Poetry is word-music
Word, word music.
Is soul, spirit, magical mystery
Quintessential essence
Of love and beauty.
Iambic and other rhythms and rhymes
Are optional
For, again, poetry is soul.
The Word is King.
Any word.
***
A singular word of double meaning:
Lickle bird and ******
No waxing lyrical here
Just a bit of lit that’s bound to fit
Uninterrupted
Brief word
Amongst sesquipedalian articulations
And rapturous birdsong that echoes through the forests.
So leave that doggerel alone.
Let your heart sing
Freely
Your spirit and soul
Shining like a supernova
Resonating through our minds.
A concerto of verbal sounds
Played with our inner voices.
Literary art
Expressed in musical notes.
Poetry.
Paul Butters
© PB 22\5\2024.
May 22, 2024
May 22, 2024 at 7:51 AM UTC
Wispy wheat fields wave in the wind
As the train chugs through
Along the track of Life that circles
To bring you back where you began.
They say The Journey is the thing:
Meandering through river cut valleys
Between towering mountains.
Rivers running down to endless ocean
That drowns our globe
We call the Earth.
Kids wave from the windows of that train
A custom of love for fellow humankind.
All aboard are full of hopes and dreams
And fears
Anticipating all manner of things
At their destination for the day.
Many have gone to the seaside this way,
While others have travelled for work
Or even a new life.
Our ancients may have been nomads
And modern folk too must sometimes journey.
There’s no place like home,
But first you have to get there.
Go safely everyone.
Paul Butters
© PB 19\4\2024.
Apr 19, 2024
Apr 19, 2024 at 5:53 AM UTC
Deep within the labyrinthine recesses of my mind
Lies my Id.
Or Subconscious
Or whatever you will.
So when I sleep and dream
My Id presents me with scenes
Full of seemingly incredible detail:
Countless objects set before me
In a wonderfully vivid landscape.
How on Earth does my Id store and display
All these amazing things?
Or is it conning me somehow?
For my Id loves to taunt and tease me.
With dreams of finding myself undressed
In public.
Stressful nightmares of being given impossible mental
And practical challenges to complete.
Of being lost and unable to find my way
Home.
Endless journeys by train and bus
Travelling the country in my quest
To get back in the *****
Of my loving family.
Bee swarms and nasty infestations of bugs.
The Forbidden Planet had its “Monsters of the Id”
And on rare occasions I have woken to continued dreams
Of snakes and people who shouldn’t be there.
And that Giant Eye!
God forbid my sleeping dreams should invade reality,
In the Twilight Zone.
But on the plus side, my dreams can be filled
With seemingly original music
And pleasantries I’d better leave
To your imagination.
Wink, wink.
Paul Butters
© PB 29\1\2024.
Jan 29, 2024
Jan 29, 2024 at 8:55 AM UTC
Time to wax lyrical,
Time to shout from the rooftops,
My words rolling like thunder
Across the whole wide world.
No mardy moods
Or negative vibes.
Time to replace killing with care
Hatred with love
Tree chopping and ploughing
With planting and wild growth.
Let emotion sing as music
Love and care
Musical words
Called poems.
What are we doing?
What are we doing with our planet
And it’s folk?
Aliens from other worlds might ask
And wonder whether to intervene.
Re-education is required
Getting us back to the ways
Of Mother Earth.
Teaching us to let go
Of our egos
Our lust for mere goods
And territorial land-grabbing.
It’s not what you have
But what you make of it
We only live once
And not for very long
So I say again
Love life
All life
From the tiniest ant
To the loftiest tree.
Enjoy a giraffe
And savour the aroma
Of a bower surrounded by flowers.
Let’s grow more forests
Teeming with life
Clothed in mysterious mists.
Unite together
To end poverty
And strife
Cease all wars
Treat everyone with respect
As equals
All free
All loved equally.
Paul Butters
© PB 29\11\2023.
Nov 29, 2023
Nov 29, 2023 at 3:33 PM UTC
Some say we all live in a “Multiverse” –
A myriad of universes
All parallel to one another
Invisible to us
Apart from our own universe
Wondrous as it is.
So in some other universe there is
Another version of yourself,
Where you turned right at some junction
Instead of left
And had a serious accident
Instead of winning the lottery.
Or nothing much happened
Or Everything.
Even my own fertile imagination
Is floored
By the endless possibilities here.
My mind is truly boggled
Fit to explode.
For every tiny insect in our universe
Might fly right
Or left
Or not at all
To thus create another universe.
I could write an epic poem on this.
To think that somewhere out there
I may be Immortal, or a King, or Rock Star
Or even about to be Executed
If not already dead.
And you might be these things too.
Versions of ourselves might live in universes
That echo those of fiction
In worlds such as Narnia, Middle Earth
And that of Star Trek, Star Wars
And Stargate SG One
To name but a few.
Oh to have a TV Remote
Like the fictional “Sliders”
To take us from this realm
To any other of our choice.
