.
Woe is me!
Oh! Woe is me!

No longer can I create art
No longer can I pen stanza's
No longer can I rhyme couplets
No longer can I compose beauty

Because they won't let me
They won't let me

Not until
I get
a
.
.
.
Poetic Licence





© Pagan Paul (01/09/16)

.
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)

.
Gold Finch on a tree,
she sings with sweet clarity,
gifting joy to me.
.


© Pagan Paul (20/12/17)

.
A hundred strong flock of birds
glide slow circles in the sky,
no care for the world below,
no mind for a reason why.

Meditation on the wing,
freedom flying on warm air,
no hurried destination,
just enjoying being there.


© Pagan Paul (15/07/19)

.
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)

<>

Soft petals glisten with dew,
     ruby and crimson pure.
Nature's most perfect view...
     ...la fleur d'amour.

<>

© Pagan Paul (10/02/2017)

.
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)

.

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)

.
Darkness

          Starless

                    Voiceless

  ­   It yawns

      and swallows

                  the words ...



© Pagan Paul (20/06/18)

.
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)

.
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)

.
Mist languidly enshrouds me,
playfully floating it cuddles,
Half heard echoes of love,
ribbons of yearning so soft.


With your delicate face
in my sleep
I am dreaming with
beauty.

With your heart beat
in my sleep
I am dreaming with
love.

With your gentle voice
in my dreams

I am sleeping with

whispers.


© Pagan Paul (12/01/17)

.
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)

.
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)

.
Let us linger for a while
upon this sacred mid-stream Isle.

Between the banks of this woodland river,
the flanking tree-scape murmurs peace.
Tinkling drops over pebbles tumble,
eager and away to the sea, its home.
The easy flow of destiny contained
in a dashing continual race.
Birds chatter until the big one shrieks,
its flashing form
diving through the canopy
in search of a mammal to feed its young.
The chorus resumes.
A nervous Doe peeks from dense undergrowth,
constant alertness as she moves,
body trembling in anticipation of attack,
but conquering fear, bends to drink.
Lazy grass and moss so soft
lies underfoot in this magikal place,
the feel and the pull of the earth
brings comfort and peace to the tired body,
tranquility evoked with sight and sound,
soothing the mind with touch and smell,
a sensual cuddle from the Natural world.


© Pagan Paul (2016/2017)

.
J'ai amour, cela me preoccupe.
Avez vous un petit ami?
Non!
Vous avez maintenant ... s'il tu plait.


© Pagan Paul (14/05/17)

.
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)

It will be written long,
when Nature takes her own
and quenches life's flame,
when all the sadness
has been noted and versed,
packaged as final words,
having ******* with regret
or discourse with nostalgia.
The taming of the mortal coil breeds
the Last Poem.



© Pagan Paul (03/06/19)

.
<>
Shady summer pond
Dragonflies hover in air
Welcoming the day
<>



© Pagan Paul (2016/2017)

.
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)

<>

It sings to me
          a pretty lullaby.
In the silent hour...
          ...j'entend ton coeur.

<>

© Pagan Paul (04/12/2016)

.
.      .
     .   .         .  .      .     
.   .     .        .
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)

.
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.

.
Peek-a-boo with clouds,
the moon dances in the sky,
the crescent at play.



© Pagan Paul (2018)

.
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)

<>
The sky sheds its tears
over the sea of forever griefs
salty dew eddy's
<>
The sky dries its tears
with handkerchief clouds of white
blue shines and dazzles new
<>


© Pagan Paul (22/10/16)

.
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)

.
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)

.
Tick

The Grandfather clock
draws in time
and holds its breath

Tock

A slow exhalation
paints the mind
with images of silence.


© Pagan Paul (June 2017)

.

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)

.
Coincidence, the purest form of Synchronicity,
an Energy Hypothesis of such simplicity,
that a Planted seed given enough Rain
remains not Stagnant, but grows again.
The Gate-way for the Lightening mind,
Liberating the soul, 'pon the Moons decline.


© Pagan Paul (28/10/16)

.
A chain of lights
lead off into the distance,
illuminating little
but so bright in their own world.
Along an old animal track
to a standing stone
ancient in peaceful repose,
a family sigil,
weather worn by time,
proud of its place
marking the passing of aeons.
The light blinks out
and darkness falls like a drape
of lightlessness,
and the Crest crackles,
miniature lightning
caressing the old frigid stone.
Waiting.


© Pagan Paul (16/06/19)

.
The barrel hit the bottom
with a sound something like 'thwelp'.
The first was a 'thud' on mud,
the second definitely a 'Help!'.
Slim rolled from the wreckage
doing his best to look nonchalant,
and failing.
Its hard to look casual
sprawled face down in the dirt,
a help speech bubble floating overhead.
But he did his best
picking himself up slowly,
no-one else was going to do it.
Remarkably, or not, he was unhurt.

