Dwarfed by concrete and steel, I struggle to
catch, to grasp that which has been stolen by
swift phantom hands and soft dying light who
whisper, caress, remind. They draw my eye
to the setting sun, the dying fire,
the phoenix’s last embers burning out.
The day’s enchantment will soon expire.
Lips drawn down, brows furrowing in a pout.
The same spectral breezes tug on my shirt,
Pull me towards the tracks that lead me home.
Night sweeps across the sky in silken skirts,
richly colored, bejewelled with precious stones.
I must hurry. Must leave promptly, before
Night regresses into a tawdry whore.
What is a poet to do
when his favourite muse
faints whilst making love,
a victim of passions fuse.

To carry on regardless?
Perhaps slap her lovely cheek?
Mouth 2 mouth no tongue?
Or maybe implore her to speak?

A lesser poet
shakes her anxiously
and writes a verse about prowess and spooning.

A True poet
carries on regardless
and writes a sonnet about his muse and swooning.

© Pagan Paul (23/05/18)
5th poem in my series Even Poets Screw Up ...
I only write these when in the silliest of moods!
Hay un camino hacia tu casa,
pero he perdido corazón para ello.
Una milla de nubes es la que hay
entre aquel lugar que he amado y yo.

Después de todo este tiempo,
aún soy incapaz de mantener
lejos de mi pensamiento tus mejillas
más bellas que los tulipanes en flor.

Cantas ya con otro,
pero no conozco el tono
de vuestra alegría.

Hoy, no sé quién está más triste:
este viento melancólico
acompañando mis pasos, o yo.


There is a way leading to your house,
but I've lost heart for it.
A mile of clouds stands between
me and that place I love.

After all this time,
I'm still in capable of maintaining
far from my thought your cheeks,
more beautiful than the tulips in flower.

Now you're singing with another,
but I don't know the pitch
of your joy.

Today, I don't know who is sadder:
the melancholic wind
accompanying my footsteps, or me.
lucy 2d
I went for years accepting you as truth.
My conscience never was my own to keep.
Your promises only ever cut skin deep,
You took my mind and stole from me my youth.
Your words are weapons only when it suits,
Demand I jump and watch me as I leap.
You never try to practice what you preach -
You sing of love then aim your gun and shoot.
Daily prayers begged fruitlessly for mercy,
My sins too heavy for my soul to bear,
Forgiveness only temporary relief.
I believed that I was never worthy.
In truth, were you ever really there?
My life was spent just chasing false beliefs.
O Cupid's love, I wish you speak for me
Go forth! Carry my love for her to see;
Pierce her by my words, not by your arrows
Greet her so tenderly, not by sorrows.
Cross all the perilous terrains and skies
with the light of my love that never dies.
Whip and beat the demons along the way
to show her that my love won't ever sway.
Remind her how my eyes captured by hers
and the way she looks makes this heart shivers.
Tell her the love that I have been keeping
Tell her the nights that I have been crying
Just to lay in one of her chambers
But, O, my Cupid, you never did speak.
A barrel cast of porcelain I bear
A white-furred bull upon my waist reclines
The alabaster eggshell buried there
A hollow suffocated by design
I am, by ring, the oldest living tree
With form bereft of grace or limber charm
A prairie pale rolls forth atop my knees
Of silent waves composed into my arms
But ring and ring again supplants my will
As heat with yeast and dough will slowly swell
A tabby cat loved lazy, sweet and still
A sleeping pulse within a clownish shell
The valley miles above my buried chest
A place where, lying still, his head may rest
Ormond 4d

In my working days world,
Outside little birdies do swirl,

With wings and songs saying,
Wee birds in trees are playing,

But my blue drab or grey suit,
That chains me to my roots,

With only windows to imagine
A world so colourful, tangible,

Is shroud, only wrap of clothes,
Yet little birds, so downy robed,

And within my comely, demise,
See how brightly birdies do fly,

As I shudder, muted, wintering,
O how wee birdies can sing.
The egg-white mannequin sings, walking down
Pothole-gray sidewalks. To the Met he goes.
What is he looking for? Of course! His toes,
Which have been lost since the lawn-gnome facedown.
It had been Sydney versus Roslyn for
The title, King Crab. And the prize, you ask?
Peppermint wine in a trapezoid flask.
As the battle wore on, they struck a gopher,
Chopped some toes, and played with Play-doh.
The damage caused Google Translator
To speak only Spanish about pink meadows.
Eventually things came to a close.
The victors won with Nike’s bluster.
And off went the mannequin for his toes.
Sonnet that was written using random words that the class suggested. I'm surprisingly fond of this silly poem and hope that it will make other smile.
Anonymous May 16
From the night sky, the moon gazed at a rose.
The darkness complemented all the sounds.
Under the sycamore, the rose did pose.
The winds shifted the leaves that were now browned.

A child tiptoed through the dark thorn bush.
Scratches and cuts made way across her skin.
She didn’t cry, she didn’t scream, a hush.
Closer she came to the rose as if kin.

The flower shook and quivered from her sight.
She bent under moonlight, no noise heard still.
The trees stood still, waiting for a dark fight.
The girl reached and gently felt the soft rose.

The forest breathed and sighed in relief.
She left without a sound, the night now closed.
In English class, we were to create our own Shakespearean sonnet. This was mine. (Sorry if it's somewhat sloppy, I've never done this kind of work before)
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