.
Walking in the forest was I
when I heard a plaintiff cry
begging me to give her aid
a desperate and 'prisoned maid.

Locked up in a tower was she
all alone with her misery.
“I'll let my long hair down for thee
to climb up here and rescue me”.

I thought this was a little unwise,
a wicked glint tinged my eyes,
a knowing smile, and feeling smug,
I gave her hair a hefty tug.

Down she fell into my arms,
muttering curses, gushing charms.
Over and over we tumbled for fun
rolling about in the midday sun.

I noticed the rip in her dress
so her thigh I did fondly caress.
Respond in kind she promptly felt,
loosening off my trouser belt.

And her father's lock on her chastity
was no match for my skeleton key.
Even though he'd chained the door,
his daughter is a maiden no more.


© Pagan Paul (2017)

.
Fazzy moams on wivvel crusts
carry jazms on flocked pavs.
Rinkulled witty over sark
unburcoaled plinks of bloo.

Serry nark are they cronking
and fillipas grapples in kloque.
Verx on spappled gurns are they
torting through gattering weems.

Fernol wend the schism klone
Glolling fast in clutty pawk.
Scenty flox drozzle by teas
Nisting on cowt rinnalled dawn.

Yurish casts of nash pigoon
stoz over hinty-hanty bynum.
When in merdeen lemp quimsy
dilly noff flyx and wempwarble.

For loofin under korots mingle
At the imtem tong fallop.
Shoozy bales of cremp deflate
and gwample rooks the plisties.


©Pagan Paul (22/06/16)

.
The street lamp barely pierces the gloom
as darkness fills up Nature's room.
Any icy breeze blows down the street,
the air is full of rain and sleet.

She stands beneath the murky light,
one of a few out working tonight.
Her clothes do not reflect the weather,
miniskirt, t-shirt, long boots of leather.

Pinprick marks upon her arm reveal
a habit to hide all that she feels.
A daemon that has to be well fed,
from money made in a punters bed.

A low rumble, the quiet is disturbed,
creeping slowly, pulling up at the kerb.
Quick furtive words, a deal is complete,
she opens the door, slides into the seat.

Sometime later she has returned to her place,
crying and shaking, blood on her face.
The blood on her shirt is already dry,
and purple black bruises adorn her eyes.

She does not complain, she does not speak.
It just happens. At least once a week.
There is always one will have his way,
beat her about, and refuse to pay.

Give her a minute to fix her smile,
she will be back in just a short while.
Waiting tartly to be once more defiled,
hoping tonight she can feed her child.

She dreams her daughter will never see
this sick, dark side of her society.
For her sake she hopes to escape
the drugs, the violence, and the ****.

Maybe one eve she will not show
her charms under the street lamps glow.
Has she escaped to a better life instead?
Perhaps she is in the river, floating dead?

But 'til then she walks the pavement.
Big smile, **** out, making a statement.
She won't wait long for another ride,
she will block out whatever happens inside.

And the cycle repeats almost every night,
beneath the lamp with the murky light.
This is her spot, her street, her world.
This is the life of a poor street girl.


© Pagan Paul (03/03/17)

.
(Children's poem)
.
I'd like to sit
still and serenely
But I can't
I'm the Queen Bee.

A Queens work
is never through
there is always
something to do.

I'm laying eggs
and filling cells
and letting out
my secret smells.

I make sure
the hive is clean
and not littered
with perils unseen.

I caught Veroa
the other week
glucoside syrup
fixed me a treat.

But all of this
has its cost,
Oh! How I wish
I was born a wasp.

© Pagan Paul (16/06/16)

.
I need a Drug.

A decongestant.
To unblock good thoughts,
so they flow through and wash away
the flotsam and jetsam
and bitter history, in the flat field.

A decongestant.
To relieve the suffocation,
entrenched in nasal pollution
denying access to fractured lungs
and caustic breathing, in the flat field.

A decongestant.
To ease the flow of feeling,
for it to cleanse and energise,
to be free to share with fey
and open hearts, in the flat field.


