#paganpaul
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*Poems are plush curtains,
of words,
pulled together
to hide the world
from the raw emotion
that flows
out of a writer
casting pearls.*
© Pagan Paul (14/02/21)
Feb 27, 2021
Feb 27, 2021 at 4:01 PM UTC
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Tomorrow.
Tomorrow it will be better.
You'll see.
You'll see.
© Pagan Paul (14/02/21)
Feb 23, 2021
Feb 23, 2021 at 2:20 PM UTC
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Someone is waiting behind an unlocked door,
peek around the frame and tell me what you saw.
I am a little bit too scared to take a look,
like turning a page in an old horror book.
You see it may be someone who likes me
and that is dangerous for stability.
The hands are motionless on a timeless clock,
it would be easier if they would just knock.
In theory there is nothing I want more
than someone waiting behind an unlocked door.
I've rehearsed this scene so many times before,
but here and now there is a storm at my core.
It ties up the insides like thick knotted hair,
the thought, the fear, that there is nobody there.
So the man in the corner whom most ignore
has someone waiting behind an unlocked door.
But the uncertainty has its own high cost,
as the door locks shut and the moment is lost.
© Pagan Paul (14/02/21)
Feb 22, 2021
Feb 22, 2021 at 7:29 AM UTC
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I lay here coiled foetal
in my cold cot of nightmare,
the candle that canutes the dark
has long since dimmed and died.
In but a few short hours
the **** will welcome the Dawn,
In but a few short hours
my wracked shivering frame will rise.
And frozen in the deepest night
I stare into the middle distance,
my eyes daring the still darkness
to intrude on my personal space.
But my minds eye blinks once
and I travel far far away,
back through the lonely years
to my tender sixteenth winter.
Directed and ordered to leave
I faced the cold day with all hope,
as gambolling in my ears,
voices of angry authority play.
The cities arms embraced me,
wrapped me in the mantle of adulthood.
A cooper? A Baker? An Iron-smith?
Nay! For me the cloak of the Fool.
And the Court of a Lord called,
capricious capering for entertainment.
Music. Poetry. Stories. Vitriol.
From song to spit spanning an eve.
I amuse the transient courtiers,
fake love, fake hate in delicate balance,
kiss the feet then stab the heart
and the duplicity is just an act.
In but a few short hours
the night will welcome them all.
In but a few short hours
the darkness will claim their souls.
Saints and shadows now sleep
in soft warm beds of feather-down,
the bones of feasting lay cold
like the dead ash in the inglenooks,
and their minds wander through dreams
that no scribe may steal.
The focus of my madness fades
as the horizon is neatly sliced
by a shiver from the sun,
my eyes watch the darkness retreat.
I release a long-held breath
that I stole at the Dusk of a day,
of a yesterday that matters no more,
to embrace the new day with hope.
I confess.
To the moment of Dawn:
I said the duplicity is just an act.
I lied.
And now … I may sleep.
© Pagan Paul (14/02/21)
Feb 21, 2021
Feb 21, 2021 at 3:37 PM UTC
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The vessel was empty. It was always empty.
The vessel was a body. A Nobody.
Too young to fend for itself yet abandoned to face
the onslaught of a life unprepared for.
It was a satellite, a burden, an unwanted encumbrance
upon the lives of those that spawned it.
Those that should guide, educate, encourage and love.
The emptiness had begun early
and grown into a void of isolated disfunction.
The ship of emotion sailing into a dark sunset
and the cold loneliness of night seeps easy
into the vessel already devoid and senseless.
There had been early years but forgotten
were the vessels memories and experiences.
An era of ancient history with no notations,
undocumented and lost in the ether.
No sense of belonging or conformity
were instilled by those meant to teach.
Instead the blind vessel gropes dangerously
around a world unfamiliar.
To make sense of existence.
To justify its worth.
But worth is subjective.
Of no worth to its peers it protects itself
absorbing the cloak of the worthless.
A litany harshly reinforced by cruelty
dealt out by the tongues of resentful tormentors.
