A whirlwind of stagnant breeze
disturbs the warmest stillness.
Solar rays shimmer and coalesce
forming images of the Summer Girl.

Fragrant scents in light colours
float gently from her hair.
Flowers laced with golden thread
adorning her head like a wreath.

Chasing the shadows of clouds
across the heat haze so strange.
Her body lithe and newly alive
darting and flitting dragonfly style.

Arriving at the painting of the dawn
and here to nurse the day.
Leaving at the doom of sunset
wispy images of the Summer Girl.

© Pagan Paul (07/06/14).

I can't believe this poem is nearly 3 years old. Part of a series of poems. PPx

We were never an inch
closer; to what could have been.
A repetitive game of trying to reach
Is it my fault I spread myself too thin?

A close second to be yours
Thinking all the spaces were filled
You got me for two years,
all locked up and unfulfilled.

Done crossing the finished line
Came in last and unsurprised
You were never mine.
I went home with no prize.

This time I'm more certain of letting you go.

From the time
I woke up
and went downstairs
my mother moaned.

Lizbeth you have to
make your room tidier
I have never seen
such a room
and your dirty linen
needs putting
in the washing bag
not on the floor.

I ate toast
and tried
to ignore her
looking at her.

Her hair
was a frizzy grey
as if electric
was buzzing
through it
as she spoke.

That black skirt
is too short
she moaned on
my mother would
never have allowed me
to wear such a thing.

The cat was sitting
by the back door
waiting to go out
it was tired
of her moaning too.

I slurp my milk
(just to annoy her)
and said
I am going out.

Out this time
of morning?
she said.

I need to go
see someone
I said.

Who at this time?
she queried.

A boy I like
I said.

Not that boy
who was here
that day
when I got back
from shopping?
she said.

Yes Benny
I said.

At this hour?
she moaned.

He gets
busy later
I lied.  

She moaned on
so I crept out
the back door
and let the cat out.

I got out
my bike
and rode off
before she could say
another word.

I peddled fast
like a wild
flying bird.


Lizbeth was sitting
on the back gate
of my parents' cottage
this morning.

I had just
come back
from the farm
with the morning milk
in the green jug.

What are you
doing here?
I said.

Came to see you
she said
I rode on my bike.

Her bike was laying
by the hedge.

I can't go out yet
I said
I need to take
the milk in
and have breakfast.

I am early
she said
had to get out
as my mother
was moaning
and driving me
round the bend
like my skirt?

I looked at her
black short skirt.

Bit short isn't it?
I said.

I like it short
she said.

I'll just take
the milk in
I said.

Can I come in
and wait for you
or shall I
wait out here?
she said.

I looked at her
I'll ask
I said.

I left her sitting
on the back gate
her red hair tied
in a ponytail.

I went in
the back door.

My mother
was at the Aga
warming milk.

My siblings
were eating breakfast
my father was in
the bathroom shaving.

Lizbeth is outside
I said
can she come in
and wait for me?

I expect so
my mother said
why is she so early?

Don't know
she can sit in
the front room
I said.

All right
my mother said.

I went out
the back door
and called Lizbeth in.

She climbed off
the gate
and walked over
the yard
and in
the back door.

I don't know
what my mother thought
of Lizbeth's short skirt
but Nigel at school
had said
she was a hot flirt.


in the desert
a spider traps a mouse
a woman cries
I feel her hot tears
on my head
they drip drip drip
I look out over my balcony
wondering, why?
what is the point?
a man lives alone with his goldfish
he hasn't seen a woman naked in years
he reads a novel and laughs to himself
I hear his laughter
It crowds my mind
I feel its hands and elbows poke my sides
I walk into work
I walk out
somewhere downtown,
a teenager is trying marijuana for the first time
I feel the warmth
the guilt
I feel endless

I woke to the sound
of birdsong and cows
mooing from the farm.
I lay in bed thinking

of Benedict. I had
never thought about
a boy before; never
had this feeling inside,

never had my mind
so muddled up
like a puddle in a
storm. Downstairs

mother prepared
breakfast. Father
was in his study
preparing his long

sermon for Sunday.
I used to be up and
dressed, out in the
early morning sun,

watching butterflies
in flight. But I lay
in bed as if it was
night, staring at

the wooden cross
on the white wall.
I wanted to get up,
but I felt as if I'd

not slept at all.


suddenly aware of an ascending sense of depression
mostly unaware of my instinctive feelings and aggression.
my mind is running laps around the empty hole inside my chest
and i am just exhausted, my energy is constantly suppressed.
uncomfortably trapped inside my bed, just trying to arise
an aching sense of actuality, my brain can fantasize.
the throbbing pain of all my joints conjoin my body to my mind
regretting all of the troubled thoughts i thought i left behind.
proactively trying to occupy less space
staring in the mirror not recognizing my own face.
it's safe to say i'm lonely here, drowning in grey
but who is kidding, if you were here i'd probably just push you away.

written in the middle of the night.

I could smell summer
in the air
birds singing
from bushes
and hedges
along Bug lane.

I waited for Jane
to meet me
by the water tower.

I had been
to the farm
for the morning milk
had breakfast
while Mother
cooked toast
in front of the Arga.

We had met yesterday
at the small church
sat inside and talked
and kissed.

We talked of us
then about Lizbeth.

The church smelt old
and damp
the summery sun
came through
the small windows.

I could hear a tractor
in a nearby field
cows mooed
a dog barked
from the farm.

I saw Jane
walking towards me.

She wore a yellow
summery dress
with short sleeves.

I wanted
to kiss
her again
hold her
as I did
the day before.

We didn't talk
of Lizbeth
but of the butterflies
and kinds of birds
lying in the field
beneath the sun.

We kissed
warm and wet
close lying there
without much talk
or world care.

James 2d

Two brothers blood and bone
Always together, never alone.
Set out one day to trap and play
Met a young maiden along their way.
She was beautiful that was for sure.
A lovely sight, innocent and pure.

The brothers at once began to court
And soon forgot their youthful sport.
They fought and quarreled for her affection
Plotted and schemed without objection.
Until one day she became one's wife
And sent the other away to live his life.

The brother's lives were never the same.  
They didn’t hunt and never played.
One lived a life of quiet contemplation
The other of misery and aggravation.
The lovely girl they thought they knew
Grew into a mean old shrew.

Old Stuff

Her unbind hair.

Which she never cares of,

When rounds or roll over her face

makes her more beautiful and elegant.

She never cares for her hair

And let them fly,

without folding and clipping.

The kid in her

has never grown up.

She still plays

like a girl of 5 or 7.

When she laughs and smiles,

Her eyes gets enlarge and attractive

N her cheek takes '(' ')' shape with

her pink lips in between.

She gets ill very soon

which then seems on her innocent face

And makes her even

more beautiful

Makeup fades her

natural beauty,

And even with ordinary dress

she looks like a queen.

She dances occasionally

that too on ''Justin Bieber's song''

unlike other girls she never prefer

to dance on an item song.

I have heard

''She never proud of what she is''

and lives as simple as she can.

Her attitude and behaviour

promotes her intelligence.

As per I think,

Her face is her Dad's part,

Height too repeats her Dad.

She is getting young.

She is getting beautiful.

And attracting the eyes of many.


This poem was written in the year 2013 for my beloved Wife-to-be.
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