She said she could never
Be my bride,
So now she's under the patio,
With that annoying girl guide.

She wasn't happy,
But what could I tell her?
There is just no room left,
In the cellar.

In Memory of a Good Man

He walked the path he knew so well
To the garden he kept
Which was were they found him
On cold ground in
Winter.

They thought he likely slipped and fell,
Curled up tightly and slept
Snug in blankets of snow.
Where else to go
To dream

Of rich soil, a man's hands once strong
That could coax new life from
A yard of glass shards, bricks
Growing God's gifts
To share.

Or concrete towers only drawn
Those hands that once built them
Spinning the webs of steel
That made dreams real
Shelter.

Smiling face that may still know me,
We'll just sit together
While I'll hear your stories
In memories -
No words.

Silently gaze and nod slowly,
Stare at one another.
Tired eyes tell where you've been
My dear sweet friend...
In dreams.

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

So glad I wasn’t born a Daesh Child
Or Indian lower caste.
Or in some ghetto in Brazil
Or wherever.

The hands of Fate were kind to me,
Being born a Brit.
An easy life, compared to many men.

To think I could have been born anywhere:
A black, white or yellow,
Christian, Muslim, Jew, Hindu….
Even a Royal!

I’m glad indeed at what I am,
But should my birth determine all?
I must have Choices
Little though they be.

I choose Agnostic though I’m C of E,
And Humanist is my Way.
My Love of Nature is a solid choice:
Compassionate Kindness being my Creed.

My race and gender (and being Straight)
Are set in stone
Popular or not.
But otherwise I’m just very glad
To be Free.

Paul Butters

All is still.
No more “Chase” or “Eggheads” from Tuesday.
Everything is shutting down.
The Winter Break is soon upon us.
Our “Festive Season” it is called.

Even Winter is having a rest this year.
Sixty Fahrenheit outside now.
I feel like hibernating ‘til the Spring.
Yet some brave blossoms think the Winter over
Already!
Foolhardy flowers indeed.

Our services are stumbling to a stop
Like a long Bank Holiday.
Sports facilities are shutting their doors.
Cafes shutting soon.

If only this stillness could pervade
Those warring factions
Throughout the world,
All through the year.

Peace to All Men
We say.
Amen to That.

Paul Butters

From grass and stone I am shepherd of herds,
as of grass and stones have come these beasts;
and of my beasts, I soon shall be,
keeper and kept wound into thee,
Oh Grass and Stone from which I have come.

To miss a staff meeting is no joke.
It extends the time between a smoke.
Once outside cigs are passed around:
The air is filled with smoke and happy sounds.
Too soon the session comes to an end:
To the customers’ needs they must attend.
So it’s back to the job,
Where they earn a honest bob.

Norman Stevens

inside weeks now, first frost warmed off, a *** watered
but still sere; her leafless twigs stand here ... pointing accusingly

(she'd promised us limes someday)

hope's a careless gardener with deep roots
resurrection imagined, coaxed to new shoots, green flecks ... some sign

(and lime fruits some day)

or any season grander than aged bourbon and ginger ... sipped
the crystal decanter bides quietly with gilt china

(for our harvest of limes)

a dusty cabinet counts reasons in neat rows
plant and man await parting, those pursed lips of time

(and dream, both, of limes)