He dreamed he was Sappho's one true friend,
whom she trusted to share her amorous secrets,
And soon this revelation; his point of no return !
He longed to be a woman, to let her make love to him!
Is it her body, soul or poetry,don't ask him
what made him truly crazy,triggering unnamed pleasures
The other part of him, in love with himself, relentlessly protests,
"My desire for her is that of  a man to a woman"

In every passion filled story of love,there is a river of fire
to cross, a challenge to to take up with a 'do or die 'spirit
Love puts one in dilemmas without resolve, and observes,
declares  one as a winner or a failure,  at the long last!

A life steeped in a fantasy, even in sleep,he is entangled
in hopeless love,which makes him a martyr, victim or hero
When he wakes up, he dreams, he'll bring about lasting peace.
By reading Sappho, till the time he decides it's enough!

He worked vigorously
Tired himself out
He began to forget
What true loyalty was about

He played even harder
Exhausted to the bone
He wandered aimlessly
With no where left to call home

He touched the sky
On more than one occasion
No matter how many people cared
He kept himself out of the equation

He reached rock bottom
A few too many times
Got himself stuck in a hole
That was too far down to climb

He laid on the ground and prayed
For his one true saving grace
She reached her hands down
And pulled him up, with a smile on her face

As I beheld a flower of rare beauty
In the silence choked heart of wilderness
The facsimile of a pretty woman came alive
From the coagulated heap of images

A woman…….! Isn’t she
God’s supreme handiwork
An animated form of chiseled art
A joy to behold
A figure of curvaceous ups and downs
God’s beautiful calligraphy
Her skin glowing as satin
Hands and fingers of creamy softness
Eyes reflecting love and gentleness
Voice musical and sweet
Moving with measured cadence
And walking with fluid ease
One who smoothens the rough edges of life
But Alas! A treasure rarely valued.

A loving daughter to her parents
An adorable mate to her man
A forgiving mother to all
The fountain spring of new life
The lovely mother to her children!

Though she is branded by many
As frail or fickle, infirm or impish
How empty is a man’s life
Who hasn’t known a woman,
Either as a mother, sister or daughter
Or a lover, companion or wife
This marvel of creation,
This miracle worthy of adulation!

Hello ,
Take my hand . . .
we will step out
onto the stars and run
across the Milky Way

We will swim
in the pools of
glistening light and
share to our heart's delight

We will catch comets . . .
putting them in our pockets
making wishes
along the way

We will visit the darkest moons
and give them light
from far across the galaxies

But the most heavenly light of all
will reside in your smile

Arriving in the dark
like a listing ship
at your dock
my fingers skinned
all ****** at the knuckles
from christening your door
like a bottle on a prow
or a broken mirror
in the morning, caught
in the hurricane
of your crazy hair.

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)

Somewhere in the realms
between transcendence
            and desire
where the power of change
always takes us higher
there walks a poetess,
who writes in spirit's muse
her words curling up and out,
                    wisps of smoke
                        in celestial hues          
She walks slowly
through the heavens
bringing down
slices of enchanted spells
and we can feel the pull
of her grounding chants
right down to
        our very cells
Her words reflect the workings
of a potently spiritual mind
connected to emotions
in a binding so divine,
into darkest ocean depths
she brings forth points of light
and wherever she steps
no matter where she goes
one feels her soul, so bright
as it lifts us up into the spheres
of music and words,
spiraling in whorls
where dust
             and magic merge
and as she walks through green,
through mountains, rivers, forest
her essence often glows
in heat and coolness,
in rush of creative flow
And yes, while we feel
this journey, these seeds
being so beautifully sown
we can take those
words of wisdom
and apply them
         as our own

<>

Every summer, I relearn a new language.
Every winter, it departs for warmer climes,
Its charms and naked arms,
Its own alphabet,
Clean forget.

Multi-lingual in the summer's peculiar
One language, one aleph bet,
With a mega-millions of dialects,
Know them all, cold,
know them all, hot.

I speak Woman.

Summer is soft, shapely, sweet,
Clean, bare, lush in a sparse way,
And Woman is spoken thusly.

There are no harsh sounds,
Guttural exclamations, nein!

I speak Woman.

There is no ugly in the summer.
Ugly being an ugly word.  
It cannot exist in an atmosphere of
Sun, greenery, sand, carefree days,
vacations, no school, no ways
Is there ugliness in any woman of the summer?

You could take this writ many places.
Most of them wrong,
So sputtering sexist or other labeling words,
Makes you ugly and wrong.

Could not give a good *******,
In the summer of 2013,
There should be no ugly, no prejudice.

In any summer,,
There should be no ugly, no prejudice at all.

Long past my primal,
I still speak Woman
With almost perfect fluency,
Au naturel,
Naturellement, à la française.

Gym clothes, denim short shorts, yoga pants gone mad,
A-line skirts swishing in the breeze,
High, god, so high the heels,
Flats clip clopping, flips flip flopping,
Stilettos making love craters,
All over my heart, like a surgeon doing good work.

It is the bare arms and the fluorescent, mint stripe hints of
Summer Cleavage, the short skirts,
Body hugging one piece fabrics,
stretching from here to down there
That do not hint.

The shoulder strap of the underthings,
Asking, commanding me to
Wonder where these paths lead...

Even the light shoulder wrap,
Casual over bare shoulders slung,
A late night elegance that mocks me,
Like gift wrapping over a
Smile demure, a teasing blindfold...

All these say:

Write us poetry in our very own tongue of
Woman.

Will oblige.

I curve with curve of the *****,
Invert geometry of the S arc of the waist,
Mystifying, how it is the designed place
For my hands to grasp, never failing...never letting me fall

The crayola musical colors of flesh variations,
Boggle the senses...
How can
Tan and pale,
Dark and Light
Have so many
Symphonic variations?

Adagio, slow and leisurely, a pas de deux
For two eyes, following ******* by eyes sparkling,
Timpani crashing heart and thunderous pulse quickening,
Violin heart crying out, joyous wailing need and desire sparking.

Just as Byron wrote:

"Music arose with its voluptuous swell,"

Yeah, just swell,
a voluptuous sea swell.

Well,
Enough.

My eloquence is a poor instrument to portray my
Fluency.

Early May man glorious loves life,
Late July, sadder man,
Knowing  the summer foliage colors will soon, fall-fade,
Come August, my vocabulary, already diminishing.

But
Never forget
how to say in the language of Woman, this:

Without you,
I am nothing,
With you,
I am more than everything.

Tho I can no longer say it well,
It is is still true and
Beyond belief.

My one true language of love
In a world gone mad.


August 2013 ~ July 2016 - May 2017