There is never going to be enough time
We humans are good at asking for more.

One more summer
One more dance
One more goodbye.

But the truth is
There is never going to be enough time.

So I will use all that I have
To make sure it feels like
We have all the time in the world
Despite all odds.

I’m at (my roommate) Lisa’s for the holidays and it was Christmas Eve afternoon. I was in Leeeza’s room (Lisa’s 13-year-old sister). One corner of the room is all pillows. A hundred pillows or more - Disney pillows like Mickey and Minnie but shrek pillows too and penguin pillows, minion pillows, mario brothers pillows and novelty pillows that look like bags of doritos, cheetos and ramen noodle soup - just about every toy pillow you can imagine.

Leeza was there on the pile with me, watching “La La Land,” my favorite movie. Leeza had never seen it and I hoped she’d love it as much as I do. In the end, she pronounced it a new favorite.

Later (still Christmas eve) Lisa, Karan (her mom) Leeza and I made our way to a lardy-dardy rooftop event space called “The Skylark,” where Michael (Lisa’s dad) was co-hosting a Christmas party. The rooftop is on the 30th floor and everything there is made of glass - even the staircases.

When Lisa told me about the party (at school), I brought out a few Anna Molinari bits I had stored under my bed (when I realized Yale wear wasn't very fashionable). I ended up wearing a black lace party dress, a black knit crop cardigan cover and white, satin bridal shoes. It seemed very on point as a "Wednesday" look. If you haven't watched the "Wednesday" series on Netflix - It's fun.

As we arrived the sun faded, as if timed, and natural light gradually gave way to the cityscape of artificial light. Once it became fully-dark, New York city glittered around us, as if the stars had dropped from the heavens to join the party.

A brass and piano ensemble played seasonal classics like Prokofiev’s Troika as we (Lisa, Leeza and I) explored the venue. Every surface seemed decorated with poinsettias, candles, and ornaments or ribbed by garlands of balsam, spruce and fir that smelled incredible.

There were (guessing) about 200 guests and servers wound their way through the crowd with trays of cocktails and champagne. These waiters were all good looking, as if picked from the sea of actors, in New York, just waiting for that big Broadway break. At one point, Leeza, with a mischievous holiday gleam in her eye, reached for a flûte à Champagne only to have the waitress twirl, at the last millisecond, like a dancer, leaving her grasping at air, disappointed.

Michael’s company had set up a tall, white and gold Christmas tree, in a corner of the terrace, under it were packages, for special clients, so beautifully, individually and uniquely decorated that you could believe they were wrapped by angels.

The papering was exquisite, handmade, thick as Liva and embossed, inlaid or pebbled with gold. They were topped with bows, brooches, angels, or snowflakes of silver, rose-brass, batic silk and even crocodile.

No doubt the wrappings were as valuable as the gifts inside and though those presents enchanted, teased and cajoled us all, they were reserved for people on the very, very nice list (a cop stood discreetly by). We were briefly transfixed by the spectacle, but the spell was broken when Leeza said, “I’m hungry.”

Cocktail parties are for adults, so after we ate, Karen stayed with Michael and the teenagers were sent home. We didn’t mind, after all, none of those presents were for us - our day would be Christmas!

Happy holidays!

Legend says that during the last Ice Age
There was a worldwide civilisation
Quite advanced
Which built magnificent pyramids in Egypt,
South America and South East Asia
And great cities
Some deep underground.

But at the end of that Ice Age
There was a cataclysm
As snaking comet-shards showered on The Earth
So the ice sheets melted
Causing a Great Flood
And almost all was lost.

Which begs the question
How far back do we really go?
Were those mythical dragons
So bravely fought by noble knights
Actually Dinosaurs?

Have We been around for many millions of years?
Oh for a Time Machine
So we could go back
To discover The Truth.
Scientists insist there would be nothing to find
As their theories and constructs are all
They can see
Or wish to see.
But Intuition tells me otherwise
So the search for facts
Must go on.

Paul Butters

© PB 25\12\2022.

I got to work on a poem in the moonlight. I made notes on a piece of paper of everything that came to me. My cluttered mind was not satisfied, though. The paper was shredded by me. however, I was drawn to a single line on a piece of shredded paper that read as follows:
"Poetry has a consciousness of its own.
It will become apparent "
I zealously resumed writing.

Which identity
Are you talking about
If our world is full of absurdity?
Which mask shall I wear
If your face doesn't care?
I need to know
Why don't I show
Who I am
If my birth came out of a drop of
***.
I am neither your future nor their
past
I am myself. ****!
That never cares about your
Beating drum.
I stand on my mind and
Not my ***.
My identity is  a mental entity
Faraway from
Fake power or celebrity.
I am myself.

I paint my daily pain
With my heart and cane.
Tears, sorrow
for someone having no tomorrow.
A hopeless man
Striving to **** his inside pain
But in vain.
Wars, hunger and lack of rain
Men and women turned insane.
For whom the bell tolls
For you and I
I sigh
They cry
Because of your lie.

Poetry
      is
a speaking art

When you kissed me, I lied.

I let you kiss me because I wanted someone to love me.  
I was selfish, I wanted to soothe my craving for attention, soft and kind love.

It’s because you’re warm and safe, I still do get the urge to trust you with love.
In fact you’re handsome while so insecure.

But I shouldn’t have kissed you, because I knew I didn’t want you but your aroma.
I chewed it and played with it to spare your feelings and to ebb my shame

but believe me, I’m happy to have made your acquaintance on that awful day that appeared on paper as perfect.
On the day when the last one I loved, introduced me to you

I'm surrounded by these four walls,
My thoughts bouncing off of them;
Loud and clear.

I find comfort in these four walls,
Knowing that my cries for help never leave,
That when I wail at night no one can get to me.

I also feel trapped by these four walls,
They make me feel small,
The white colour blinding me when I come up for air each time.

But these four walls know me better than anyone else here,
They know the real me.
Because when I leave these four walls every morning,
I leave as a new me.