David Lewis Paget

Gold Star - 4,994 Points (22.11.1944 / Nottingham, England/live in Australia)

David Lewis Paget Poems

361. On The Lam 11/29/2012
362. On The Other Side Of The Door 10/8/2014
363. On The Raising Of The Mary Rose 9/30/2005
364. On Your 48th. 9/18/2005
365. Once All The Books Are Gone! 9/26/2014
366. Once, When The World Of Trees.... 9/17/2005
367. One By One... 7/20/2006
368. One Lonely Night 9/17/2005
369. One Mad Summer... 5/23/2009
370. One September Night 9/18/2005
371. One Step On 9/30/2005
372. One Word Swallowed 9/17/2005
373. One-Sided Conversation 4/9/2008
374. Only The View 12/19/2014
375. Oradour-Sur-Glane 2/12/2012
376. Our Parting Ways 12/1/2014
377. Out Of Time! 9/15/2013
378. Overboard 7/19/2015
379. Palaces Of Glass 9/27/2007
380. Panzer 10/29/2009
381. Parting Note 9/16/2013
382. Passenger From Childhood 9/18/2005
383. Payback! 12/27/2008
384. Pen And Ink 9/18/2005
385. Pengellen 9/18/2005
386. Peter Pan 11/29/2012
387. Photographs 1/6/2015
388. Planetary Wiz 2/13/2016
389. Play The Man... 1/13/2013
390. Poems Beyond The Grave 4/24/2009
391. Poisonous Beauty 9/23/2015
392. Poverty Grass 9/18/2005
393. Powerless! 1/7/2015
394. Pu Tong Hua 4/5/2006
395. Puppet Master 11/26/2013
396. Purple Doom! 3/3/2015
397. Rag & Reed 4/2/2009
398. Raising The Demon 2/5/2013
399. Rank Poison 3/27/2013
400. Rasputin 5/20/2012
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

The Poet Tree

Way out, on what was a barren plain
A tree has taken root,
Over the spot where a poet's lain
It bears the strangest fruit,
He wasn't read while he lived and wrote,
Was neglected till he died,
But scribbled each verse like a private note
That he hugged to him in pride.

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