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

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


© Pagan Paul (20/02/18)

.
Pray excuse me Lady, I do beg thy pardon,

but I saw thee walking in the lonely garden,

chestnut hair falling over a long white gown,

and sadness deep in eyes of almond brown.

Forgive mine intrusion, please take a glance,

agree to accompany me to the lovers dance,

for thy loneliness to mine open heart screams,

so take mine hand and show me thy dreams.




© Pagan Paul (16/06/18)

.
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)

Lord of Green


My name is Rook, Lord of the Greenwood.
Protector of the Forest, Shepherd of the Trees.
The Maiden of the Glades, my Lady Leaf
speaks the truth with everything she sees.

I mourn the loss of spinneys and copse.
I grieve at the death of my beautiful Trees.
Lady Leaf cools me, soothes my torrid ire
and speaks truth with everything she sees.

The truth she speaks, are the words of Nature.
Making me weep, as she brings sun to the day.
Waking my slumbering world, arousing the Green
so deer can graze, birds can sing and We can play.

The truth she speaks, the words 'I love you'
burn into my breaking heart, and I feel relief.
I see the forest anew, my Trees come to life.
Teaming into me, thank you my sweet Lady Leaf.

© Pagan Paul (17/06/16)

.
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)

.
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)

.
'No man is an Island'
Maybe not true my Dear friends.
Perchance in general, contact is good.
But take a good look.
There are many Islands in the emotional ocean
with closed harbours and sealed ports.
Refugees of romance; Tortured traumas;
Insane individuals; Mental mercenaries;
Each one a lonely star,
a pinprick of light, disconnected,
on a girdle of the sky,
protected by a carapace of experience,
cold, distant, drifting further from the source,
in a race for consolidation and annihilation.
Islands of safety become Isles of danger.
Selfishness; Self-hate;
Self-perpetuating; Self Destruct;
The inward circle and downward spiral
cloaking the Island, shielding its existence,
shunning the continents of integration.
So can it be true my Dear friends,
no man is an Island?


© Pagan Paul (28/06/17)

.

She kneaded her dill dough.
.


© Pagan Paul (04/02/18)

.
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)

.
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)

.
Tomorrow.

Tomorrow it will be better.

You'll see.

You'll see.


© Pagan Paul (14/02/21)

.

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


© Pagan Paul (04/02/18)

.
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)

.
Waves of psychic nausea
make the teeth shiver,
as the mind grates on lava
and the cloak pulls tight.
An echo from an illusion
permeates the imagination.
glistening with rancid dew
resplendent in its own reflection.
The image mirrored
is not the genuine original.
The genuine original
is not the image mirrored.
Born of the same picture
yet entities of separate strokes,
Romulus and Remus consort
to blur the edges and paint the story.
The host, confused and special,
supplicates to the paths,
waiting for the reformation,
release, relief, and re-definition.

© Pagan Paul (19/06/17)

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

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


© Pagan Paul (24/02/18)

.
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)

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



© Pagan Paul (2018)

.
Glistening droplets
form soft liquid spheres that spill
moon rain down wet cheeks.


© Pagan Paul (29/11/17)

.
I am
Moontouched
a slight disaffection
from the real.

Yet,
in my lunar sea
a calm circulating
orbit wheels.

I am
Moontouched
an angle from
the hearts core.

Yet,
in my love fall
a slow spiral
loops playful.


© Pagan Paul (07/07/16)

Eyelids flicker, close again.
Then slowly part allowing focus.
The morning welcomes sleepy eyes
and a window beckons.
Light streams through
and the view is of Spring.

The sun up in the sky
brilliant and ablaze with life.
From one horizon to another
clear blue light hangs,
lazily draping the world
and not a vapour trail in sight.

Silence is no longer a pause
between bursts of open noise,
rather, noise is an intruder
hectoring the moments of peace.
Until the sleep dirt clears
and the chorus of birds singing
is in harmony with serenity,
complimenting the absence of sound.

