Poet I may be, and rather gallant
but my tongue has another talent.
An ability only special ones know,
a secret skill I hardly show.

So here it is for your delight,
just the once, this very night.
Come my Dear! Let us walk
whilst I knot your cherry stalk.

© Pagan Paul (08/12/2016)

.
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)

.
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)

.
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)

.


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)

.
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)

i.
The twilight moon peeps
from behind the brazen grey cloud.
Chill air coalesces into a light fog
creeping nonchalant along the street.
Orange lamp glow cascades around
dancing with the fog in osmosis swirls.
Ice blue eyes of fire and malevolence
trace a pathway through the dirge.
Zoning out and homing in,
a huntress stalking unknowing prey.
A black kitten dashes from the hedge,
across the street, up to a front door,
leaving tiny prints scattered on the lawn,
and the ice blue eyes of fire drip pleasure,
as a primal sound emerges, guttural,
but unmistakedly … a cackle.

ii.
Feint, feint sobbing punctuates the night.
As she lays curled foetal clutching her doll.
Her other hand between her thighs,
seeking in vain to reclaim her violated body.

“ Daddy made Mummy go to sleep
with sweeties from the little brown bottle
and the drink from the grown-ups cupboard,
and then he played horsey with her.
He told me Mummy had been a good girl,
and it was my turn to be nice to Daddy.
He always scares me at night
but its his way of saying he loves me.
Daddy Loves his little girl, he always says so”.

The sobbing slowly fades into … nothing,
And she knows. She doesn't Love Daddy.
Now he is watching tv and drinking beer.
Daddy hears the doorbell and swears.
He goes to answer, opening the portal.
Too late, far too late, to stop …
… the Judderwitch.

iii.
He woke. And tried to scream,
nailed spread-eagle to a wall.
Throat, dry, unable to make a sound.
And in his head he screams.
Pierced flesh with sanguin scabs
ripping agony through his very fibre.
Ice blue eyes of fire dance hooded
before him with torture and brutality.
His face erupts in pus filled cysts
to burst and seer pain on his flesh.
And in his head he screams.
As the face in the hood morphs into
the face of his little girl as he rapes her.
And he screams, in his head he screams,
and screams and screams,
as the blade slices slowly, so slowly,
and his manhood falls flaccid floor-ways.
Eyes bulge in horror,
and in his head he screams ...
And screams … and screams,
as his ribs crack, break, in his chest.
Pushing through and up and out,
like flint sharp spears of rancid bone,
and in his head he screams …
and screams … and screams ...

iv.
“Mummy. Mummy. There's kitten on the lawn.
Can we keep her Mummy. Can we? Please?”
She walks out the front door
and smiles at her daughter, the kitten meows.
She watches her little girl play,
the cat enraptured with little plaits.
“Mummy. Why can't I remember anything about Daddy?
He only went away last night”.
“I don't know sweetie. I can't remember anything either.
Not even his face. Its very strange indeed”.

A breeze chills their skin as they look
toward the Cherry Tree on the lawn.
Its leaves whispering their sylvan symphony.
But all they heard was …
… cackling.
And the feint, feint sound
of somebody
still
screaming.

© Pagan Paul (04/04/17)

.
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)

.
I have one hand on the handle of the mad sane door,
the other is scraping shards on the missing floor,
my mind dissolves away into a hurricane squall,
and my face is the mirror on a stark naked wall.

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



© Pagan Paul (14/12/17)

.

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



© Pagan Paul (25/05/18)

.
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)

.

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)

.
Do you remember when time stood still
skipping naked, happy, upon Spring Hill?
Warm westerlies, do rebirth dominate,
brushing the flowers, each one to pollinate.

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

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

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

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




© Pagan Paul (2019)

Such a sad sad tale of woe,
the story of the wood nymph Echo.
Cast aside with never a care,
her sobs reverberate through the air.

Warning the forest of her sorrow,
no fanfares did she need to borrow,
far and farther her tears did go,
fading and fading, just like Echo.


© Pagan Paul 25/07/16

.
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)

.
A vintage year.

Especially July.

It was the last time

one of my poems trended.


PPx

.
Cohesion has been fragmented,
merely an old dissolved memory.
A shroud darker than pitch black
heralds the omni-directional strangler,
seeking to crush the fragile neck
and slowly asphyxiate the minds reality.