Or a “Uniscape”:
A machine like a Tardis
Which can take us to any place
Or time
Or universe
Or Other Multiverse???
My head is aching now.
My mind explodes
Like The Universe
And The Multiverse
Or Multiverse of Multiverses.
So I’d better stop
Before this becomes an epic
And my head explodes.
But, meanwhile, in another universe
I didn’t stop!!!
Paul Butters
© PB 18\9\2023.
Sep 18, 2023
Sep 18, 2023 at 3:34 PM UTC
All these vultures hovering around their prey:
Three golden prizes
Who will get there first?
Cue David Attenborough on commentary!
Coupled and single lions
Prowling about
Waiting for the chance of food and drink.
That coffee takes ages.
Coffee?
Yes, for this is my local
And my pack and I
Are thoroughly enjoying our ale
With our lovely lunches
Served to us by beautiful barmaids.
Those golden prizes are the three front tables
From where you can see the golden sand:
On a beach
Dotted with distant tiny people
As some frolic in the estuary waves
On paddle boards,
Basking in the glorious sun.
Time for another pint.
Paul Butters
© PB 2\9\23.
Sep 2, 2023
Sep 2, 2023 at 6:20 AM UTC
I will only do this once
Walk down Pudsey Hill late one night
Admiring the stars
After seeing friends.
Walk anywhere one specific time
Or admire a particular glorious sunset
Every one being unique
In its blend of beautiful reds, blues, purples
And other hues.
So we have to make the most of Now
Be mindful indeed,
For there will be a time
When we can sense no more.
Mortality is certain.
Even the very plants are living on soil
Made from the remains of their ancestors.
And we eat the plants
And eat eaters of the plants.
Ashes to ashes indeed.
You know the rest.
But green living things live on
Making oxygen
For those yet to germinate and grow
Or be born.
Winter is soon followed by Spring.
Destruction by Creation.
An almost endless cycle
In the ***** of Mother Earth.
Paul Butters
© PB 9\8\2023.
Aug 9, 2023
Aug 9, 2023 at 6:49 AM UTC
Wot’s this ****** Poetry stuff?
It’s all Gobbledygook to me!
As far as I’m concerned you can just stick
Your iamb up your fat pentameter.
Wink.
And I don’t care whether some of it
Is like common speech.
Or clever for being slightly incorrect.
Wink.
So why do lilies have to mean death
When they are nothing but fracking flowers?
What’s with all these virile horses
And apples that are supposed to be bosoms?
They are bladdy animals and fruit
For heaven’s sake!
Nothing more, nothing less.
All this Moon in June stuff.
All these bladdy feelings about your dog dying
And unrequited love.
All sentimental words
And Repetition.
I’d rather read a tome like a car manual:
At least it tells you something
You can use in real life.
Yes, it’s all Vogon Poetry to me.
All pretanticulary epticism from egogargantoid
Arsenburgers who see themtegglers as the interferonical
Ellicopters of the bladdy cosmeticus.
And then there’s TS bladdy Elliot
With his cruel Aprils and his
Hoc ideo non potes legere quia lingua peregrina est.
Vita illius.
And while I’m at it.
Who needs history when we live in the present?
Art is no use whatsoever.
Give me a hammer and a spanner
Any day.
Leave those luvvies to their childlike play
And ballet dancers to their pillockettes.
Opera? Pah. Humpa dumpa.
Leave them Odious Odes to Cleverclogs Keats.
Poetry? No bladdy thanks.
(Written for some Friends.
Winks.
At too great a length
For most).
Paul Butters
© PB 13\7\2023.
Jul 13, 2023
Jul 13, 2023 at 6:50 AM UTC
Big Bang, Universe, Sun and Earth
Life and Death follows Birth.
All over in an instant
Before we become non-existent.
Nothing doesn’t have a colour
Have to ask why we bother.
Maybe I shouldn’t be so cryptic
Making things so Apocalyptic.
The Earth will fry
When the sun fills the sky.
Into a red giant swollen
All history stolen.
So better not think about this,
Just fill our lives with bliss.
Enjoy every day,
That’s the only way.
Paul Butters
© PB 1\7\2023.
Jul 1, 2023
Jul 1, 2023 at 1:49 PM UTC
The sultry summer sun ***** all moisture out of the soil
To leave cracked earth: mini earthquakes
Soil crumbling into choking dust.
Brown lawns say it all.
Suffocatingly hot indoors
And baking outside.
Desert threat.
It’s the height of Summer
And even the wind is suddenly warm
On this humid, balmy day.
Bumble bees buzz about
On my Cotoneasters, Valerians, Geraniums
And Wild Lavatera.
Broken backed Lavatera
From a deluge
The other night.
Rather this close heat
Than the icy blasts of Winter
Better to slumber
In comfort,
Grab a cold beer
And enjoy the Sun.
Paul Butters
© PB 24\6\2023.
Jun 24, 2023
Jun 24, 2023 at 3:46 PM UTC