And so left to its own devices
attachment becomes an arbitrary concept.
The revolving door of brief and useless association.
Meaningful liaisons few and far between
as its walls provide protection from feeling hurt.
So the vessel was a body. A Nobody.
And the vessel was empty. It was always empty.
Always... always... empty.
© Pagan Paul (Aug 2020)
Sep 3, 2020
Sep 3, 2020 at 3:23 PM UTC
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One One Seven Three Four Seven Six,
numbers written on little wood sticks,
markers on the graves of lower cost,
in the cemetery of the lost.
War, poverty, famine and disease
fill up the plots with apparent ease,
interred underneath the disposessed,
paupers, orphans, all neatly addressed.
Lives tabulated after living,
filed by the devout unforgiving,
so many pass with no claim to fame,
nobody ever remembers their names.
The poor have their final place to rest.
In Loving Memory, death undressed.
© Pagan Paul (26/08/20)
Aug 26, 2020
Aug 26, 2020 at 3:07 PM UTC
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She walked slow through Her home the forest
loving the feelings that made Her laugh,
when a strange shiny thing caught Her eye,
Her first ever sight of a photograph.
She bent to pick up the new object,
its smoothness feeling nice on Her skin,
at first She saw the reverse blank page
then She stared at a picture of Him.
What fey enchantment could well capture
an image of so handsome a man?
She stared at His face with mute wonder
as an owl hoots and the sky grows wan.
Slipping it into Her warm bodice
finely laced on Her long dress of green,
she smiles and meanders to shelter
thoughts of Him into Her mind did teem.
He and friend Tia were out walking
with Tem the dog around the big wood,
a rare visit He was paying her,
filling up the day as best they could.
A memory of that day she took
as good fortune offered her the chance,
a secret photograph she stole when
He stopped to watch a butterfly dance.
Slipping it into her skirt pocket,
a polaroid keepsake gained by farce.
But as they walked on her skirt wavered,
the picture fell to lay on the grass.
Unnoticed the wind blew it away
landing it in a glade so shady,
and the picture of Him lay face down
until found by the forest Lady.
Daughter of Nature She roamed the trees,
His image She held with growing need.
A wise face that looked kind and gentle,
enough to make Her lonely heart bleed.
She reached for Her paints and easel,
pinned His image to a wooden frame,
touching her pencil to reed paper
she sketch copied for to know His name.
The sketch layered into a drawing,
Her hands moving deftly and with skill,
to capture His form and His likeness
with every fibre of Her will.
She paints around Him filling detail,
background grass, the butterfly and trees.
Delicately Her brush touches Him,
strokes building His image by degrees.
He closed His tired eyes and heavy yawned
laying in the guest bed for to sleep,
the cry of the forest calls to Him,
the feeling to answer draws Him deep.
His mind begins to wander away
on its night journey it does embark,
sliding into the open dream world
as an owl hoots and the sky grows dark.
As an owl hoots and the sky grows dark
She completes the last stroke of the brush.
She steps back to view Her painted man,
a brief panic hits Her with a rush.
A brief panic hits Him with a rush,
he started then slow opened His eyes.
He found He was in a woodland glade
getting brighter under clearing skies.
She started then opened Her eyes,
He stood there made flesh and oh so real,
He stared at Her face with mute wonder
and watched as Her smile She did reveal.
Staring silently at each other
they stood in the glade cool and shady.
He smiled back at Her with eyes and mouth,
and He spoke soft “Greetings my Lady”.
© Pagan Paul (25/07/20)
Jul 26, 2020
Jul 26, 2020 at 3:06 PM UTC
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Upon tortured trails did Tandi go
weeping and wailing her wedded woe.
A burden for her to carry
for the man whom she did marry
was most violent and brutal
with no real morals nor scruples,
many blows she could not parry.
So she shot the source of her sadness
his gun giving both grief and gladness.
Whilst laying in his bed
a bullet in the head
ensured he was stone dead,
quiet now is his hate
gone beyond Hell's foul gate.
