the way you snort when i make you laugh too hard
the way you look up at the stars and tell me how insignificant you are
the way you make me feel ****** and happy at the same time
the way you get sad when somebody says hi to you and you realize you didn't say hi back
the way you make me feel important when i'm not
the way you talk about something you love
the way you get scared, when thinking about whales
the way you hate yellow skittles
the way you love reeses christmas trees
the way you love target
the way you utilize the word "melancholy"
the way you hate jelly on a pb and j
the way you feel about death and the unknown
the way you observe art
the way you talk about your love for stories
the way you fell in love
the way you make me feel
-a list of the things i love about you

I think there is a connection
Between the tides and me
Sometimes high, sometimes low
Sometimes running, sometimes slow,
And most of all
Sometimes violent and sometimes refusing to flow.

Outside of poetry
I would still be living a life
lightened and carefree
merrily chatting with wife.

I would let a poem rise in my head
throw to wind and see it dead
return to sky all breath of pain
watch them fall as joyous rain.

I would darken the screen let it sleep
burn the poems with none to keep
retire to the nook not been for long
brush up the web on a dusty song.

To be away from poetry I would strive
sail on the river go on long drive
snuggle tighter to a fathomless space
outside of poetry discover happiness.

I don’t cry.
I never have.
Not when my childhood friend died,
Or even when I found out my grandparents had cancer.
I am a really tough girl,
Or so I would like to think I am.
Or rather I was a very tough girl.
I used to be a pro at being sad and showing zero emotion.
Lately, it’s been too easy to be standing at a bus stop and think myself into streaming tears and a runny nose.
I guess I do cry now…
And a lot thanks to you.

A poem is built with sounds
Liberally littered with alliteration
Rhyming reason
Aspiring assonance
Up metaphorical mountains.

Each letter plays its part.
A cast of cascading chords
Making mystical music
For the discerning ear.

Operatic musicals from the Muse:
A crescendo of noise
Or sometimes
Whispers in the winnowing wind.

I write because I must,
Because I need to
In answer to
The Call.

Paul Butters