On the twenty third of June, anniversary of my father’s death,
The United Kingdom voted to LEAVE the European Union.
It was a close-run thing:
Fifty two percent to forty eight,
Though over a million votes between.

A result that will go down in the annals of history.
Another vote the pollsters and bookmakers got wrong.
I voted Leave, confidently expecting to Lose!!!
My friends were split in two
As Remainers became ReMOANers!

For I’m now branded a nationalist, bigoted racist
Who has made a massive mistake.
But I insist: Britain has Rejoined the World
And Our Commonwealth.

We are reborn
So sure there will be teething troubles.
We’ll have to learn to walk and talk again.

Cast off your gloom, Remainers!
Rejoice the brand new day.
Britain can be great again
As the dawn chorus resonates around the globe.
Opportunity smiles down on us.
It won’t be easy,
But when ever was it so???

The Phoenix rises,
Unfurling its golden wings…

Paul Butters

© PB 27\6\2016.

You brought me a bag of journals
And told me that I had enough books
Written by other people, it was time
To start writing my own.

So I tucked that sentence into my heart
For safekeeping because it was the
Prettiest thing I had ever heard and
It sounded like poetry to me.

Still remembering the past, what’s the use now?
What has happened is a thing of past and it will remain in the past,
over a period of time it will become a thing of remote past,
however, still remembering the past.

Remember the past is a thing of past,
from where it came,
to where it belongs,
a thing of past is a thing of past,
which will remain in the past,
then no matter how hard an effort is made to bring the past to life,
it's of no use,
since over a period of time it will be realized that efforts are going futile.

Over a period of time it will be realized that the past is a thing of past and as more time passes by it becomes a thing of remote past.

Better way of doing things is to believe in the present moment in time to which life belongs and which has got everything to do with regards to the present and also with respect to an uncertain future.

Definitely life continues along with the present moment in time.

Much adored is the dead poet

Within the glass case
Away from dirt
Amongst the books pressed
Rests his heart

Such was the silence he dreamed
When words streamed
Like riverine flow
In all might arose
Seeking the order in chaos

Orderly bound now his name
In peace standing behind wooden frame
Yet with the ceaseless commotion of wait...

Much adored rests the dead poet.

Beautiful fireworks in the sky
Sparkles in her smile
Colourful butterflies fluttering
When she passes by
Innocent child-like affection
Reflects in her eyes
Soft and silky black thread
Her waving long hair
Does she know me admiring beside
With a heartbeat facing tide
To know what is going on in her mind
Asked me to take her in a boat
Far way from the shore
Dim yellow moonlight forced me to admire her more
Looking at me with a smile
Took her scarf out of her nape
A flash of light hit my eyes
It was her diamond pendant with my name
Confiding her love with a romantic hail !

What for you need a pen that writes black?
The man at the counter shot back
What has the blue done to offend you?

Look up the firmament
Over there the kingfisher
Once I had been to the sea
She was blue
Surely you prefer over black
A blue saree for her
So many men have staked their life
For the blue eyes of women

And then as if volleying the winning goal

Why not color all your wishes with blue
To paint the world blue-wish?

As I turned to walk away
My eyes caught the writing on his wall..

Black ink for the black heart
For the fool and the dull
Blue for the man of art
With matter in the skull

I had come to the wrong shop.

Writers are evil, I told myself
They have their hearts broken
Million pieces like the stars
And portray life as universe

They hide themselves behind those pens
And begin to tell the greatest story ever told
They put cream and honey to their tales
To sweeten our journey or feel bad about ourselves

They bleed to death
And use past lovers as an ink
Merely thinking of how to easily get over
They fear being alone and hopeless

But then I met someone
And this is the irony of my story
I've seen someone's soul
I've felt someone's agony

Someone who cries
Is hurt
Broken
Who loves to write

It's funny how those smiles
Hide a deep secret no one knows
Neither you
I was captivated, 'twas a trap

Signorina, no, o! mia ragazza,

You know what I realized after You?
I realized that writers are no evil
They were not at all
They are scarred, broken, and lost individuals
They need attention
But they have no physical voice to shout
They have strenght to move their hand
So they wouldn't have to hurt anyone
But with their words.

Writers are no evil
They are silent rebels
People who share
Selfless enough not to pour their wrath in a verbal way
That would soon go away

They are cunning individuals
Wise enough to know
You may hurt them once or multiple times
But brace yourself and understand
That letters and art are forever
And with that, with the generations to come
You'll be forever hated