Who is that creature
I can hear the calm voice
but can't see the body
how can you be still
in these shaky days
are you calm
cause you're joking
are you an actor
are you a fool
can I be one?

Freud says tattoos
Are
The Manifestation
Of a
Trauma

Every point
A
Separate pain
We
Have
Suffered

It took
Two
And a
Half
Hours

To complete
The
Diary
Of my
Trauma

And half a million perforations

To convert
Those
Memories
Into something

New

And

Beautiful

To finally
Let go
Of the past

146

On such a night, or such a night,
Would anybody care
If such a little figure
Slipped quiet from its chair—

So quiet—Oh how quiet,
That nobody might know
But that the little figure
Rocked softer—to and fro—

On such a dawn, or such a dawn—
Would anybody sigh
That such a little figure
Too sound asleep did lie

For Chanticleer to wake it—
Or stirring house below—
Or giddy bird in orchard—
Or early task to do?

There was a little figure plump
For every little knoll—
Busy needles, and spools of thread—
And trudging feet from school—

Playmates, and holidays, and nuts—
And visions vast and small—
Strange that the feet so precious charged
Should reach so small a goal!

It's not the way you looked
It's the way you felt inside
The horizon is always booked
That's okay , I say with a sigh

Our days are long ago history
Our love just seemed to pass by
Tumbling into time's mystery
Leaving nuances between sad and why

I rub the rib I'm missing so
I no longer care to fight
I'm just wishing that you could know
How dark it is without your light

There is more than one star
Harboring in the sky tonight
But I'm looking just for one , so far
With all my earthly might

I sit here again, my laptop on my knee,
Or rather, lay back in my armchair
Next to the lounge window.
Before me lies the clutter that is
My man cave.
If I just stare I see every little item
In glorious detail.

Yet even when asleep
I swear to you
I sometimes dream of scenes
Images of tables, cities or skies
Every bit as detailed as real life.

Which begs the question:
Where exactly IS this wonderful “Mind” of mine,
That can so accurately record and reproduce
Such multi-coloured panoramas?
Is it just “in my head”
As scientists assert,
Or is it located “somewhere out there”,
Even beyond the stars?

Am I merely squatting
In this body of mine
Until the day that I pass on?
And when I do pass over
Will my soul go whizzing down
Some spiritual “connection”
Back to where my mind is based?

I say again, we may all be but cameras,
Recording films and “programmes”
For other minds
Beyond this realm.
Even for Angels.
For it’s only through US
That this marvellous universe
Is brought to life.

Paul Butters

When life feels suspended by a delicate thread
Change is inevitable
I sometimes feel stifled
Tightly constricted
Like a chrysalis
Struggling against transformation
I oppose the transition
And need more time to adapt
Today
A butterfly tapped against my window
Like change asking to come in
If I can comply with Grace
Maybe I too can transcend
And withstand the butterfly effect

.
Thy loveliness be fyne arte
powdered 'pon a velvet page.
Thy heart doth sing lullabies
penned in a lovers cage.

Thy loveliness be crystal jewels
studded 'pon a silver thread.
Thy breath doth fan the fyres
stitched in a lovers bed.

Thy loveliness be sweet dreams
strewn 'pon a meadow fair.
Thy nature doth perfume give
flowers in a lovers snare.

© Pagan Paul (14/06/17)