Kelm found a rib-cage,
the remains of a large fox,
and he was delighted.
Do barbarians dream of culture nights?
Kelm had, and he liked hitting things.
He had lost all interest in fishing,
in Bruce, in dolls, in girls,
even with the story he was in.
Because now he was, as stated, delighted.
He had his very own
Ex-why-low-fone.

She reached the bottom
blind panic in her open eyes.
She saw the figure of a man
picking himself up slowly.
“Poet!” she shouted at him.
“No” Slim said off-handedly
though he had a few select words.
“Then … I've killed him” she wailed
“Badly?” asked Slim
“No. Rather well actually. He's dead”.
Then she spied the sword
stuck fast in a rock, at a jaunty angle.
Aesthetically pleasing in fairy tales.
And a tiny figure grimly holding on,
reached up for a better grip,
touching the Green stone in the hilt.
Jerrica and Slim were blinded by a flash.

The tingling increased
and the sword felt power
surge through its length
and explode in a bright light.
The connection was complete.
The sword sneezed.
It knew him, he knew it.
Neither of them particularly liked it.

The moment he touched the stone
he felt the tingling feeling
and he felt the connection hit
like a brick wrapped in wool.
His head exploded in pure light,
the sword sneezed
and his future was sealed.
He felt so powerful and … elastic.

“What can you see?” shouted Slim.
“Nothing” Jerrica replied
“Which way is it going?” Slim asked.
They had sunspots, flash-spots,
dancing on, in and through their eyes.
They both needed a *** ***.
But as vision cleared
a shape, a shadow, a form, a man,
greeted their returning sight.

The poet stretched and kept on stretching.
He took stock, he looked great.
From 6 inches to 6 foot
in a matter of moments,
he had grown up.
He took a look around him.
Jerrica and Slim were gawping at him.
The sword felt warm in his hand.
And very smug.
He was a sword wielding poet,
he spoke.

“I do thank thee kindly Princess.
For being my friend and rescuer”.
She blinked quite a lot.

Her body was telling her what boys were for,
but her mind was really not quite sure,
and what if there was no known cure,
but he did make her think thoughts impure.

Seeing his effect upon Jerrica
he smiled in that Poet's flirtatious way.
She blushed even more.
“What is its name? Slim piped in.
“What?” the Poet asked.
“The sword, what's its name?
Fairy tale swords have to have a name”.

Tink, tinky, ******, tong, tung.
Kelm hit the bones with a stick.
Each cracked bone had its own tone
but lacked volume.
He used a bigger stick
and invented bone-shaker music.
He even became famous
with his own backing band
The Clandestine Trolls.

He held the sword
and asked it its name.
It maintained silence
in an embarrassed sulk.
“Aw c'mon” crooned the Poet.
Silence replied.
“Come to think of it” said Jerrica
“what's your name Poet?”.
That got him right in the logics.
He looked back in baleful silence.
The sword chuckled.

The singing bowl woke up,
aware of the presence of Magick,
it started to gently hum.
The sword started to hum.
With its own resonance
aware of the presence of Magick.

Startled Jerrica stumbled
falling through the waterfall
that had with immense interest
being watching proceedings.
Her arm flailed
and knocked the small plinth.
Jewel encrusted, humming, alive,
the bowl landed upside down
on her head.
And the connection was made.
Tingling Jerrica, tingling bowl.
The sword joined in
with a song of joyful union.
Quick as a flash
Jerrica was up on her feet
smoothing down her attire.
A princess neither flounders nor trips.

The Poet had had his hand extended
to help her to her feet.
She looked and smiled
'thanks but I'm ok' at him.
Their eyes locked,
their hearts threw away the key.

Slim got the familiar feeling of
I don't need to be here.
He looked at the smashed barrel
and thought philosophically
'something to tell the grand-kids!'
He headed for a tavern, any tavern, anywhere.

And our hero and heroine?
Well ..
they lived fairly contentedly ever after.

Except for the incident with
the anarchist fortune cookies …
but thats another story.


© Pagan Paul (June 2019)

.
So feint the rhythm of life,
a weak pulse seeking to hide,
the smell of fresh rain coming,
as clouds build high on the side.
Long waiting for cool moisture,
the promise is close at hand,
teasing out the breaking heart,
the rhythm of life unplanned.


© Pagan Paul (28/07/19)

.
Sun rises
in misty dawn,
early rays
light brings warm.

Sun sets
in hazy dusk,
late rays
to darkness brusque.

Moon rises
in quiet night,
early beams
throw out light.

Moon sets
in peaceful morn,
late beams
are ragged torn.


© Pagan Paul (2016/2017)

.
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)

.
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)

Do you know what it means
to be caught in a dream?
Do you know how it feels
to be caught in between?

When things are not there
but they are if you look?
Where all of the pages
are blank in the book?


© Pagan Paul (09/10/16)

.
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)