The universe
Will speak to you,
In between silence
And forgotten words,
In the movement of
The branches of a
Full crowned tree,
In rushing water
And the color
Of the sky,
It will answer
Questions,
With rays of sunshine
That mark your skin,
Love the Forrest,
And the mountains,
And the ants,
And the spiders,
All the creepy crawlies,
And animals,
Smell the flowers that
Bloom this spring,
Feel the rash,
The bite,
The sting,
They all deserve
To be happy.

We all do.

Wispy wheat fields wave in the wind
As the train chugs through
Along the track of Life that circles
To bring you back where you began.

They say The Journey is the thing:
Meandering through river cut valleys
Between towering mountains.
Rivers running down to endless ocean
That drowns our globe
We call the Earth.

Kids wave from the windows of that train
A custom of love for fellow humankind.
All aboard are full of hopes and dreams
And fears
Anticipating all manner of things
At their destination for the day.

Many have gone to the seaside this way,
While others have travelled for work
Or even a new life.
Our ancients may have been nomads
And modern folk too must sometimes journey.
There’s no place like home,
But first you have to get there.
Go safely everyone.

Paul Butters

© PB 19\4\2024.

I claspe the dreams:
damaged
crumpled
crushed
incomplete
and deleted from
memory

. . . yet . . .

The lips of langurs
kiss the corpse
of death's sweet
nectar

~
Cotton duck canvas
on careful days
in a closed room,
intersecting tension,
energy and interest
for strangers to interpret

Three bashful belles
and lovers of art
undressed as a figure study,
cloistered together
in a line of beauty
for moral support

Their congregation assembled
in glorification of
angelic landscapes,
tempered by the mysteries
within convexity's arboretum

In unequivocal parts and gradation,
where good posture
and graceful presentation
count in equal measure,
to create Hogarth's
line continuous
--the Analysis of Beauty,
bended at the waist
to spread light through the canopy

During such exhibition
the belles whisper
under the rose,
of war and shopping lists,
they seem to avert eye contact,
gazes fixed to
the eternal sphere
ticking on the far wall,
never directly into the eyes
of those who come to
paint their *******
with sandalwood
~

Encontrar sempre  teu terno sorriso,
É  tudo o que eu preciso.
Parece que Deus criador te fez vida e só amor.
Canto em Hino de louvor!
Possa eu viver sempre contigo ,
No Céu,  na terra , no paraíso...


Deus com teu corpo e alma me abençoou ,
Da roseira a mais bela rosa brotou.
Me aconchego no teu carinho desmedido,
E com teu calor viva adormecido,
Amando tudo com teu porto de abrigo.


Mãe és tu minha Mãe suave com frio, calor, com a doce brisa...
Saudade das saudades a mais querida.!
Posso eu viver sempre no teu regaço,
Sendo doce beijo, apertado abraço.


Quantos filhos,  filhas não têm amor de ninguém,
Vivem a vida com desdém!
Ousai amar sempre alguém,..
Deixai bater o vento que vêm por bem,
Pois bate devagarinho no rosto de minha Mãe.


Parece que dentro do teu ventre eu vou sempre viver,
Deitado nos teus braços quero adormecer.
De manhã acordar com a madrugada,
E morrer contigo de mão dada.


Mãe,  amor

something beautiful to leave in your wake
a gentle turning of the soil
planting of a seed
a helping hand unseen.

If the night is half lit
and the silence is deafening loud
don't stop on the bridge upon Post Canal.

The shadows are rippling dark
and her water coiling snake
calls you to to take a dip.

It's shallow, says the phosphorent whisper
and the night too warm not to splash,
there's too much pain, the bridge creaks
leave behind, leave behind
you haven't anything to lose.

The winds buzz in your heart
disappear without a sound
nobody will know
nobody will care.

A few feet is not a great fall
and never greater than all the pain
you so silently suffered.

Once I stopped, tempted
almost inviting her to **** me in.

The coils rose and drew me in.

They said I jumped.

They could never know
I made peace with pain.