All these artists gather here on my floor
Three evenings
Poets, painters, musicians
Arguing, playing

I don't need streets of gold
The angels couldn't possibly make this music
Its weekend
And they gather

I'm a muse to many
So they say
A minority
My pitiful poetry and dance

But I dwell in these hills
With them
And my mahogany floors
Rests their shoes

Loud and melodous
Joey picks a tune and yells about fascism
Maria, sings her Spanish tunes
Stella laughs and dances our dance

Jimmy plays the strings to fire and ash
Chris beats the drums like an angry demon
Portia paints scenes that bring tears
Chloe makes her black and whites burst with every colour

They gather on my floors
I lay on the pillows and smile for them
With my liquor
They tell me I'm pretty

Catch my tears in mason jars
Moonshine passed between artists and lips
My house can't hold them all
We lack a banjo

Some "rap" some sing
Some write others paint
We all argue and fuss
Its a scene of crazy great



How I wish you all were here too

.
There is a man
     with only one hand,
in the 3rd eye of Buddha
     he learnt about clapping.

There is a woman
     with only one heart,
in the land ruled by men
     she retained her compassion.

There is a man
     with only one eye,
in the land of the blind
     he was ostracised.

There is a mind
     with only one thought,
in the land of the banal
     it treasures imagination.


© Pagan Paul (19/10/16)

abuse is a picture that I am forced to paint
with colors I have never seen.
if I draw fists into open arms,
if I sketch an apology in between berating,
if I fill in every empty space with love,
no one will come running for
the child who cried help.

abuse is a phantom limb
still covered in bruises.
white coats and clipboards wonder
how it can still ache when it is no longer there,
infecting me with their doubts.
sometimes it feels heavier
than it did when it was a part of me.

depression eats at my weight until my skin is taut,
boarding up my eyes and locking my mouth.
blame has found solace in this blood,
guilt mutating my thoughts.
my potential used to live here,
but abuse has a reverse Midas touch
where everything that could have become gold
withers in its hands.

971

Robbed by Death—but that was easy—
To the failing Eye
I could hold the latest Glowing—
Robbed by Liberty

For Her Jugular Defences—
This, too, I endured—
Hint of Glory—it afforded—
For the Brave Beloved—

Fraud of Distance—Fraud of Danger,
Fraud of Death—to bear—
It is Bounty—to Suspense’s
Vague Calamity—

Stalking our entire Possession
On a Hair’s result—
Then—seesawing—coolly—on it—
Trying if it split—

Spring clothes the Earth in silk of green
And parades her in a rare sheen
Summer gifts the plants with bloom
And causes the bees to hum and zoom
Autumn makes the leaves yellow
And blesses the season with fruits mellow
Winter brings hail and snow
With icy winds that blow and blow