I don't recall year one of life,
But I'm here now,
So they got it right.
Yet I remember being one,
On a mattress, in the sun,
The smell of bacon and farm odors,
Were part of me as I grew older.

But I never asked to grow up.

I walked first steps
In my father's shoes,
Blathered blissfully when I was two.

By the time I turned three,
I was sure youth suited me.

I could reach the outside door,
When I grew to the age of four.
Now the world's mine to explore.

But I never asked to grow older.

Then by five I tried to hide
From the travails of an older child;
The digging, weeding, painting, work:
My escape to school was my re-birth.

But I never asked to grow older.

I didn't ask to turn six,
Seven, eight, nine or ten;
I shuddered at our  portends,
I didn't like how my world ends,
I finished fishing with Amens.

But I never asked to grow older.

I made twenty years ago,
When decades moved ever so slow;
Thirty came, forty gone,
And fifty didn't last that long.

But I never asked to grow older.

Since I must,
Please remember,
Dip my soother in Irish whiskey,
Include me if you solve the mystery,
And reference me and my life's history.

In my late teens I would wonder
What is The Purpose of Life?
What should I Value?
What is truly Good?

But now at sixty six it seems so clear:
Life per se is what matters.
The wonderment
Of selves
That know they are selves.
Of sentience married with intelligence.
The miracle we call Life.

At nineteen I said
That the First Priority
Was Survival.
I wrote a thing called “The Bedrock”
To grow this theme.
And what was it that had to survive?
It was living beings
Nurtured by Mother Nature.

I am a “Lifist”
If you will:
Cherishing all that lives.
Humanist Plus
And more than Conservation.
Health and Wellbeing
For The Common Good.
A touch of Socialism
And Equal “Opps”.
I coined the word “Positivism”
To sum it all up.

Is this all poetry?
Maybe not.
But the greatest poem lies all around us:
The very world and universe
In which we live.

Paul Butters

© PB 18\2\2019.

If we're together
When we're older,
If one's not left for another,
If one's not dead,
Or out of sorts
Or imprisoned on an institutional bed;
Let me tell what lies ahead.

We'll go to sleep wearing socks,
And rise by our internal clocks;
While on walks we'll hold hands,
And listen while the other talks.
We'll sit content by the St. Clair River
In Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter.

We'll have our tea and buttered toast,
On weekends enjoy your Sunday Roast.
Around the table our children sit,
With grandkids we're blessed to be with.
Then, in the evening, when all are gone,
And we're in our home of homes,
I'll confess my love again;
You're all I've wanted all along.

I took the pen with me,
After signing the parlor guest book,
At the Home.

You might think of forgiving me,
Thinking as good people do,
I took it as a memorial sticking point;
But I didn't know the deceased.

I was acting as a devout escort,
To be seen as doing the right thing.
Perception, you've been told,
Is everything.

So, I made sure no one saw me
Take the pen.

For extra insurance,
To project my semblance,
Following the eulogies,
I attended the luncheon,
And ate salmon sandwiches,
And carrot sticks.
On leaving, I grasped the hands:
Sorry for your troubles;
Came home and used that pen,
To create this.
The End.

When your time closes in
Faster than laughter and red lights,
I wish you to be worn and threadbare
As the Velveteen Rabbit,tattered,
With a walker and stair chair;
My cane and umbrella waiting
By your leave.

I hope you're wearing the cardigan
I got you this Christmas,
Mended and draped over your frail shoulders,
Mingling with your hair.

I pray you have children bringing children
To feast on shortbread and tea.
I see you alone, at times, in tranquility,
Recalling me,
Who missed it all.

We're nearing as we ready
The home with green and red;
A deflated Santa on my neighbour's lawn,
Canned snow sprayed in window corners,
Polyethylene on a white Christmas tree,
Gingerbread people drinking hot ***,
Mistletoe hanging from sticks and jambs,
And an apron round the stem.
I decorate, make my fruit cake,
Set out the children's books,
The ones I've read so often:
Rudolph and Old St. Nick,
They look foolish on my table.
Displayed in  their fixed place.
They're not like my Christmas bling,
The blinking lights, false stars at night,
Twas the Night Before Christmas
Is the real thing.
At midnight we'll hear choirs sing,
Joy to the World, Peace on Earth,
For one night I'll believe again.

