Pagan Paul Apr 8
Across the meadows long and fair,
'pon a bay horse with high might,
did he ride away to conquer,
reflecting glories of the Fable Knight.

Sir Afen in armour gleaming wild,
a sharpened blade and heavy mace,
besaddled easy in prideful pose,
musing 'pon the battles coming embrace.

The melee holds a future memory,
of skill, brutality and of lucky chance,
all for to impress the sweet Lady
who tied her favour to his lance.

Through fields of blood and gore,
chasing the music of hurting screams,
hast thou a more invigouratiing path
for a man to create his dreams?

The fiery vigour within his veins
as the red mist crawls his eyes,
the fragrant stench of opened flesh,
horror shouts as his enemy dies.

Dagger and mace slash and swing,
the spiked ball lands a heavy maul,
unseated from his mighty steed,
'pon still corpses to soften his fall.

Sir Afen was indeed a mystic legend
and, 'pon his horse, so primly grand,
yet flounder did he most infant like,
his armour fighting 'gainst his stand.

Then aided by a passing boy squire
he stood with sword made at poise,
bellowed commands ring out fervent,
somehow dull inside the battles noise.

A flat blade dents his shiny helm,
peeling bells invade his foggy mind,
his images blur in shock surprise,
and behold the visions of the blind!

And battle drug lust, strange and fey,
feels no pain when in darker shade,
as gut slicing cuts rain down like piss,
from his enemies most truer blades.

Energy soaks faster than the dying blood,
into the dark soil 'pon the Heath,
Sir Afen's life so sadly ends this day,
taken by the Earth, bone cold beneath.

A parting wish, a Knights last thought,
the soft sweetness of his lovers kiss,
fading slow into Deaths warm arms,
with the image of his Lady Amarylis.

© Pagan Paul (05/04/18)
This did not start as a prequel to my Lady Amarylis poems,
it just sort of got there by itself.

Afen - Anglo Saxon name for Avon, the River
at whose mouth Bristol stands.
Pagan Paul Feb 12
She walks the castle walls at night,
with a rose held fast in her fingers,
the mist rolls away across the land,
the memory of her lover still lingers.

Cold flagstones beneath her slippered feet
hold the histories of the aeons tight.
Old battles, wars, and terrifying sieges,
ghosts of ancient warriors wail in the night.

And still she clutches his parting gift,
she wears the bond burden of his ring,
his love weighs upon her broken heart,
tears flow free with a melancholic sting.

They fall upon the stones and disappear,
additions to the heavy tomes of history,
little gems writing sadness in a story,
as she stares into the distance so wistfully.

© Pagan Paul (10/02/18)
Pagan Paul Oct 2017
A gemshorn and a mandolin
strike up counterpoint melodies,
as a harp and viola
caress the notes of a minuet.
Soft waves of music creep
around the joy of the Hall,
cuddling the fibres of granite stone
with a warming fire for all.

And she steps to the fore,
slippers of silk gliding so slow,
eyes as blue as robins eggs,
smile sweet as a full moons glow.
Hair laced with summer flowers,
a long dress of velvet green,
and the shawm she is ready to play
held lightly by fingers so keen.

Her tongue moistens shyly,
as the reed approaches her lips,
with fingers dancing over holes,
and deftly into a trance she slips.
Descending chords in choral hue,
drip colours into an aching heart,
the sweetest of mediaeval muses,
playing well her minstrels part.

© Pagan Paul (21/10/17)
Shawm, Gemshorn - mediaeval musical instruments.
Pagan Paul Mar 2017
Walking in the forest was I
when I heard a plaintiff cry
begging me to give her aid
a desperate and 'prisoned maid.

Locked up in a tower was she
all alone with her misery.
“I'll let my long hair down for thee
to climb up here and rescue me”.

I thought this was a little unwise,
a wicked glint tinged my eyes,
a knowing smile, and feeling smug,
I gave her hair a hefty tug.

Down she fell into my arms,
muttering curses, gushing charms.
Over and over we tumbled for fun
rolling about in the midday sun.

I noticed the rip in her dress
so her thigh I did fondly caress.
Respond in kind she promptly felt,
loosening off my trouser belt.

And her father's lock on her chastity
was no match for my skeleton key.
Even though he'd chained the door,
his daughter is a maiden no more.

© Pagan Paul (2017)
Reworked Poem.

— The End —