Long ago, there lay a path of stone, forgotten, through the quiet woods. This path was not well traveled and unkind to those who had once strayed from it. The stones engrossed in weeds and fallen bark from decaying trees that had sat tall for timeless decades; their branches shrouded in drooping vines hanging just above the path’s stones. Such a pity those stones were covered with brush because the masonry was a glorious site to behold, if ever one actually wished to behold it. Crisp cut lines in all diagonals and curves, but the stone, now worn from the many years of neglect and decay, had forgotten its own image and the elements had long washed away any lingering traces of it. A path that I can only imagine as being grandiose and magnificent, now just another dirt-stricken routeway through the heart of the forest.
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
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
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
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)
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.