Stay good night.
I see my words rise on my breath,
Being swept up to your stars.

Stay good people.
Who missed this year.
Who came last,
Who comes next.
I surely miss you all.

Such heavy memories
Of snow-laden branches,
Castles in globes,
Ballerinas in boxes.

My new memories
Will never last as long
As the ones I've carried all along.

Just when the day wanes longer,
Legs and body not getting any stronger,
Memory short and not clear,
Times of ending days are near.

Hair turns from gray to white,
And it seems like you're not feeling right.
When you're hearing turns quiet
And you're not as fit but put on a strict diet---
That's when I get old.

When there's less and less of family and friends,
And it seems to wonder when will it end?
When the beginning seems far, far away  after day---
That's when I'm getting old.

Time is swiftly moving a long,
Super speed in minutes and time,
The winter years are quietly here
Those days you can't get back or even find---
That's when I'm getting old.

When family multiplies even more,
One by one and generation after generation,
They are your family strong and bold
Building up of what we have left---
This is the duty of family when I get old.

Looking back through the years
In the mirror of life it's self
Going back in time in space
Where knowledge is like  wealth---
As I 'm getting old.
5 Nov. 2018

This life we live is a waiting room
Some wait to long, some leave to soon
What magazines do you have strewn
All about your waiting room

The daily grind of The New York Times?
Or do you prefer The Outdoor Life
The magazines that you display
Tell more of you than you could say

Does Better Homes And Gardens fill your life
While Rolling Stones consumes your night
You have a choice in what you read
And a lot of that is what you'll be

So is Popular Science what you cling to?
Or is Christian Alliance your holding glue
And would it change your point of view
If you knew what comes after...
The Waiting Room

Now I am OLD, and losing my touch,
it seem like low battery anxiety:
Danger, a dangerous rush
my body once a temple: decreasing in life span
Does the dead feel any pain? or the strain?
With the energy I once had: had leak slowly:

The lawyers, the courtroom brawl: I fought
Did I come out on top stronger or more knowledgeable?
It became my battles, not theirs, not them, but mines
I carried the heavy load on my shoulders for years
I have been in a hibernation mode for decay: in tears
My little hell whole, not they, them or theirs:

People often say that motivation doesn’t last.
Well, neither does bathing – that’s why we recommend it daily.” – Zig Ziglar

could it be the reassurance of feeling fresh, like a daisy?
Why do they have to pull me back ?
When I feel like I am out the door; to freedom
Why do I get the nervous tense? ,
when I answer them text or calls?
It doesn’t’ stop, this ongoing thing called caring,

my mind love to grasped, those dark secrets of my own,
my own inner battles leans toward the poetry board,
my fingers flies from left to right:
while my little pinky points upward toward the ceiling:
praying and praying:
I pondered, lord, let it be untrue,

Because, the dead shouldn’t feel any pain or strain:
now I am old, and losing my touch,
my body once a temple, have heard it all..
and as you know the devil is a liar.....my friends
.

I'm green with those I leave behind,
This world I have, where all seems mine.

I vacillate as their world keeps thriving,
Leaving the living live with the alive.

But I'm gone, I'm dead,
The colorful globe will spin;
The living will die;
Not now... by and by,
With O whys and O mys.
It's a curse I've bequeathed
To the loves of my life,
When they leave their loved ones behind.

The change wasn't all that sudden
It didn't happen overnight
In fact I didn't feel a thing
Whether or not it was wrong or right

With a wrinkle here and a wrinkle there
A little off the top
What didn't fall out turned to gray
As my memory of it all was lost

All the mirrors I used didn't have a clue
Or in cahoots they didn't let on
If they had, not sure what I would do
Except *** along little dogie, *** along

I can no longer blame cloud cover
For the dimming that old age has made
Somebody's got my number
And is counting down the days

I'm sure in this I'm not alone
If I'm sure of anything
This is not a new phenomenon
In what the changes bring

I just hope my hearings well enough
When life hollars out last call
The change wasn't all that sudden
In fact I didn't feel a thing at all