© Pagan Paul (22/02/17)

.
I think I may have just died
looking in to your almond eyes.
Cedar hues of beige and brown,
for me such beauty in which to drown.
Chestnut and umber, darker shades,
silently dissolve my barricades.
Soft bark pastels of hazel and fawn
delicately hold my heart reborn.


© Pagan Paul (09/02/17)

.
The scent of your love,
sweeter than Arabian jasmine
wafting on soft sirocco
through an orchid oasis
in the sun-kissed desert.

The scent of your love,
purer than Mysore sandal
drifting on cool breeze
through a fresh glade
in the rain-soaked forest.

The scent of your love,
more than aroma therapy
carried on astral light
through a frozen waste
to my tear-stained heart.

© Pagan Paul (31/01/17)

.
With this tarnished love I do
paint the world with darker hue,
and rise 'pon no light restraint
with shadow clouds for me to taint.

So ride black mood and flee away
torture me not for another day.
Begone! Be banished, leave no trace
release my heart to a better place.

Fate may bring wither she will
a new adventure, my love to thrill,
so permit this curtain call be seen
as my epitaph to a broken dream.


© Pagan Paul (2017)

.
Once a little boy woke up scared,
crying and calling for his mother.
Once an adult man woke up scared,
crying and calling for his lover.

For the boy there is no answer,
his mother is just never there.
For the man there is no answer,
his lover being just thin air.

You see the little boy is now a man,
who only ever wanted to be loved.
The adult man was the little boy,
who only ever needs to be loved.

So put your arms around the child,
show him love and teach him joy.
And put your arms around the man,
remember, he really is just a little boy.


© Pagan Paul (28/01/17)

.
I go by the name of Rook.
Lord of all that you can see.
I cradle and nurture my forest home,
my throne sits in the Poetree.

The canopy stretches before me,
tree tops licked in morning dew.
A finch catches my eye and winks,
greeting his Lord, then off he flew.

The sounds of Dawn, the forest awakes,
shedding sleep dust to the rising sun.
An owl calls her goodnight hoot,
disappears, rejecting the day to come.

Otters sport, play chase, by a stream
that flashes silver as light rays dance.
A Ladybird, yellow with black spots,
lands surprised, to crawl along a branch.

Clean crisp air, caressing nostrils,
invigorating life through cool beauty.
The vista of sunrise across the woods,
the source of inspiration for the Poetree.

© Pagan Paul (24/01/17)

.
I would write a poem
of bigotry, hatred and contempt.
Using every politically incorrect
name, word, phrase and insult.
A poem of vileness and villainy
of coldness, anger and disgust.
I would bear the onslaught tide
of derision, bile and utter rage.
To show, that beside you my friend,
there are 7 billion ***** in the toilet.

© Pagan Paul (16/01/17)

.
Do you feel the right connection?
Pulling at the space between us.
Evaporating our barricades
and redefining those hazy borders.
My hand on your *** brings shivers,
your hand on mine evokes promises,
a kiss as the connection is made
and time stands still in awe.
Two connect with a static charge,
exploding in a chaos of lightning,
sensitive tongues of mute pleasure
dance lightly across tenderised skins.
Synapses skip with happy wonder,
as sparks fly with interactive touch,
teasing memories of the future.
We disrobe. Waiting. Coiled springs.
Ready to ****.


© Pagan Paul (12/01/17)

.
Therapists will tell you
good mental health
is like a coffee table.

A hard uniform surface
supported by four pillars.

Family Life
Work Life
Love Life
Social Life

Seems my
coffee table
is just

a tray.



© Pagan Paul (2017)

.
She sits for most of the time,
in a metal chair with wheels.
Counting out the value of life
with an injury that never heals.

She waits for most of the time,
to confirm that she is really there.
But how many people notice her
sat down in her wheel-chair.

She's invisible for most of the time,
she is there but nobody spies.
So she spreads her tiny wings
and floats unnoticed to the skies.