Different light in hidden places
shine a hue of emerald green,
flecked with orange and yellow,
single rays of playful sunshine.
The streams of brilliance persist
like the radiance of a palette,
if the painter is Mother Nature
and the picture is crystal clear.

And sleep though only minutes gone
is a forgotten rest memory.
The dreams faded and passed on,
given free, as a gift to the night.


© Pagan Paul (25/03/20)

.
Dust hangs in the still air,
caught by a shaft of light,
shiny sprinkles float serene,
in space a string-less kite.

A particle catches the eye,
playing tai-chi within a ray,
the stationary free dance
of a mote at indulgent play.



© Pagan Paul (25/12/18)

.
Rider On The Storm of trances,
LA Woman led through ritual dances.
A Poet just Waiting for the Sun,
when The End was where it all begun.
The Spy trying to Break on Through,
a native sharing his Shamans Blues.
A Ship of Fools tinged with mirth,
destined Not To Touch The Earth.
Mr Mojo Risin', the acid dream rover,
taking rest When The Music's Over.



© Pagan Paul (04/12/16)


James 'Jim' Douglas Morrison
(Poet and Rock Star)
8 December 1943 – 3 July 1971.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


© Pagan Paul (01/04/18)

.
The 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)

.
The goods trains roll on by,
passing my window at night
and I wonder, wonder,
where are you going to?
May I come?
May I lay back slowly
and let you take me somewhere?
Anywhere.
Anywhere but now.
For here I lay
counting the rhythmic pulses
of iron wheels on iron rails.
As goods trains roll on by.

I need to feel in my bones
these rhythmic pulses
like temperate rain on tin roofs
soothing the beat of a heart.
I want to go and to expand,
to flow through the world
at an even metronomic pace,
to find a place of balance.

And my inner eye like a clipper
sails into the void of dreams,
yet, somehow, more real to me
as I watch myself explore.
Teasing out the dark corners,
bringing light to their inherent terrors
and exposing myself to fears.
But who's fears?

Individual pieces or the whole puzzle?
Pieces missing, the puzzle incomplete.
Its hidden away in my mind
disjointedly interlocking around holes.

I wrote about my sanctuary.
A special garden in a special forest,
providing me with safety
for when the holes become to large.
To this retreat I speed
when the sensory input overloads,
blows a fuse or severs a link
to the circuit of attachment
and fractures the edges of the puzzle,
scattering the composite pieces.
The further dislocation of logic
as I sit in my sanctuary and weep.

And through tears I can see
light flooding in to me,
the blush of morning sky
as goods trains roll on by.


© Pagan Paul (30/01/20)

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

© Pagan Paul (01/01/18)

.
No milk today.
Please tell the cows its nothing personal.



© Pagan Paul (27/01/19)

.
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)

<>
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)

.
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.

.
#Of the night,

comes a delicate veil,

wrapping like a cuddle,

heralding comfort,

whispering dreams to lovers,

blowing kisses to the dark,

teasing peaceful promises,

of the night.#



© Pagan Paul

.
I yearn for a lark
in a National Park
to land upon my shoulder.

I ache for a bird
with a secret word
to make me a little bolder.

Were I a peacock
to show what I've got
I may feel a little less colder.

But I'm an old crow
with no place to go
now that I am getting older.



© Pagan Paul (31/12/19)

.
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 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)

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


© Pagan Paul (20/06/19)

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

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

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



© Pagan Paul (28/06/18)

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


© Pagan Paul (21/01/18)

.
Speak to me, your acolyte,
from high upon your chair.
Gaze down at my simplicity,
catch me with your stare.
Reach out with your fingers,
touch me with your smile.
Embrace me with your heart,
and lay with me a while...

...The gentle waves of lovers grace
fall soft across your perfect face...

...Whisper to me, your apprentice,
from the pillow next to me.
Gaze across at my paradise,
catch me with your need.
Together we painted the dawn,
but at the ending of the day
its time the curtain descended
and closed our passion play.



© Pagan Paul (2017/18)