping close the hearts secret safe,
never to be killed again.

Autopilots most clever disguises hide
that which should be faced.
But burying reality in cold defiance
renders it all but erased.

© Pagan Paul (29/08/17)
.
Just how I'm feeling right now.
.
Aug 2017 · 1.3k
Grief
Pagan Paul Aug 2017
.
A grieving woman stands alone
by the grave of a friend departed.
In the relentless blistering cold
of a day that should never have started.

As tears roll down her ruddy cheeks
mourning the loss of a friend released,
the memories of her life are sad,
the pain has gone, the pain has ceased.

So all that's left for the grieving woman
are a grave and memories to recall.
As she turns to face the world once more
she sees a leaf from an Oak tree fall.


© Pagan Paul (2017)
.
Aug 2017 · 2.4k
Ghostly Note
Pagan Paul Aug 2017
.
I see her beautiful shape
laying still and quiet in our bed,
sleeping form curled around the pillow
on which I left my scent.
But I am a self made Ghost
and I saw her cry all day.
I am a shadow and feel nothing
and I left her because I loved her.

So I died,
by my own hands,
maybe soon,
she will understand.

I never deserved her, she deserved more,
so I showed myself to the leaving door.
Inside the darkness had begun to call,
step over the edge and start to fall.

Bereft of life, she found my shell,
screamed at me from the depths of Hell.
Tears streamed in gushing torrent
expressing a grief I did not warrant.

So in the ether I pen this note,
words can no longer leave my throat.
I left my love to set her free,
I couldn't keep her bound to me.

And whilst she gazes at my picture on the shelf,
may the Universe bless her not to blame herself.


© Pagan Paul (18/08/17)
.
A Note From The Ghost of a Successful Suicide
.
Aug 2017 · 1.8k
Wandering Eye
Pagan Paul Aug 2017
.
When you caught my wandering eye,
love was a small word to hide behind,
an improper play seen through a diaphanous veil.
There was a new star in the sky, a mint room,
still searching for a lost dream.
I sit and watch a world die, and another take its place,
a kaleidoscope colander, as silence has its throat cut
with delicate skeletal lace and a face of porcelain.

A whisper to the zephyrs of second glance
echoing through the histories of the future,
a plea from a roving orb like a mute scream.
Did you hear me talking to the wind
where the wild things grow, recapturing misty joys.
As the Horns of Cernunnos reflect the primal stag
and the cusp of the Moon vibrates a soliloquy,
you caught my wandering eye.


© Pagan Paul (17/08/17)
.
Aug 2017 · 12.6k
Judderwitch (The Beginning)
Pagan Paul Aug 2017
.
i.
The morning mist dissipated
as the ships keel ploughed a furrow
through the Great Green of the Aegean,
leaving far behind the magick isle.
Vigilantos stood at the prow,
marvelling at the accompanying dolphins,
curious and playful,
schooling with purpose to the ocean.
Ahead, waiting, a grand tour.
Of Sumer, Abyssinia and desert lands,
to glean hidden knowledge,
regain the mysteries of the ancients,
read the Necronomicon and old scripts
from a time when power crackled,
and the storms of the gods
belittled the existence of mankind.

ii.
The twilight Moon peeps
from behind the brazen grey cloud.
And she weaves hap-hazard
through the crushes of the crowd.
A high-born daughter of the desert,
a vision of beauty from the sand.
With silks and satin and perfume
richly obtained from foreign lands.
Through the colourful bazaar she threads
with occasional glances thrown at stalls,
priestess jewels sparkle in the night,
its her Name the sirocco calls.

iii.
Cobalt blue water, an illusion of light
where the sun slides through the meniscus,
and the harbour of Tyre was alive.
The bustling of boats around ships at anchor,
snatching glimpses of a turquoise sky
and the quay throbbing with the pulse of music.
It would be another 3 thousand years
before Rome was even a trading post on the Tiber,
let alone an empire conquering the east,
or building hippodromes and columned avenues.
Vigilantos drank in the atmosphere,
his magicians instincts bristling, noting all.
Meandering through the narrow streets,
loosely following direction, getting lost.
Seeking his retinue and camels, ready to start,
across the desert to Ninevah on the Tigris.
To speak to tribes, pray with the priests of Ur.
To find the secrets of mysteries, and treasure,
reaping the knowledge of the Old Gods awe,
amongst the shifting dunes of history.

iv.
Vivid colours of silks and dyes
adorn the tents of cloth and stick.
The summer sun beats down lazy,
heat as oppressive as mist is thick.
Her charms and delights are hidden,
with misery and pain, the last week spent.
The dark, the quiet, the inane chatter,
deep within the women's red tent.
Free from the curse, her moon-cycle complete,
she wanders with mood sombre and slow.
A powerful man from a western place
will arrive at the camp as the sun sinks low.
He had seen her in the main bazaar
and decided to stake his claim.
Whilst confined away, behind her back,
her father had bartered for riches and fame.

v.
His travels around those beautiful lands
had yielded books of law and scripts.
He had heard the oral traditions of elders
and gazed in wonder at the Moon's eclipse.
Then he had seen the greatest treasure
wending her way through crowded markets.
With tact and guile he discovered her Name,
and vowed to grace her father's carpets.

