The summer sun soars above the sultry sands…
Sorry your computer hit a problem
We will restart it for you
Error code – Gremlins from your latest Update.

Where was I?
The beach beams with delight…
You have Urgent Email
Your Paypal Account has been hacked
We need your bank details again
To protect you from villains.

Still on a standard gas rate?
You must shop around.
Use our fantastic cheap deal tracking
App.

Your internet provider technical department
Here.
Your computer is under attack
From Trojan Horse Maleficent-Ware.
You will lose internet connection in
Five hours unless…

We don’t provide cover for the drains
Under your house
Unless you take out
Our splendid insurance scheme.

Poetry Moderators here:
The word “Delight” is Not
Allowed here
As it has ****** Connotations
And your style breaches our
Community Rules.
Suggest instead:
The finely grained sandstone
Reflects Sol light
Making my mood
More adequate
By psychological standards.

Sorry your computer hit a problem.
I give up.

(NB No Moderators were hurt
During the typing of this poem,
As they usually act
After
It is posted).

Hehe.

Paul Butters

© PB 15\9\2020.

It was hard in those trenches.
Cut off from the rest of the world.
Cold and wet
And muddy.

Left without the right equipment:
Brush handles for rifles.
The government sending the right signals
But sadly failing to produce.
We soldiered on,
Following the rules of engagement
Laid down by the top brass.
Keep your head down lad!

We dug in for weeks.
Not knowing what day it was.
No sense of time.
Our old routines long gone.
Nowhere to go
And nothing to do
But hide.

But then we emerged.
Looking forward to victory.
Marching heads aloft
Across the battlefield.
Confident that soon our boffins will come up
With some A Bomb to
Finish them off.

But wait.
The enemy isn’t finished.
Indeed it’s resurgent.
Gathering it’s troops
For a deadly
Counter-attack.

We may be war weary.
Fed up of the carnage
And having to hide
Like rats.

But, “Back to the trenches boys (and girls!)!”
Is the cry
From above.
Our commanders are in a panic.
They steer us to the nearest bolt hole
As Meerkats escaping a bird of prey.
For we may be weary
Of all this
But our enemy is deadly.
Our enemy?
You guessed it:
Covid 19.

Paul Butters

© PB 13\9\2020.

My stream of consciousness is in full flow,
Tumbling down the page.
A cascade of words
Bouncing and foaming
Towards unknown seas.

No planning here.
No structure
Or direction.
Just meanderings
And oxbow lakes.

Free verse unfettered
By Draconian Rules
Or dogma.
Odd rhymes thrown in
Perhaps:
Casual confetti.

So what should I type about,
Sitting here in my armchair
In the silence of my lounge?

The sky is full of clouds
A blanket over this
September afternoon.
Perfect conditions
For composing this poem.

Should I put the world to rights?
(How long have you got?)
Or just indulge
In some uplifting visions?

I don’t do emotions very much.
The cork is firmly closed
On those.
Recall my early loves:
All unrequited.
Crushes
That crushed my very soul.
Memories of crying inside,
Unable to eat
Or think of anything except
That longing for love
Which never came.

So no
I don’t do emotions.
And seldom reveal myself
As I just did.
I’d rather let my imagination soar,
My eagle eye -
A soaring cliché –
Taking in the sweep of space
And everything below.

I see trees
And animals,
Mountains, coasts and oceans.
People milling about.
A scream of seagulls soars above the sea.
Waves crash:
A thundering tsunami
Against the brittle cliffs.

I have many voices.
From soft soothing lullabies
To grand orations
Full of pomp and splendour.

Music plays in my head:
A crescendo of orchestras
And songs.
Freddie, Elvis, Bassey
Clapton, Hendrix and Satriani.
Ginger Baker, Phil Collins.

Reciting poetry
Within my brain
Is easy
After Bohemian Rhapsody.

So once more to the beach dear friends
With Brian Wilson
And his crew.
Let Sloop John B be launched
Again
Heading for oceans new.

At last a rhyme
As attention spans begin to
Wane.
Enough for now
My loyal friends.
I’d best bid you
Adieu.

Paul Butters

© PB 4\9\2020. First 3 lines Written 16\8\20 in my big paper diary.

In our Beginning God created this Universe.
It was during an Eterninfinity,
But old Moses didn’t go into that.

Now space was formless and empty,
Darkness reigned.
And God said
“Let there be matter”
And there was matter:
A singularity
Expanding faster and faster
To create material, movement and Time.

The early universe was a cloud
Of gas and dust
Enveloped in blackness.
So God said
“Let there be light”
And there was light
As the first star was born.

The universe expanded.
First generation stars
Made light elements
And later generations of stars
Produced heavier ones.

And the star we call The Sun
Was born
Mothering The Earth
Amongst other worlds.
The Earth:
A small ball of iron
And rock
Attended by a Moon.

The die was cast
Right at the start
The Formula was set
So Inevitably life appeared
Here on Earth
And here we are!

Evolution would not be possible
Without The Formula
Formed by God
Wherever S\he is.

Evolution is part of The Equation
I feel.
But what came before Genesis?
And how did God come to Be?
Does God have a God?
And that God his or her God?
For we just might be Lost
In a Multiverse
Within an Eterninfinity:
Courtesy of Lady Luck
And the roll of some Ethereal, Divine
Dice.

Paul Butters

© PB 20\8\2020.

As a typer of what might be
Poetry
I am a football manager
With WORDS as my players.

Words in a Deep W Formation –
Total free verse
Hopefully forming a diamond.
No buses parked here
As my words go winging
Down the page.

Not quite five three two
But maybe the odd Haiku
In syllables of five seven five –
For there are far more than eleven syllables
In Poetry.

All writers are the same:
Our words combining
To make meaning,
Passing our visions
Views and feelings
For a crowd of readers
All being well.

Words to be chanted
By crowds enchanted –
Songs for a stadium
That is our united mind.

Paul Butters

© PB 16\8\2020.

Let your mind’s eye fly forward
Right out the window
Through that faint reflection
Of your lounge.
Let it fly
Over those regulated blocks
We call estates
The ant city landscape
Then over the plains
To the sea.

Head to the far horizon,
Over the curve
Of The Earth
And on
Into blackest space.
Out by Pluto
Through Orion’s Belt
And The Milky Way.
Beyond Andromeda
And countless galaxy clusters.

Then look back
Towards our tiny blue marble.
Look back
At everything we know.
See how trivial
We humans
Really are.

Our world,
A tiny speck
Upon the canvas
Of the cosmos.
One grain of sand
Upon an infinite beach.

Then fly back home
But still remember
That the Glory of Existence
Is Everywhere
To be enjoyed
And cherished
While ever we live.

Paul Butters

© PB 21\7\2020.

They say this Covid Plague came from bats.
I picture a great black cave
Filled with bats
Crammed into the crannies –
Locust swarm sardines,
Those Covid spike-*****
Rubbing their hands with glee.

So what happens when Lockdown Eases?
Swarms of sheeples
Dancing in the streets
Squeezing together
In a ***** fuelled frenzy
Just like those bats.

Except the bats remain sober:
They only do what they do
Knowing no other.
But We have no excuse.
We have the intelligence
To see
That this is wrong.
Yet we choose NOT
To act smart.

No, we risk all –
Risk a lonely breathless death
And anonymous incineration
Away from our friends and kin
Just for a ***** lash
Out on the crowded town.  

Will We ever Learn?
I’m afraid
It might be a long time coming.

Paul Butters

© PB 5\7\2020.