I'll be the least upset
if the reader were to interject:
how bland your poems are
tasteless, colourless, abject!

Ah, where's my imagination fled?
are the flowers in my heart 's garden dead?
how would I fresh seeds cultivate?
would any poem of mine be worthy to celebrate?

are we and the grass and trees
ennobled graced gifted are we
the thriving warrior's
worker ants enrichers feeding the
throng
as we strive daily along
sniffing a scent we get in
our minds a nirvana a heaven if we just
keep on
and we wax and wane in lyrical bliss
tired to the bone whipped
just to hear a song of hope or
love or perpetual peace,
and as we stay the course for
the eternity as it ticks
we are blessed to breathe to be
a part of the chorus
a melody we all make buzzing like bees
a song once did escape the numerous
that sung so rare it made a song
like a bee and an ant on a pine cone
in the forest.
For that,
I hum.

.
In a costume of conflicting emotion,
of crossing diamondic colour,
with regal posture in grief,
the Harlequin and the King,
a display of opposites
creating a composite being,
that eases her body
gently into the waiting water,
to float away serene,
on her journey to the nether.

Midnight blue and emerald green,
the regalia of ermine,
both ostentatious and humble,
robeing the aspects,
understated in crowning splendour,
the gentleman King bows,
and the Harlequin laughs,
the bi-polar reaction
to the tragedy of misfortune,
with a sting in the myth-tale.

With the dark hues of mourning,
a legend passes on her way,
across the streams of time,
on a voyage to discover herself,
carrying her Harlequin in a purse,
holding her King to her breast,
owning them both in her heart,
the medicine wheel spins,
knowing the grapes of wrath
yield the wine of spite.

The motley speckles of attire,
a starry parody of night skies,
lighting the decorated funeral barge,
gliding along the rivers of space,
worn with the mantle of sorrow,
and it sails into the sunset,
as the Harlequin and King observe,
the mandala turns,
the bier of the Queen departing,
bears their sadness forth.

The Harlequin laughs and laughs 'til he cries,
his heart grows cold, then withers and dies,
whilst the King, statuesque, memoirs his life,
lamenting the legend of a Queen, his wife.



© Pagan Paul (24/07/18)

He gently traced her scars,
Kissed them gently,
Helped them heal.
She calmed his troubled breathing,
Rubbed his back,
Hugged him tightly.
They were there for each other,
When the world and
Their own minds attacked them,
When no one else came to their aid.
That's love.