From A Blue Cloud

From a blue cloud at the two o’clock
And out of the rain,
With a long step and a swift nod
The master came.

Swinging behind him a painted box
In an old and tattered bag,
He watched my eye on the mystery box
And sat on a damson rag.

Under the pleat of his purple cloak
Was the Queen of petty spades,
‘We’re off to the end of the rainbow, Jack
To the long, black end of days.’

Ducking the light of the morning star
We hid in a tulip bed,
But caught the beam in a bottle-jar
To light the way ahead.

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poem by David Lewis Paget
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Would He Even Know Me Now?

The past is full of shades and shapes
Of people, come and gone,
'Whatever happened to so and so, '
We say, when the mood is on;
But closer still, our parents live
In the warmth of our hearts and minds,
And my father often returns to me
To haunt my quiet times.

How do you deal with a love so deep
That it tears your life apart?
The day that he left, he took a piece
Of my ever caring heart,
He died, and so did I that day,
But I couldn't even cry,
A loss so great to a fickle fate -
I wept, though my eyes were dry.

Though that was twenty years ago
I remember in every way,

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poem by David Lewis Paget
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A Welsh Hymn

Bron Dilys Teashop
Of Threadneedle Alleyway,
Swaddled in a pinafore
And cosseted in lace,
Soon charmed the borough boys
When she sang long for the scallywags
Or served up sweet tyshan lap
With her famous welsh cakes.

Her soft-breasted menu
Of cariad and comfort,
Her short tacky temper
Emblazed her blue eyes,
Dai Jones ate those long legs
Alive in the bara brith
And deep-delved her laverbread
With his brandysnap lies.

Then was Tilly Tongue-fit
Sweet cuddled in the marigold

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poem by David Lewis Paget
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The Ring-Pull Chain

‘It’s all I can do to remember
Your face, your look or your smile,
You left one day, but you didn’t say
You’d be gone for many a mile;
For many a mile and fortune
That you took in your pocket then,
You left me chained to the window-pane
To welcome you back again.’

‘I stared for many a morning,
I cried for many a night,
But kept my pain on a ring-pull chain
I counted by candle-light.
A link for each day you wandered,
A yard for each month you strayed,
Three hundred feet back in Stanley Street
Is waiting to be unmade.’

‘You took my love at the parting
But me, you left behind,

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poem by David Lewis Paget
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When The Welsh Of Wales Go Home

There’s a distant drift of tides
That pitch at your troubled stare
And songs of a deep Welsh valley
Howl out from your wild, grey hair;
Then you sit, bright-eyed at the moonlight,
And you cry, bright-eyed at dawn,
There is no rest for the weary
When the Welsh of Wales go home.

You ride that distant country
While your eyes are mad with grief,
And you search for the things you lost there
Or you search for a long dead thief;
I speak, but get no answer
I question, cajole, implore,
You nod with an ancient wisdom,
And wake at a cottage door.

You knock, but find it empty
The thatch lies thick on the floor,

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poem by David Lewis Paget
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Byron Bay

I lay a-dream in Byron Bay
And felt a voice to sigh and say:
'Get up, get up,
There’s much to be done,
And more to be seen, to be worked at and won.'

Her eyes were sparkling pools of gold
Her hair a glittering tale, untold,
'Get up, get on, '
She seemed to say,
But whispered her wisdom and wishes away

'Don’t lie in an idle content, replete,
Be stirring your imagery, stirring your feet,
Get on, get out
And conjure the ebb
Of a moonbeam laced with a spider’s web.'

I smiled to notice the voice so fine
A bubbling nectar, a sparkling wine,

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poem by David Lewis Paget
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Obit.

Jennifer Absalom Maudlin-Mand
Passed away yesterday, by her own hand,
Scribbled a note to be found once she'd done it,
'Please put the strawberries back in the punnet!
I am so weary of life and the living,
Tell all my friends, it's all right! I forgive them! '

Jennifer penned all her poetry passé,
Lolled all her life on the lawn, on the grassé,
Painted her pictures from life in the nuddy,
Rolled in the puddles and made herself muddy,
Nothing survives of her art or her passion,
Only stained clothes that she rolled in the grass on.

'Wealth is a burden! ' was one of her utters,
'Time is so tedious! ' 'Love is for nutters! '
'I am so jaded with cell phones and gadgets,
Emails and sea sails, and that poet, Paget,
I have done everything, been there and spent it,
Now I look forward, I'm planning to end it.'

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poem by David Lewis Paget
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Castle Walls

She ventured out from her castle walls
In hopes of meeting me,
I said: ‘we’ll flee to the furthest shores,
We’ll run to the far countree,
We’ll sit in bliss on a grassy slope
To see our love returned; ’
I looked again at the moat and saw
That all the boats were burned.

‘How shall I leave my castle walls
And all that keeps me free,
I fear the step that you wish to take
Could spell the end for me,
I wish to come, if I only dared, ’
She said in a sad reply,
The moat was still and the air was chill
And the moon was riding high.

I stood alone by the castle moat
As she turned to seek the warm;

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poem by David Lewis Paget
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I Can't Find a Doll with a Chinese Face!

I've watched your children, playing in the sand,
Pretty little girls with a yellow hair-band,
Cheeky little boys with their snub-nosed faces,
Kicking and a-tripping over dragging shoe-laces,
Little brown eyes, and stubby little hands,
They laugh and delight, these children of the Han.
So why do their Ma ma's buy them little dolls
With blond hair and blue eyes from western malls?

Kan kan woman if you can can see,
Look in the mirror at your rare beauty;
Who's got the hair that would steal men's glances,
Coal black and straight, that your face enhances,
High cheek-bones, and your almond eyes
Now look at your child, be proud, be wise,
Why make them think they're less than they are
Than a blond haired bimbo in a western bar?

Sons of the dragon, and little princesses,
Need to be loved, to be held - caresses!

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poem by David Lewis Paget
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Death of an Airman

‘Abis, Ackerman, Benson and Blunt,
Stand to attention and look to the front,
Chiswell and Barnett
Who told you to fall out,
You’d think this was bush week
Or a Boy Scout Camp call-out;
Get back into line or I might have you all out
Tonight…
Did you hear what I said to you, Argent? ’

‘But there’s a man dying on the tarmac, Sergeant! ’

‘I never liked Wednesdays, ’ declaimed Sergeant Black,
‘Too soon to go forward, too late to go back!
Dexter and Dooley
I’ll have your attention,
I’m not calling names
For an honourable mention,
I’ll charge the whole bunch for a spark of presumption
Tomorrow…

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poem by David Lewis Paget
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