She cried for most of the time,
always alone and lonely in a crowd.
Now flying free her spirit rises,
there's no discrimination in the clouds.


© Pagan Paul (25/12/16)

.
I nfinite
S tars
I nfinite
S pace

Her lithe and arched body
protecting her child. Earth.
Holding hands with her sister,
the twin Goddesses of Truth.
Her name stolen by the liars,
Her glory tarnished with the blood
of the innocent and brave.
So, who's voice will be Her hero?
Her modern lover. Champion.
Her contemporary pharaoh?

© Pagan Paul (13/06/16)

.
Here I stand at the abyss
waiting for that very first kiss.
My heart beats, then it skips
as I bend to touch your lips.

Here I rock at lovers doom
scenting your bodies sweet perfume.
My head spins, then it slips
as you reach and kiss my lips.

Here I fall at my great risk
but now, only we exist.
My heart hums, then it sings
as your lips pull the strings.

Here I lie in lovers bliss
having now that very first kiss.
My head explodes, then flies free,
I'm so pleased that you kissed me.



© Pagan Paul (Dec 2016)

.
An Echo* asks “where have you been?”
and my reply is heart and truth.

I have thought of you for centuries,
I have conceived of you for millennia,
Patiently building you for aeons,
and I have died for you every second.

For I sit frozen in my cave of sorrow,
wrapped in a blanket of burning ice.
Constructing you in my waiting dreams,
a raging fire in the coldest of prisons.

That is where I have always been,
where I am, and will forever be.
Until the hour you step beyond fear
and the moment you look at me.


© Pagan Paul (16/12/16)

.
You who would direct my dreams
to a salacious and lustful cause.
Infusing my thoughts
with the dark and twisted games you play.
You who would pull my strings
and throw me in to a puppets dance.
Being your marionette
I'm a toy for distraction, a novel pretty.
I know you; I feel you;
My phantom of romance.
.
You who prowls my nights with ***
to leave me cold, sad and unfulfilled.
Discarding my carcass
with the disdainful and pitying looks you give.
You who would chain me to you,
lock me up and throw the keys.
Being your prisoner
I'm a nightly diversion, a nocturnal visit.
I know you; I feel you;
My phantom of romance.


© Pagan Paul (20/06/2016)

.
Her charms cannot be hidden,
laying languid in soft repose,
cloaked in dreams of night,
to her secret fantasies she goes.

Doe eyes closed in star sleep,
sweet gentle breath from parted lips.
A shift of woven mist she wears,
nestling flirtatious about slim hips.

A moment stirs her silent rest,
a sigh, rises, pours and escapes.
Anticipating beauty, the inner promise,
of doe eyes when she wakes.


© Pagan Paul (26/11/16)

.
I would love to see you
pretty at the Summer Fayre,
a twinkle in your dark eyes,
and flowers in your hair.

Arm in arm we would wander
to see the delights and share
moments of wonder together,
pretty at the Summer Fayre.

We'd visit the Gypsy fortune teller
to learn what secrets lay there,
take our fill of games and stalls,
pretty at the Summer Fayre.

And dance we shall tonight,
unrestrained, with never a care.
Its there I'll fall in love with you,
pretty at the Summer Fayre.

I'll take you off to my home,
to the forest if you dare.
My carefree, captivating, Lady Leaf,
pretty at the Summer Fayre.

We will dance on into the night,
lovers loving, so that I can swear,
I've never seen you so beautiful,
pretty at the Summer Fayre.


© Pagan Paul (12/11/16)

.
When you go I will do this,
grace your brow with a kiss.
Upon your breast I will leave
a white rose, to show I grieve.
Please forgive me when I weep
as I see you in eternal sleep.
And when I see another rose,
I'll remember well the path you chose.
My fingernails will carve the stone
as I work my fingers to the bone
to prepare with love your resting grave,
because you are the friend I could not save.