The limp lifeless legacy she left
bade boldness to bolt and be bereft.
So away she did flee
slipping into the night
her chance of being free
hiding out of plain sight
from those who find the body.
A horse she hounded and hurried fast
runs rapid in rain rinsing her past.
As memories slip away
she greets a promising day
smiling at the road ahead
the adventures she had said
were once only in her head.
Tandi toyed with travelling the lands
heart and harmony held in her hands.
With weather overcast
Riding away so fast
and although she has sinned
turns her face to the wind,
Hails the future at last.
© Pagan Paul (25/05/20)
Jul 21, 2020
Jul 21, 2020 at 4:28 AM UTC
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*'Put your dreams into a bottle
and cast them away to the sea.
Let the tides carry them afar
then turn your back and forget me'.*
The old lane meandered through the city
lined with stone walls, hedges and metal gates.
Out of the city it wended its way
to the site of many a fayre and fete.
On the edge of the field was an old mill
its waterwheel gone and timbers rotted.
But the stones of centuries stood up tall
around which vines of ivy were knotted.
It was here that I first saw her soft face
gliding from tree to tree shaking the leaves.
The mystery Lady from who knows where
dancing in the morning and misty eves.
A well worn path leads off down to a beach
a haven of beauty next to the sea.
As I felt the sand beneath my bare feet
I turned to see that she had followed me.
The mystery Lady from who knows where
smiled at me from behind her long dark hair.
Closing the gap across the warming sand
her slender fingers slip in to my hand.
Rock formations jut up to the blue sky
the scattered remnants of huge cliffs of stone.
Random sea shells pepper the shore line edge,
some flat and shallow, some shaped like cones.
Driftwood and kelp lay basking in the sun
in rhythmic notes the sea sings out her song.
I bend to pick up a blue glass bottle
finding that the girl had vanished and gone.
For this lack of attention I chided,
unlike the salt water I was angry.
Oh my manners appalled my very core
and I launched the bottle out to the sea.
The beach looked more deserted than forever
with its bleached driftwood and its flaccid kelp.
I saw the bottle arc through the still air,
as I turned I heard a whisper for help.
A glint from the blue glass in the bright sun
as it was swallowed by the ocean wide.
The mystery Lady from who knows where
sank below the white cap waves as she cried.
Heartbroken and sad I saw my dreams sink,
tears rose in my eyes and I turned my back.
Of a sudden the Lady fades from thought
and I re-traced our steps back to the track.
Thirty years to the day and to the time
I walk to the field down the old mill lane,
the many seasons have borne little change,
I dare to think of the Lady again.
But I truly knew I would not see her
shaking the leaves nor hiding in the green.
Still the melancholy hangs like a blind
of little glimpses of what might have been.
Stones on the old mill have crumbled away
and the feeding stream long since running dry.
I wander to the path down to the sea
and on to the spot where my Lady died.
Sat on a log toes buried in the sand
I think of what may well have come to pass,
and note with a deep sense of irony
my toe cut by shards of bottle blue glass.
This sentimental walk has reached its end,
retreating I turn my back to the sea.
The mystery Lady from who knows where
ever remains a mystery to me.
© Pagan Paul (29/05/20)
Jun 1, 2020
Jun 1, 2020 at 6:57 PM UTC
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An eagle lands,
as an Empire falls
into the dust of history,
its eye catches the sunset
and it takes to its roost.
Buildings smoke
and climbers climb.
The remnants of what was
clings on hopelessly
seeking to avoid the future.
The eagle closes its eyes
focusing on one lost image.
A fading dream
as the bird of freedom
slips meekly into a coma.
And the serpent of control
oozes in to replace common sense,
tightening the noose
that strangles the eagles legacy.
© Pagan Paul (22/05/20)
May 23, 2020
May 23, 2020 at 8:50 AM UTC
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*A month of Sundays intrudes darkly
upon a beautiful soft new Spring.
