I was brought up in Western Leeds,
Almost two miles from the nearest cow or sheep.
In sprawling suburbs:
Row after row of smoke stained redbrick slums.
We had our fields:
Jungles of Rose Bay Willow Herb
(Fireweed to the Americans)
On former demolition sites.
Our childhood spears were honed
From fireweed spears.

Our house was in a terrace
On “School Street”,
Where we took baths in the sink
And crept to outside toilets
In the dark of the “back yard”.

Those days were punctuated
By the “Yie Yie” blare
From the local factory siren.
A deafening sound.
And by endless hammering
From the scrapyard nearby.

But we loved our dripping and bread,
And our walks to the sweet shop.
Playing hopscotch on those stone “flags”
Along the sides of the cobbled street
Under old Victorian gas lamps
Straight from Narnia.

I recall crying on our return from the coast
At a dismal scene
Of soot shrouded trains
On tortured railway lines.

But I also feel nostalgia
For those heady days
Of childhood innocence.
Wearing a cardboard box as a space suit,
And running around
During a “New Year’s Revolution”.
Happy Days.

Paul Butters

Broken minds
Broken bodies
Broken art  
Broken girl

What is the point of laughing anymore?
Dresden fires
Hiroshima pyres
Twenty two dead in Manchester
Twenty two dead in Manchester
Is it really true?
Is it really true?

Broken religion
Broken borders
Broken trust
Broken girl

What is the point of living anymore?
Planes and skyscrapers
Harbor infamy invaders
The god of Abraham silently weeps
The god of Abraham silently weeps
Can he hear you?
Can he hear you?

Broken world
Broken God
Broken belief
Broken girl

What is the point of dying anymore?
Suicide bomber
Children ******
Thou shalt not ****
Thou shalt not ****
It's nothing new
It's nothing new

Even the richest man can be sad
While the poorest man can be the happiest
It's all about perspective

a southerly breeze
danced around the elm trees
teasing their leaves

Year after year...
Trapped inside this cage...
Far too gone to see the light,
Far too blind to catch a sight,
Far too weak to fight the fright...

I now found myself,
Wandering in an endless abyss...
Lost and afraid,
Battling the demons inside my head...
'Don't do it!' they said,
And I listened,
I obeyed,
For I didnt know any better,
Than to follow the orders,
Of these ruthless dictators...

But now my chains are broken,
'What a glorious day!' I exclaimed,
Words of inspiration came rushing instead,
I am the canvas, my subconscious the artist,
And I will **** well get my word out,
Before my light fades out,
Once again...

So many lines and laments
scribed in ink and feeling,
for the girl who is the ocean

but she is a swell and surge
too dauntless and wild,
for a lover whose bones crave the shore.

She craves the squalls and gusts,
and cast iron skies,
a worldly drift to sate the salt in her skin,
the deep pull of currents in her blood.

She is chaotic but not reckless,
she is fickle, but not feckless.
Love her boldly or not at all
her bones belong to the sea
but she will always return to the shore.

the world, cloyed in an expanse of white,
looks to gray skies for consolation

somewhere critters
   sleep, even dream,
      perhaps hope
but only humans console

I wish to go to prom with you
I wish to be close to you
I wish to be yours forever
I wish to make you dinner
I wish you could massage my sore back
I wish I could sing to you
I wish you could hug me tight

The sky is crying,
While the sun and the moon
are are arguing and fighting,
The thunder is screaming,
and the lightning was steamy. . .