skipping stones across the water
walking beside the ocean's daughter
listening to nature as she sings
taking in the rapture that living brings
                  
Thoughts that she
cannot unthink;
a life that she
cannot unlive.
                
Dreams she has yet to live
and a soul full of fire
looking under every stone
seeking her heart's desire
                
Afraid to see whats underneath.
We stay to the surface
afraid of the ghostly deep,
for there are shipwrecks
              
What lurks beneath at fathoms deep
will not disturb a good nights sleep
for as long as we can stay afloat
courage shall be our own lifeboat
                      
But skipping stones eventually fall
To depths they haven't ventured yet
but, that's when life begins to be lived
when we reach deeper depth
                  
Skipping stones across my mind
like those lucid dreams we hope to find
but in the end we are not alone
having reached the shore with that lucky stone*
                          
Happiness is a skipping stone

Play the cards,
Overtaking the deck
Flip the hand.
Place the bet,
Hand the buck
To make another
A gambler's chance
A lost bets wither.

(To be sung to the tune of Leonard Cohen´s
"Suzanne led me down the river")

at the buffet of the station
you are looking at the women
in your dreams they're always younger
and they don't have these hard lines
around their mouths

at the buffet of the station
where you chew your lukewarm hotdog
you are listening to the drunk bums
who abuse the red-mouthed women
whose hard lines are cracking open
for a twisted smile
now and then

at the buffet of the station
you are sipping your stale beer
and you're watching all the people
and you almost ask yourself
why you are there

and you smoke your final cigarette
at the buffet of the station
and you pay the shabby waitress
with the hungry eyes
and you stoop to take your briefcase
and return their empty smiles
and then you turn away

but you know when you come back
another train, another day
there will be the same fixation,
the same peoples, the same smiles
at the buffet of the station
as they always are

and you never can forget them
always hear their hollow laughter
always see the painted smiles
and you know that they are
part of what you are

now and then

              * *

Its not you
Its me
That was cliche
Don't you agree?

It hurts me more
that I caused you pain
by rejecting everything you do
You've got nothing to gain

I don't like you
Not the way you do
So walk away
What I say is true

I don't want to upset you
You have to understand
This is better than false hope
I know this isn't what you have planned

I am not the one for you
We are not meant to be
Don't make this difficult
Just stop fighting for me

Stop trying to convince me
I don't feel the same way
Just let me go
We aren't close friends anyway

Please stop
You're hurting yourself more
Its all wishful thinking
I'm not the person you should adore

I'm sorry
That's all I can say
I'm sorry
That it has to end this way

how difficult it is
   in a particular moment
to find the words
   that can articulate
   the general in the specific
and vice versa

when sensibilities are tense
words easily can be received
quite differently
from what they actually
were meant to say

   hearts can be shaken
   feelings hurt

it may require weeks
to heal the wounds
a turn of phrase has cut

   sometimes unknown
   by s/he who spoke

and then
   if deeds are not available
more words are needed
   to undo the harm
   old ones have wreaked

explain
   define
      and modify

to keep the dialogue alive
that circumscribes
   forever undetermined & opaque
what is in us
and needs to be

said  

           * *

We are the *******, we are the spicks.
We are the kykes, we are the hicks.
We're the one's who wait our turn,
To read the books you wish to burn.

We are the honkies, the mussies with guns.
We are the beaten, the poor and the dumb.
We see the horrors, the mistrust and the hate.
We are the people, the ones who relate.

We are the chinks, the bindis, the *****.
We are the losers, the mixed and the muts.
We are alone, left to fight.
We are the ones crying at night.

We are the triggers, set on the gun.
We are the fighters, refusing to run.
We see the world through darkened glass.
We see each other as mutants to pass.

If only we learn, it could be done...
We are all different, but we are all one.

You don't need a guitar, or
all those beautiful songs that you sing,
Just smile at me, and
I'll drop my knickers for you......

In March of 2010 a 46 year old white male was brought to this hospital after a severe 'episode'. He was placed in the Mental Health Intensive Care Unit .  He was diagnosed with " Major Depression ". This is considered Slow Death , a treatable disorder by the AMA currently . Artist and Architect will lay out Hallucinations and conceptual designs , Engineers , Mathematicians and Surveyors will coordinate more pills at higher doses because minute details to within fractions of an inch followed by schizophrenia by Earth moving equipment , graders , bulldozers , psychotic episodes , dump trucks , Carpenters and Concrete ,  bi-polar disorder and  Bricklayer will labor different Help treatment methods because the drugs are having absolutely no piece by piece constructing form , pylon , shoring embankments for Steel Worker and Welder ,Pipefitter and Increased risk of suicide was reported for Plumber and all manner of tradesman , supplier and Pharmacist ........
            Psychiatrist and Psychologist will formulate a treatment plan which will include drug therapy and counseling sessions with Electrician and patient and Spouse plus other family members if needed in order to reach the island Drowning which will be a difficult task . Emory Hospital is conducting new research because they finally admit to depression drugs  not working in Freak more than half the patients today , like every other building bridges in hopes of getting to the island that is depression .

I’m no author, novelist or poet.
I’m just Me,
And don’t I know it.
I don’t need to be classified,
As long as I’m writing, I’m satisfied.

Typing out words, line by line,
I don’t care if they don’t rhyme.
I don’t care if my verses don’t scan:
I’m not always an Iambic Man.

I just say what I gotta say,
I’m not worried about any pay.
Words come to me without much bidding,
The world of its evils I hope to be ridding.

I love to spread lots and lots of Love,
Bringing peace to all like a messenger dove.
Things of beauty bring joy, John Keats rightly said,
To make us sleep easy when we go to bed.

So I’ll paint what I paint,
And sing what I sing,
Just letting those words
Do their magical thing.

Paul Butters

I should have known

when I recalled
the color of your eyes
soon after I first
looked into them

and when I went on
noticing your absence
  looking for you
  among the crowd

I should have known

when finally
I saw you walk in
   wet with rain
and felt like singing

I should have recognized

   but probably did not
   dare admit to myself
how much I longed
to be
with this lovely
woman