Folks have been asking for years
About my meditation practices

I finally
Have an answer

Mammaw knew

Stirring milk gravy
In the cast iron skillet
Until it thickens
Just enough

There
is
Peace and understanding

When you paint your walls
with nonsense, and the sky outside
reflects your feelings, sensations
tiring, discovering floors and no ceilings.

And the faceless poor man
doesn't want your tips
but your hand, he wants to try
standing, because he's tired of kneeling.

When you insure the beggar's
confidence with a dime, hoping
he will ask you to stay awhile, then
you see he's not the freak, you are.

It is your mind that is on trial,
the beggarman dying, you slowly
take up his cup, and begin the eternal
begging for just one single smile.

Bruised and battered egos:
Retaliations –
Flaming tornadoes spiral up to stormy skies.
Mixed metaphors of caviar and custard
Maelstrom mightily around the mountains of Hell.

Trolling is appalling
And flaming burns.

Let go of that ego
Is my advice.

Be humble from the start.
No-one is great enough
To be beyond reproach
Or criticism.

Who cares how good or otherwise I am?
Who cares what anyone says
About my work?

I am what I am,
End of story.
To Describe what I am is fine:
See those metres, verses, rhymes
And metaphors.
Dismantle me if you wish,
But (please) put me back together.

No-one should stand in judgement,
Except maybe God,
With His bright wide wings.

So stop the abuse,
And sourceless insults.
Cease the condemnation,
Or stand to be IGNORED.

Paul Butters

Rejoice at Morning’s Miracle,
For We are here again.
The Grim Reaper
Has let us live another day.

God’s Grandeur shines upon us
As, again, the clichéd golden sun
Pokes her head through the Eastern clouds.

An orchestra of chiming birds
Greets the day
As again I say
Rejoice!
I repeat: Rejoice.

Time to check the temperature outside
And scatter some wild birdseed.
Time for breakfast
And the early news.

Time to have a pub-lunch,
Then a game of tennis
Or table tennis
Or snooker.

Morning’s time to meet my Muse,
And listen to her lyrical tunes.
To get composing,
No more dozing:
Broadcasting words
Throughout The Milky Way.

Enjoying the day
I look forward to
Some cloudless skies
So I can sit
And watch the stars.

Paul Butters

the great procession of history
is often in a rush
and when I was a child it was snail slow boredom that often tortured your dreams and wrung them out to dry.
To escape was the eternal elusive plan to put into action
which in turn instilled a deep personal endurance
and a perseverance hidden from the world.
You had to find your place, your spot, so you could dance and sing your small way in the great procession of life, make all your dreams come true, not take them with you tucked away in your heart, to the grave.

the seagull's sing cacophony
home from the sea twice a day
I love their song, unique
just like all song should be
an honest, Hurrah, Hurrah, Hurrah!

Voices carry far here, on the wind
and loud across the water
human voices and whispers of fish
bird chatter and the squeaks of rats
voices from outer space, unintelligible
and silent voices that say it all at once.

tea drinking days interspersed with days of popped corked red
never quite sure which one will materialise
its a choice, they say, matter of fact, like everything else
and right there their logic falls down and I reach for my favourite glass.