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

The UK General Election has run its course.
A “win” for the Conservative Tories
With most votes and seats
Though they lost their parliamentary Majority,
And can only govern
By doing a deal with the Northern Irish DUP
Who oppose the rights of gays and women
And want to bring back hanging.

Yet Labour too are celebrating a win:
Halving the gap between the Tories and themselves
And winning loads of votes and seats.
OK they finished fifty odd seats behind,
But hey!

And then the Libdems “won” four more seats.
Plus The Greens held Brighton by a merry mile.
The Scottish Nationalists still got thirty five seats,
In spite of Nicola Sturgeon calling for
Another referendum on independence.
Sinn Fein in Northern Ireland got more seats too.
And the Welsh limited their damage by Labour.

“Winners” all, except for UKIP.
That’s politics.
Until the next election.
Which might be fairly soon.

Paul Butters

the self seeking*
white powder man
came
to consume her life
snorting
the only love
who'd ever embrace
a loneliness so rife

the relationship
destructive
to the soul
it propped her up
and took all control

an emptiness
he bought
a hollowness
in every facet
of his giving
the feeling of the muted line
so flippantly cold

she tossed away
the truer man's
caring
for a ******* frequency
incapable of love's
empathetic
*heart

The train will depart from Excite Station
We will have our own Private Pullman Coach for writing enjoyment in appreciation
We have been given the announcement to board
Please be comfortable and recline
The train is pulling out of the station
The schedule having an overnight ride
It will be your poetry what your thoughts will provide
Beauty as the rails in the scenery passing by
Inspiration from the Diesel Engine Horn with writing encouragement being a try
Cows all in the field
As the train moves feeling like a camera reel
I am writing down what I see I words
Turning my poem write into an adventure
My eyes feel weary and I am drifting into a sleep
My thoughts continue to journey concentrating deep
Yet it is my own words to keep
The train continues railing going through railroad crossings
Morning has arrived
I see a peek of the sunrise
We have arrived at the station of Conclusion Alley
Our words have taken us far
There was no need for a car
I hope you enjoyed your venture, but let me call you my Poetry star.

orchids exotic captured
the man's botanical eye
they were so beautiful
in display
with delicate petals
and a scent
of heady romance


the wheelchair bound New York
cop saw defining evidence
of the exquisite
bloom
his heart elated
by the flower's
gorgeous
loom

there under his real
name of Raymond Burr
he established
an orchid garden
on a Fiji island
the climate perfect
for growing
and nurturing
the plant species
arresting of sight
so sublime
its vision's delight

Here shines the loyal light,
Reminding us of Boxer Manson.
Still standing guard o’er us in Doggy Heaven,
Keeping his family safe throughout the night.

Paul Butters