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

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



© Pagan Paul (2017/19)

Gliding
Serenity in a crowd
Deft glances and secret smiles
Promised whispers of the future

Flirting
Beauty before the eyes
The dampness of licked lips
An invitation to taste comfort

Melting
Duality in a single act
Spiralling heat and falling fast
Naked truth of the now

©Pagan Paul (12/01/16)

.
Poor, poor girl.
Frightened of her own shadow.
So I turned her around
to face the Sun.


© Pagan Paul

.
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)

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



© Pagan Paul (28/01/19)

.
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)

.
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)

.
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)

.
Light hits my retina
through the prism of a tear,
distorted faces pass
with images fragmented
inside out
and the smell of tallow
as a candle splutters,
falters and winks out
for the wick collapses cruel
like a hamstrung dancer.
The tear exits stage left
and rolls down the wings
of a thoughtless cheek,
teeters on the brink of catastrophe
and falls upon a blank page,
reviewing its brief life
as a lazy metaphor,
so I look at the remaining solitary candle
and grieve for the lost tear,
as an understudy takes its place.



© Pagan Paul (28/05/19)

.
Pain should be written beautifully,
achingly displayed upon a page.


© Pagan Paul (20/06/19)

.
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)

<>
Freya sparkles as she smiles
setting off brown eyes so dark.
Pools inviting a peek within,
captured in the middle of a spark.

Freya shines as she speaks
soft lips form words so clear.
Sounds inviting a pleasant smile
for anyone who cares to hear.

So hear these words from an old Soothsayer,
Your heart will be warmed when you meet Freya.
<>

© Pagan Paul (29/06/16)

.
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)

.
The menace emerges from the shadows,
a barked order, but unintelligible.
Then the soft steel kiss
slicing through flesh into entrails.
A fist connects with a crunching face,
legs buckle with pain and blood-loss.
And the Darkness of Death takes me,
like a comfort blanket of soft wool.
My Temple violated and de-sanctified,
the blade withdraws with a whisper.
Darkness cuddles
and welcomes me with a smile.

The morphine haze
keeps me inert and motionless,
but makes my mind giggle.
It wanders aimless
through psychedelic chapters …

This place is sterile, white, drab.
My eyes move slowly left.
There is something in a doorway.
The door.

… my head flies to a Poets Banquet,
where I am the bones thrown to the dogs.
And the wood grain in the door moves,
a cascading chocolate fountain,
over and over again,
flowing, melting like molten lava.
They taught me to write,
then cut off my hands.
Obscurity is purity;
fame is pain.
So I penned a letter to the dead.

My eyeballs are all that move,
floating in mid-air,
but still connected and transmitting
drug induced images.
I remember the assassin, the blade,
the darkness, the sirens, but no pain.
Images but no feeling.
They move right to a cold bedside table,
and then I think I cried.
Somebody Knows me.
No chocolates, no flowers.
Somebody Knows me.
No fruit. No magazines.
Just …
a pen and a pad.
Somebody Knows me.
I did cry, someone remembers me.
And each teardrop contained a thousand images,
a thousand stories, a thousand poems.
Inspiration. Illusion. Insight.
And the Darkness of Sleep takes me
like a comfort blanket of soft wool.
The morphine haze retreats
further into my mind and I dream …

of ambulances and white walls
of green gowns and bright lights
of scalpels and scissors and surgery
of needles and nurses and nightmares

… I dream of Poetry
in colour.
I see worlds in the sky
and words painted on clouds.
A kaleidoscope of teardrops
dripping images into my mind.
A fountain of mist cascading,
seeping into a memory sponge.
And I feel; somebody who Knows me
gently wipe away the tears.

© Pagan Paul (04/06/17)

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



© Pagan Paul (06/05/19)

.
Lay me down upon the moss,
cover me with autumn leaves,
rest my body in the forest
to be swallowed by the trees,
and let the fleeting moments
whisper my name to the breeze,
as the cool earth welcomes me,
let me go with comfortable ease.



© Pagan Paul (27/10/19)

<>
Eye Liner
Her only adornment
as she dances
entrances
throws glances.
<>
Eye contact
Her one flirtation
as she sways
displays
shyly plays.
<>
Eye catching
Her unique attraction
as she calls
enthralls
gently falls.

<><><>

© Pagan Paul (15/07/16)

.
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)

'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)