The desert folk live a simple life
but far from simple are they.
Sharp of tongue and quick of wit,
erudite in a most unusual way.
The father was the elected leader,
King of the tribe that he now led.
Vigilantos had bargained hard
to purchase the girl for his marital bed.

vi.
The sun sinks, falling from the sky in the eve.
Spectacular reds and orange colliding with the dunes.
The azure twilight sky lit and sprinkled with stars,
and the tribal camp fills with laughter and tunes.

vii
He walked with purpose toward the campfire,
his features silhouetted by flickering light.
The sudden hush of the assembled camp
echoed strange, deep into the desert night.
His eyes beheld her most beautiful form,
half in the shadow, half in the light.
For her families benefit he had traded,
agreed bargains, and come to claim his right.

“Princess of the desert, Daughter of the sand,
step forward gently and take me by the hand.
For my island home calls out loud to me,
so come, let us away across the sea”.

Head bowed in fake submission
she boldly makes her cold admission.

“I am a Woman of the free,
these sands are my home to me.
With all good grace; I could not face
life on an island in the sea”.

viii.
Black and red, darkness and rage
descend upon his fevered mind.
Humiliated, spurned by a maiden fair,
and pride will not be left behind.

“A curse. A curse. 'pon thy beautiful head,
prowl and creep as do the undead.
Evil deeds are now thy course,
henceforth our contract is now divorced”.

But something made Vigilantos start,
a pang of something from his dead heart.
With such feelings he could not contend,
so a caveat, for the curse to amend.

“Thy deeds and crimes maybe invested
'pon mortals only who invest the same such evil
'pon their fellow mortals”.

ix.
Leaving far behind the desert
he turns his face to the sky.
The ships keel ploughs a furrow
as the evening mist draws nigh.

And now she prowls the dark night,
her Name lost in the sands of time.
Seeking out the mortal sinners and
punishing their evil with her crimes.

... and thus it begins ...
Judderwitch.


© Pagan Paul (08/08/17)
.
Prequel to The Judderwitch poem (posted in April).
I fear this may create more questions than it answers.

My Judderwitch poems are now in a collection :)
https://hellopoetry.com/collection/28451/judderwitch/
PPx
.
Aug 2017 · 809
Cream Tea, Scones & Jam
Pagan Paul Aug 2017
.
Typical English poet,
thats me, sensual,
sophisticated and skint

© Pagan Paul (2017)
.
7-5-7
.
Aug 2017 · 1.3k
Leaf in the Wind
Pagan Paul Aug 2017
.
My beautiful Lady, I see your scars,
deep in your eyes, hidden in stars.
Let me hold you, please come near,
I'll give you warmth, banish your fear.

You've been taken from your mother tree,
tossed in the wind, blown to me.
Let your eyes shine, show me belief,
I'll show you love, my Lady Leaf.

© Pagan Paul (31/07/17)
.
Lord of Green series, poem 12
.
Aug 2017 · 879
Haiku (Mixed)
Pagan Paul Aug 2017
<>

Major Haiku (7-9-7)

The dance of lovers in heat
mysterious communication
Pandora's box of feelings
<>

Standard Haiku (5-7-5)

Green leaves on the tree
pretty in the summer sun
light accenting hues
<>

Minor Haiku (3-5-3)

Time is here
fleeting passing gone
temporal
<>

Mini Haiku (1-3-1)

Bird
on the wing
fly
<>



© Pagan Paul (2016/2017)
.
Aug 2017 · 806
I Have A Way With Words
Pagan Paul Aug 2017
I have a way with words
that is why you took me home
that is why you cooked me breakfast
that is why you asked me back.

I have a way with words
that is why you are there
that is why you hold me tight
that is why you never judge me.

I have a way with words
that is why you stay around
that is why you laugh at my jokes
that is why you miss me.

I have a way with words
my only regret is...
...you will never get to hear them.

© Pagan Paul (2016/2017)
.
Old Poem
.
Aug 2017 · 722
There and Back
Pagan Paul Aug 2017
.
Have you ever wished
that the sun didn't shine,
turned to the dark and said
'Welcome friend'.

Have you ever stared
at the candles bright flame,
turned to the light and said
'Welcome back'.

© Pagan Paul (31/07/17)
.
Jul 2017 · 768
Cerebral Sex Poem
Pagan Paul Jul 2017
.
I want my poems to scream of ***,
of lust and of carnal fuckery.
To ******* the seeds of words,
****-splashed on a page of muckery.

And teasing those clitoral synapses,
along nerve lines of innuendo.
Lapping verses in the valley below,
raising fantasy to literal crescendo.

I want my words to make you ***,
and ache over and over again.
To shriek my name and fall in love
with my purple tipped pen.

And with my seminal inky spillage
'pon your creamy sheets of vellum,
remember now those ***** stanzas
****** deep into your cerebellum.

© Pagan Paul (24/07/17)
.
Jul 2017 · 866
Hurt
Pagan Paul Jul 2017
.
A warm wet circle on my cheek,
all that remains of your presence.
In a cold grey room so empty,
that no longer holds your essence.
My skin and bones have turned to dust,
a heart dripping to pools so dry.
The fibres of being are unbound,
as you walk away and say goodbye.

© Pagan Paul (23/07/17)
.
Just trying to recall what its like to have a love to lose.
PPx
.
Next page