The moon floats over the meadow
Chasing the shadows of twilight back to their mossy hallows

The silvery flush of nightfall
Shimmers in the air

When the curtain between
The seen and the unseen world
Is nothing more than a gauzy veil

Then the fairy folk emerge
From beneath their leafy stalks

And caper around the meadow
Where no mortal walks

I was hiking with some friends and came across a small clearing just as it was getting dark. And I thought if fairies were real they would live there.
Palmer 3d

I would lay you down
On a bed of deep green heather
As autumn leaves fall


Boreal Forest in September Autumn

The branches hung, leaves long since
vacant of there mooring.
All had wept like tears, but beyond
their holdings had become decomposed
words on the ground,.. "Death lies this,

But beyond, within the reaches of
exhaled breath, travelling further than
that which had expelled it,  fallen on the
ground of ill given recourse, open mouthed.

This lingering tomb of wooden effigies,
collecting fallen moments beneath their
husks of bark, only feeding on the fallen,
but never showing life, dull branches hang.

There is a path that is naked like a virgin,
but this offering bled its curse within this
place, and everything is now exposed.
Feeding on those of frail thoughts,
who collect like berries crimson on the ground.

At prime years of a human person they have been told
That the things written in history texts are old and gold

It is not the ancient cities that are the oldest,
But the vast lands of trees and shrubs called the forest

The beautiful forest is definitely old
They have witnessed life blossom and fold

The beautiful forest brought life to humankind
And had seen deaths of Deities and creatures of all kind

The beautiful forest holds stories more than story books
Not all of us know what's inside of it,
Nor people who have been there ever did
Everything inside seems like a mystery
And not everyone can ever unfold it

A seed is planted
On the earth.
Watered with care
And touched with life.

A seed grows
Into a sapling
Watered by god,
And touched with hope.

Now a seed grows
Into a teenager
A teenage tree
Imagine that

Finally a seed grows
Into a man
And that man wrote poetry
And had ideas

Like maybe we're all just trees
In a never ending forest
Or were all just fish
In a sea of faces

But that doesn't make us the same
For there are many kinds of fish
And there are many kinds of trees

I mainly write haiku so this is was more difficult for me to do.
Pagan Paul Sep 10

Deep is the heart of the Forest
a sound stirs sending shivers of sorrow
through the undergrowth
to where wonderful willows wildly weep.

Deep is the voice of the Forest
its core carefully calling clipped chords
through the luscious canopy
to aptly announce an autumn abundance.

Deep is the love of the Forest
in light lancing little lazy legacy lines
through the fresh downpour
to relish rain rapidly replenishing roots.

© Pagan Paul (2016/2017)

Inanna Sep 8

Chartreuse and stream-side forest cadets align,
Tentacle tips dip, a sip from spring water wine,
A pleasant breeze tainted with the scent of damp wood and pine,
Cavorts through my nostrils, charleston down my spine.

Betwixt the pines rainfall tumbles touching tender toes,
Nude feet kiss and caress the dank burrows,
An ivory feather falls, it lands directly on my nose,
An authentic gift from above, making merry the morose.

An owl of snow reveals it-self on a protruding extension,
Peeping at me in silence from the elders dimension,
Pine-woods hustle, elm-woods bustle, as if standing to attention,
From the soil to my feet, I wield the suspension.

I blink, a thousand white feathers fall to the ground,
Elder owls of snow are perched all around,
They peer but make not a single sound,
I sit with honor on to the moist, muddy, mound.

David W Sep 6

This one is raw and unedited. It's about the forest in the Columbia River Gorge, here in Oregon, USA, that has been all but burned away in the last three days. I simply needed to get it down before I lost the light. That said, I would love any corrections or critiques you might have, as it needs a lot of work.

I walked these halls in happier days,
With climbing emerald walls,
This home of mine with laughter filled,
And chattering down, the falls.
These rooms were filled with golden light,
Floors carpeted in green,
That caught the twisting shadows cast,
From Ancient swaying beams.
Our stony seats with careless cast,
Arranged by smiling brookes,
And the ceiling somewhere whispers —
Pages in ancient books.
This home of mine had stories, once,
Written in wood and stone,
A joyful secret always kept,
For family alone.
I’ll walk these halls again, some day,
Though my bones will then be old,
My memories of happier days,
I’ll have written down and sold.
This home of mine will laugh again,
And chatter in the falls.
The golden light on mossy floors,
And younger, greener walls.
But this home of mine is hollow, now,
Her mossy crown laid down.
These walls are dark and ashen now,
That once were tall and proud.
My children will not dance upon
Those golden, mossy floors.
These rivers in their endless run,
Now weep, and laugh no more.
Those stories now are burned away,
That I once used to know,
Those secrets now are stolen from
The ceiling laid so low.
I wonder why with foolish hands,
They’ve burned this house of mine.
With gleeful shouts they sent it off,
To bleed, and burn, and die.
What amusement could be worth the cost,
Of this home of mine?
I hope it was worth the laugher,
That killed this home of mine.
I’ll walk these halls again someday,
I hope in happier times.
For oh to rest my weary bones,
In this old home of mine.

I kiss him while our world burns
The playground we danced in
While rainbows formed under the awning of waterfalls
I feel his heartbeat
While it all turns to ash
The television blaring
State of emergency
But I don't hear it
I don't feel it
I curl my arms inward and allow him to hold me
the spaces we tossed and turned
Slowly mold into the shape of an urn
Evergreens crashing
He folds

Oregon is on fire.
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