Casting the shadows of confusion,
growing hope for what Summer may bring.*
© Pagan Paul (06/04/20)
May 10, 2020
May 10, 2020 at 5:25 AM UTC
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*To hold my heart in delicate fingers
is to hold a fool's rose in your hands,
shed no tears upon its brittle petals,
cry not for the fool that notice demands.
Let it flow like water from your soft palms
to scatter and fall through holes in the dream,
free diving in the space of emotions,
the fool's rose once cut exits the last scene.
So take care next time you happen upon
a fool's rose betwixt the lines of a song,
handle with love for if you hold it wrong
it will take your heart and be quickly gone.*
© Pagan Paul (01/04/20)
May 1, 2020
May 1, 2020 at 4:11 PM UTC
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Smoothly is an utopian dream
and therein lies the troubles,
we are all set upon our paths,
all individual bouncing bubbles.
Each and every one of us
has our own journey to tread,
and the differences in our bodies
are matched by those in our head.
So accept the person you are,
into your being melt and immerse,
ignore smooth, embrace the rough,
revel in the beauty of being diverse.
© Pagan Paul (16/04/20)
Apr 26, 2020
Apr 26, 2020 at 6:08 AM UTC
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It builds over time,
weeks and months go by,
the wave rising higher.
That urge to run run away.
To leave all behind and flee
from what is to come,
from what cannot be controlled
from the darkness
that threatens to overwhelm,
and drown the unstable stability
of exiting this time and space.
The necessity for escape
growing from a panicked seed
shivering in the mind,
unaware of the root of danger,
yet perceiving something.
Something that is really there
but intangible in mist,
waiting in the shadows to consume
the logical and the rational,
promoting the need to withdraw,
to isolate with stark completion in chaos.
If you cannot see the sense in senseless
then you are missing the point.
But when the point of reference shifts
then the less sense the sense makes.
Disassociation and detachment occur
driving before them a storm surge
of discord and confusion,
crashing through the thoughts of order,
losing perspective to a dark aftermath.
Trapped within a nervous disposition,
an out of kilter anxiety
and gambolling out of control
towards a stillness of vaccuum.
And then implosion.
The big bang on time lapse in reverse
as self- absorption takes hold
and the isolation task is completed,
pleasing greatly that urge to run run away.
© Pagan Paul (07/04/20)
Apr 25, 2020
Apr 25, 2020 at 3:36 PM UTC
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The orb sinks below an horizon,
through a ***** window
bowing out with all grace,
concluding another day
and I write.
A stream of conscious falls
and fills a page with woe,
my heart cradled in dark
as another wave of nausea
interrupts a pleasant dusk time.
The pen rests but itches to scrawl.
The words are counted there,
the order somewhat confused.
And slowly, slowly, cautious,
they flow with random airs.
The darkness of day's end
seeping into every phrase
without prejudice.
The number 2 in relief
inscribed upon a brass disc
reflects the dullness of evening,
styled like a swan
in a maudlin funeral pose.
The day scurries away,
grey clouds tumble above,
another quiet night beckons.
I taper light a candle
welcoming the flame as company.
The pen still lays silent,
abandoned.
The itch to scrawl spent,
dreaming.
Dreaming in the mist.
*Horns call from the ether
floating through the mind,
as a quill dips ink
ready to be born and flourish
in a better world.
As the first word
is inscribed across the page,
the rest tumble race
to be arranged in neat rows,
to entice the eyes of readers.
The continue to flow
with increasing agony
in a far-seeing mind-scape.
The memories of time rise up,
breaking the fragile surface,
and over-run the quill pen.
Words fighting to get out
and be immortalised
upon a crisp white leaf page.
The fine strokes go on
until the thread ends.
But instantly picks up the next
and starts to weave and sew,
stitching another stream of words.
The tapestry starts to form,
an image for a story.
But the mist returns and coils
and the pen sleeps on.
Its dreams just wisps of smoke,
a candle snubbed and extinguished.*
I stare at the redundant pen,
a white feather waiting.
I think of another story,
a white feather waiting.
A call to tickle the pages,
a white feather waiting.
