David Lewis Paget

Bronze Star - 2,279 Points (22.11.1944 / Nottingham, England/live in Australia)

David Lewis Paget Poems

1. The Battling Ghosts -new- 7/6/2015
2. The Harkness Light -new- 6/27/2015
3. Shadow Makers -new- 6/28/2015
4. The Black Freighter 5/11/2015
5. The Proposal 5/14/2015
6. The Devil's Yacht 5/17/2015
7. The Cyclops 5/17/2015
8. The Tale That Couldn'T Be Told 5/20/2015
9. The Face In The Frosted Glass 5/24/2015
10. Gone Fishing 5/26/2015
11. The Black Stone Tower 5/29/2015
12. The Quest For Hieronymus Bosch 5/30/2015
13. She Loves Me Not... 6/2/2015
14. Crystal Clear 6/2/2015
15. The Breakdown 3/27/2015
16. A Long, Long Way From Home 3/28/2015
17. Maidenhair 3/30/2015
18. The Black Box 3/31/2015
19. The Cave 4/1/2015
20. If Ghosts Could Lie 4/3/2015
21. The Shopfront Fire 6/8/2015
22. A Strange Courting 6/9/2015
23. Tale Of An Ancient Sin 6/9/2015
24. Near Thing! 6/11/2015
25. An Autumn Tale 6/14/2015
26. The Final Solution 6/15/2015
27. Of Loss And Love 6/16/2015
28. The Battle On The Footplate 6/17/2015
29. The Yellow Bag 6/18/2015
30. After Dark 6/19/2015
31. The Devil Park 6/20/2015
32. A Fateful Blow 6/21/2015
33. The Note 3/23/2015
34. Like Mother... -new- 6/23/2015
35. The Man That She Helped To Die -new- 7/1/2015
36. The Hammer Of Thor -new- 7/3/2015
37. The End Of The Grange -new- 7/4/2015
38. Birdsong -new- 7/5/2015
39. Before Trafalgar 12/15/2014
40. Nadine 12/28/2014
Best Poem of David Lewis Paget

Swan Song

Her hair was as black as a starling's tail,
Her cheeks as pale as a swan,
Her eyes, like two slim moonstones, glowed
And her mouth was the Holy Grail.
She'd played in the dirt of the village street
So long ago, so long...
She'd swum in the pools of the mountain stream,
But now, that girl had gone.

While I still rise with the early bird
To tend to my father's fields,
As the only son of an only son
I watched the woman leave.
She cried sweet tears as she said farewell
And vowed to come back, and soon,
But the village streets of a western ...

Read the full of Swan Song

Sir John De Vere

Sir John de Vere has took a quill
And set himself to sit and write
The sweetest love that is of men
To take unto his heart's delight.

And he has took a damsel fair
That flitteth by, beseemingly,
And with a strand of golden hair
Begun to weave her mystery.

[Hata Bildir]