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He was known as Mr meadows
A man I knew so well
His past now left in the shadows
His story's he would seldom tell.

He was wounded in the trenches
In that deadly first world war
He was humble sincere and sensitive
Like no man I have Known before.

He was good and so kind hearted
He was there when one felt  down
And always around when needed
You would see him in the town.

That was many years ago
He died aged seventy two
He lived within his Bungalow
In a row of just a few.

Mr Meadows lived for others
He was never a selfish man
He would always help those mother's
Who would struggle with a pram.

Mr Meadows was the quite kind
He hardly would say a word
He kept his thoughts inside his mind
His fears were rarely heard.

You may just start to wonder
What's so special about this man
When you felt you were going under
He would be there to take your hand.
Mr Meadows i remember well an unassuming gentle man
You could say somewhat a timïd man .some people used to
Take advantage of his gentle nature.not realising  he was involved
In the first world war battles.I feel he must of suffered from the affects
Of the horrors of war.
all monsters and adrenaline now
mad rush to inhale speed
lest life not deliver

yet in bygone days
when dames beguiled
soft curls and porcelain skin

or polished ebony
an ancient fire stirred
in embers aflame

men knew chivalry
their gender sure
dames held a different power

liquid eyes and innocent air
where no words were needed
to touch dreams' *******
Inspired by Christopher Victor Russon's nostalgic poem 'Those Talking Pictures'
He stands outside your mind
And will tear your thoughts apart
He will distort your vision
Then paints your thinking grey.

When reaching out for hope
He will take that hope away
Then he will lurk in every corner
And will plan your every move.

He is the master of deception
And will convince you with his words
That the truth is but a lie
You are at the crossroads in your life.

You have two roads to chose from
The decision is there within your hands
You have the power to figure things out
And escape from his grip of doubt.
When I look at the birds in the sky
And the flowers and nature convinces
Me of a creator .but some times we all
Can be affected by Doubt,
He wondered up towards the bar
He said the word Hello
An angry face looked at him
He recieved an awful blow.
He went crashing into tables
Then he landed on the floor
Glasses smashed and broken
His chin felt rather sore.
Those blows they kept on coming
One two three and more
He saw the chance and took it
He just ran towards the door.
The whole thing was alarming
He couldn't help but think
He was only trying to be friendly
When ordering himself a drink .
Then again he had to wonder
About that dreadful place
She may of looked a stunner
But her manners a disgrace.
I am air.

You breathe me in when you feel the need
Until I get lost inside.
But it seems no matter how hard I plead
I'm exhaled and left behind.

I am air.

I touch your clothes, your hair, your skin
Just begging to be seen.
But to you, I am forgotten
To you, I am nothing.

I am air.

I know I am necessary
And all I do is strive
To make you understand that I'm the very
Reason you are alive.

I am used. I am abused.
I am alone. I am unknown.
I am everywhere. I am nowhere. I am air.
.
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)
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Do you remember when time stood still
skipping *****, happy, upon Spring Hill?
Warm westerlies, do rebirth dominate,
brushing the flowers, each one to pollinate.

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





© Pagan Paul (2019)
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