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  Aug 2018 Pages
Pagan Paul
Which crimson bud
doth burst forth white,
which lovely flower
doth perfume the night,
flourish and flutter
doth stamen and petal,
the bee upon beauty
doth gently settle.

© Pagan Paul (15/08/18)
  Jul 2018 Pages
Valsa George
on a sea strand,
have you watched empty shells
mercilessly tossed from sea to shore
and from shore to sea?
often I shrink and reduce to such a shell,
with jagged and broken edges
colorless and empty

among many a debris cast on the shore,
i lie half buried under the sand
waiting for some mighty wave
to wash me away
all the way to the sea

how tedious is my voyage
shuttling from him to her
and from her to him
unable to openly confess
who weighs more
on the balance of preference

through how many alleys and by ways
I have wandered, questioning my identity!
am I a puffer fish, being toxic
the fisher men have discarded?
a jarring note in a discordant symphony?
I wonder....! I often ask myself!

destined to grow
in mercurial climes,
planted in arid shallow soil
with the tap root trimmed,
branches pruned,
growth denied,
I, a stunted bonsai!

still I dream to be a towering tree,
that in profusion gives fruits and shade!
a ****** aspiring to be a Goliath
a hollow reed,
longing at once to be the singer and the song!
When a divorce occurs, the threat of losing the home and losing the purpose of life confronts a child, especially in the younger age. Children of divorced parents experience a real trauma and they begin to doubt about their own identity!
  Jun 2018 Pages
Pagan Paul
Snow drifts down
     laying a lawn cold sheet
across the frozen ground,
          creating art reliefs
like acid etching glass,
open space rolling and undulating,
in small hills and depressions,
     bedecked in a veil of white.
The silence is deafening,
quiet having been enjoyed
     and surpassed,
briefly punctuated by the call of a bird,
     A sharp whistle that shrieks
and attacks the silence.
The fresh smell of snowfall wafts up
     as it settles and glistens
in the light of silver moonbeams,
randomly peeping through clouds.
The taste of peace,
in the frigid air,
sends imagination soaring
from the desolation of isolation
to another time and place.
          The snow falls,
in a relentless race for the ground,
               all is still,
               nothing stirs,
as the moor welcomes its quilt
and sleeps with a cold heart,
                       of being kissed by the Sun.

© Pagan Paul (28/05/18)
  May 2018 Pages
It is a waste
of time to try
to put your finger
on the mystery
of the poet,
or to touch the stone
of the poet's body,
the soul, to excavate
and to polish
it soft, this would
only lead to gashes,
a wound of bad luck,
crumbling dust, a kind
of ill omen, a foreboding
smoke too dense
to see yourself in,
a pond without reflection,
another hard drink,
the mirror softer
than a rock, so think
and listen, the poet
is a like hysteria,
a great flood,
a thought of a wish
to pick up a shard
and shed your own blood.
Flagged for harassment, Locked up for a day. Acquitted.
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