But there is a spectre also,
the black ink of nightmare.
The pen dreams of eloquence,
I dream in the dark.
The pen wishes for permanence,
I wish for the spark.
Ignite me! Ignite me!
Don't try to fight me.
Ignite me! Ignite me!
Take words and write me.
Scribe my name across your heart and read,
words my pen writes and my mind bleeds.
© Pagan Paul (28/03/20)
Apr 17, 2020
Apr 17, 2020 at 12:06 PM UTC
Eyelids flicker, close again.
Then slowly part allowing focus.
The morning welcomes sleepy eyes
and a window beckons.
Light streams through
and the view is of Spring.
The sun up in the sky
brilliant and ablaze with life.
From one horizon to another
clear blue light hangs,
lazily draping the world
and not a vapour trail in sight.
Silence is no longer a pause
between bursts of open noise,
rather, noise is an intruder
hectoring the moments of peace.
Until the sleep dirt clears
and the chorus of birds singing
is in harmony with serenity,
complimenting the absence of sound.
Different light in hidden places
shine a hue of emerald green,
flecked with orange and yellow,
single rays of playful sunshine.
The streams of brilliance persist
like the radiance of a palette,
if the painter is Mother Nature
and the picture is crystal clear.
And sleep though only minutes gone
is a forgotten rest memory.
The dreams faded and passed on,
given free, as a gift to the night.
© Pagan Paul (25/03/20)
Apr 15, 2020
Apr 15, 2020 at 10:49 AM UTC
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*Watch the morning tide
wash them all aside,
my castles by the shore
are gone forever more.*
A billion grains of golden sand,
the remnants of my dreams,
float suspended in the current
and I drift along with them.
They in their watery solution,
me in the spaces of my mind.
Drifting.
The grains of sand sink and fade,
replaced by neon chain linked stars
and the sense of being completely empty,
not at all devoid. Just .. empty.
Drifting.
The floatation tank of loss
clasps the dreams with frigid fingers,
shrieking to be given its toy,
threatening never to open again.
But the Suns call from faraway skies
heralding to opine freedom,
release the fragments to individual broadcasts,
reaching out, out, out to the deep.
An umbilical tether for a fragile boat
is slipped to play adrift in a storm.
Letting go. Letting go.
Watch the morning tide wash them all aside.
Letting go.
*I cast a mind spell,
wish them all farewell,
my castles in the sea
are evermore set free.*
And my mind though now it be thought less
has no need of castles, for it is a fortress.
© Pagan Paul (15/03/20)
Mar 24, 2020
Mar 24, 2020 at 7:35 AM UTC
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A speck on the horizon grows,
dark grey, foreboding and cruel,
stunting the sun's warm rays,
eclipsing the sky's perfect jewel.
Roiling clouds gather their skirts,
spewing across the azure blue,
spreading threads of droplet rain,
morphing the light into different hue.
Static is just the anticipation,
the excitement before the wonder,
the throb as high overhead
peels a belly roll of thunder.
© Pagan Paul (17/03/20)
Mar 18, 2020
Mar 18, 2020 at 3:27 PM UTC
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You stand alone in a crowd,
fully clad and yet naked,
open to the scrutiny of others,
a target for acceptable prejudice.
Do you look like them?
Do you act like them?
Do you think like them?
Does your conformity make you like them?
The group, the herd.
Is their outer vanity enough
for you not to care what they think?
The truth is that vanity
is not tangible.
The outward manifestation of thought,
thought that nibbles at the edges of reason,
invading and undermining confidence,
an acceptable target for prejudice.
Do they like me?
Am I of their kind?
What are they thinking?
Does my confusion make me like them?
Part of the crowd.
Is my inner vanity sufficient
for me to not care what they think?
The truth is that vanity
is transitory.
© Pagan Paul (29/02/20)
Mar 6, 2020
Mar 6, 2020 at 2:50 PM UTC
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*Last night
she said I was cold.
Unreachable.
Surrounded in a halo of frost.