© Pagan Paul (02/11/16)

.
She rides, a silver circlet on her brow.
Wearing the Green of the forest.
Eyes of hazel hold a proud gaze.
Child of the woods, beautiful and fey.
Her name is Leaf, Maiden of the Glades.

She sighs, a longing look in her face.
Yearning for her Lord of Green.
Heart in love with the King of Trees.
Born of the forest, body and spirit.
Maiden of the Glades, the Lady Leaf.

She waits, for Green is far away.
Watching the changes in the woods.
As seasons wax and wane cascades.
Woman entranced, by the living Trees.
Her name is Leaf, Maiden of the Glades.

She cries, a moon daisy in her hair.
Filling the lake of mystical tears.
His absence exhumes an eternal grief.
Body and spirit, beautiful and fey,
Maiden of the Glades, the Lady Leaf.


© Pagan Paul (23/06/16)

.
Step out of your life,
take my hand, walk with me.
Deep to the heart of the forest,
and we'll visit the bonding tree.

Step out of your life,
hold my hand, lets walk a while.
To the magic woodland glade,
just a few steps, just another mile.

Step out of your life,
grip my hand, tie the cord.
We will jump the midnight fire,
my Lady Leaf, your Green Lord.

Step out of your life,
kiss my hand, lose your dress.
Sky-clad lovers on a mossy bed,
natural union consummated, blessed.

Step out of your life,
holding hands, we'll walk together.
I will step out of mine,
hold your heart, promise you forever.

Step out of your life,
take my hand, walk with me.
Handfasted lovers, blessed by nature,
and witnessed by the bonding tree.


© Pagan Paul (28/10/16)

.
So you snuggle in to your bed
as you hear mid-winter calling.
The cold north wind is blowing
as the last of Autumns leaves are falling.
Did you ever stop to think
as you pull up your blankets tight?
That out in the doorways of the city
desperate figures shiver in the night.
Crowding around the soup van
blue hands grasping for the heat.
Hallowed eyes and frightened expressions
as the rain turns to stinging sleet.
The concrete pavements are hard and cold
the bridges provide scant protection.
The hot food and volunteers words
stir memories into recollection.
Once they were people of society
with homes and jobs and cars and love.
Now they fight behind the charity shops
for clothes and coats and hats and gloves.
So as you snuggle deep in your bed
and your fire starts to burn low.
Remember the people of the streets
as the sleet begins to turn to snow.

Pagan Paul (Dec 2008) ©2016

I tip my hat to the Poetess,
the Word Witch whose spin enthralls,
with language arranged in patterns,
and verse that often calls.

Her art is to conjure images,
the Sorceress whose quill entrances,
with phrase beautiful in texture,
and a word that often dances.

Her creations are her offspring,
the High Priestess whose rhymes capture,
with stanza's keen in construction,
and meanings that evoke pure rapture.


© Pagan Paul (24/07/16)

Take a peek inside his poems
if you really want to know him.
He hides himself deep, immersed
a tiny piece in every verse.

Take a peek and take your time
savour the moment of every line.
Relish the thought of what lies there
and appreciate his soul laid bare.

© Pagan Paul (31/08/16)

.

I am the one who walks at the edge of the herd
noting and observing the crush.
The jostling and positioning, and re-positioning.
I see, I watch. As the participants dance,
desperately seeking to be sorted, boxed, stamped and labelled.
The reject of the herd, I document.
I can paint a flowery picture.
I can write an apocalypse.
But its not like that, its not black and white.
Its complex. And it is moving.
Constantly. The only true organised motion.
Infinite individual minds, racing.
Racing towards oblivion
carried by the herd.
The weak, trampled; helping elevate the strong.
The strong, elevated; trampling down the weak.
The battle for posture.
The psychology of a single entity
split, schizophrenically, amongst the countless.
The herd travels as one. Inexorably.
United and scattered, evolution incarnate.
I see the hate, the love, the conflicts within.
I see the pain and misery.
There is danger here, on the edge.
I am the one who walks apart from the herd,
finding my own path.

©Pagan Paul (20/06/16)