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Pagan Paul Jun 27
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All was quiet
the Lord and Lady retired,
courtiers all gone to bed,
the Great Hall silent.
Hounds slumberingly snored
next to the dying embers
of a cooling Inglenook,
occasional crackles popping
as the heat catches wood resin,
it splatters and dies.
A lute lays idle
amongst the mess of banquet
as a lonely secretive figure
detaches from the shadows,
prowling through the detritus.
Slim fingers pick up the lute
and gently strums a chord,
the Minstrel exits stage left,
to compose and construct
new songs and ribald stories
from this nights celebrations.
Retiring to his chamber
his eyes stare balefully
at an uneaten bowl of stew,
the gruel of his station,
a metaphor for the content
of a nearby journal,
closed but waiting,
for a quill rich in ink
to fill its void
with the musings of a Fool.



© Pagan Paul (26/06/19)
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Pagan Paul Jun 6
.
(The Dream)

A single ear of corn,
in a meadow of flowers,
stands proud
in its enforced isolation,
marvelling at the beauty
around its placing,
a sense of envy
as its pale golden yellow
fades in the ensemble
of majesty's riotous colours,
and the scene shifts …

Ravens screech in flight
breaking their shackles
as a dragon
dances on a honeycomb,
and empires fall
chased by ribaldic skeletons
into history's cesspool,
the Maiden reeks havoc
in a harem of vice,
guarding the purity of life
from scavenging sins,
watching as the fat maggots
crawl under the skin,
they devour and destroy
spreading rancid disease within,
and the scene shifts …

the ear of corn
sways with unexpected breeze,
as the floral attraction
surrounds its ugliness,
it bleeds to shy away,
hide its foulness,
so as not to taint or scar
this panorama of life,
The offering as ritual
to keep so dear
as a drop of morning dew
slides down a leaf
to hang suspended, inert,
and the scene shifts …


and a chair stays silent
waiting by a desk,
a book and quill lay idle
as he dreams disturbed
in a cot, cold and hard,
an internal dialogue
complete with visions
as the warring parties ride
in subconscious battle,
the raven screams,
the dragon dances,
the ear of corn stands proud,
the Maiden cries.
And the quill is a symbol,
a badge of honour,
adopted for the heart
to capture his dreams …



© Pagan Paul (05/06/19)
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Pagan Paul Jun 4
.
Walk through the silence
of a lonely tapestry,
its mute single thread
trying to Canute the night,
knowing it must ride the Moon
to dance with the stars.
Blood red ink.
Ink red blood.
Across pages it falls,
words of needlepoint pain
screaming at the audience,
the Moon has been deflowered
and the stars dance alone.
Cedar wood smoke perfumes
the stench of lethargy,
from an open log fire
throwing flickers of hopeful light,
flame fingers burn the Moon
as the stars cry for the weaver.




© Pagan Paul (02/06/19)
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6th poem in Fool's diary series.
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Pagan Paul May 7
.
So the smoke coils
surrounding a stray thought
clinging to the vine
as it weaves threads
into a tapestry
of fermented grape wrath.
His pen crawls
across the pages of life
and ignores the punctuation,
a plague infected word flow,
his stream of catharsis.
But the babble
intrudes and sounds irk,
sending resentment forward
like an advance guard
to meet the violence
and deflect the onslaught.
And the wave dies
as the aggressor retreats
before motley defence.
But the mood
has been tainted, spoiled,
despite a flirtatious distraction.
And the flame flickers
as the smoke coils,
and tired eyes avert their gaze
from the perceived ***** page,
the excrement of misery
smeared to make nostrils flare,
and the entry is left
incomplete …




© Pagan Paul (06/05/19)
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4th entry in the Fool's Diary
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Pagan Paul Apr 23
.
Wouldst thou not gaze again 'pon this humble fool?
For 'tis his script that doth countenance histories,
hence future repeats be 'pon his wither and whim,
thou shouldst see twice his story woven sisterlies.

Wouldst thou not read more of this humble fool?
Mayhap his words doth soothe thy enquiry,
his want and wander leadeth to a contentment,
thou shouldst not ignore content of ye Fool's Diary.

Wouldst thou not focus true 'pon this humble fool?
Perchance his poems doth resonate sweetness unbound,
pray do a'linger and a'loiter 'pon his fancy delicacies,
thou shouldst taketh thy fill of love and wisdom found.




© Pagan Paul (22/04/19)
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Follow up to poems Fool's Diary and Fools Diary (Addendum)
posted on Mar 6th and 8th 2019
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Pagan Paul Mar 6
.
At the table of eternal sorrow
sits a fool with a crooked smile,
faking interest in a world obscene
and feigning the mood of yesterwhile.
Couched over bent with quill extended,
he writes his heart with a bitter beat,
floating in the mire of a memory stained,
poised with nib to command the sheet.
Capering words form across the weave
with capricious intent and shadow play,
smoke and mirrors intersect and disperse
whilst his mind carries the story away.




© Pagan Paul (04/03/19)
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Pagan Paul Feb 2018
.
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
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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)
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Shawm, Gemshorn - mediaeval musical instruments.
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Pagan Paul Mar 2017
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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)
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Reworked Poem.
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— The End —