It burnt her fingers
as she dared to touch,
but there was little there.
Just … frost-bite,
and the sense
that she was alone in the room.
In body I was there,
but the Boat of Millions of Years
was sailing through my eyes
to the intended destination,
my lost mind.
She called to me
but I was to far to hear.
Down her soft cheeks
the tears did stream,
as she screamed my name
over and over.
She screamed until
the screams turned to sobs,
as the slow realisation
that I no longer knew her,
knew me, knew anything,
hit her like a wave of grief,
freezing her emotions dead.
Last night
she said I was cold.
And I was cold
because I knew that it was
our Last Night.*
© Pagan Paul (16/02/20)
Feb 24, 2020
Feb 24, 2020 at 7:10 PM UTC
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*She appears in the dawn mists of Autumn,
in yellows and gold, in reds and in browns,
painting shades and hues, Nature's decorum,
blushing the trees in her fine harvest gowns.
Dispensing her bounty for all to reap,
walking so confident through woodland scenes,
she prepares the trees for their Winter sleep
with distant thought of leaves and shoots new green.
Come Spring she wears riotous colour dress
in purple and mauve, a spectrum of blues,
showing reds and yellows, pinks to impress,
attracting the eyes to see as they choose.
In summer she arrives in hazy days
basking in new warmth, eager to be shown,
naked to the Sun, exposed to its rays,
Nature's beautiful daughter now full grown.*
© Pagan Paul (09/02/20)
Feb 11, 2020
Feb 11, 2020 at 4:58 AM UTC
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*The goods trains roll on by,
passing my window at night
and I wonder, wonder,
where are you going to?
May I come?
May I lay back slowly
and let you take me somewhere?
Anywhere.
Anywhere but now.
For here I lay
counting the rhythmic pulses
of iron wheels on iron rails.
As goods trains roll on by.
I need to feel in my bones
these rhythmic pulses
like temperate rain on tin roofs
soothing the beat of a heart.
I want to go and to expand,
to flow through the world
at an even metronomic pace,
to find a place of balance.
And my inner eye like a clipper
sails into the void of dreams,
yet, somehow, more real to me
as I watch myself explore.
Teasing out the dark corners,
bringing light to their inherent terrors
and exposing myself to fears.
But who's fears?
Individual pieces or the whole puzzle?
Pieces missing, the puzzle incomplete.
Its hidden away in my mind
disjointedly interlocking around holes.
I wrote about my sanctuary.
A special garden in a special forest,
providing me with safety
for when the holes become to large.
To this retreat I speed
when the sensory input overloads,
blows a fuse or severs a link
to the circuit of attachment
and fractures the edges of the puzzle,
scattering the composite pieces.
The further dislocation of logic
as I sit in my sanctuary and weep.
And through tears I can see
light flooding in to me,
the blush of morning sky
as goods trains roll on by.*
© Pagan Paul (30/01/20)
Jan 31, 2020
Jan 31, 2020 at 4:25 PM UTC
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A door opens with creaking sounds,
inwards to a dark and cool room,
untouched for many hundreds of years,
barely a flicker lights the gloom.
Peeling decoration whispers
at a past richly bottled in wealth,
now nearly empty except for
a curious book upon a shelf.
Bound and covered in lizard skin,
with words that swim on the pages,
shades and shadows cross together,
spells cast by the ancient sages.
A long bony index finger
tracing symbols down an old spine,
pre-history condensed in leafs,
that unfold through space and time...
© Pagan Paul (09/11/19)
Nov 19, 2019
Nov 19, 2019 at 6:28 AM UTC
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*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)
May 7, 2019
May 7, 2019 at 5:00 AM UTC
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Impenetrable silence greets
as disappointment inside sweeps,
prey to another false start,
a fire needle to the heart.
And the secret twitch of an eye muscle
reveals the depth of pain in rejection,
the shame of being considered disposable
or a stop on the road to perfection.
© Pagan Paul (22/04/19)
Apr 25, 2019
Apr 25, 2019 at 9:07 AM UTC