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There’s something about campfire;
The scent of wood burning
And smoke rising higher…

I close my eyes.

I blink open and I’m back
With our ancestors of hunters
And dwellers of caves,
Sitting by the flames,

Watching the fire cast
Shadows upon stone.
Mixing water and mud
With an old, cracked bone
In a futile attempt to
Capture on cave walls
The fearsome beauty
Of the blaze that could
Consume us all.

I close my eyes.

Squint open to find myself
In the Rockies on a full moon night
In a circle ‘round a fire, with drums
Pounding and voices raised
In a chorus with the wolves,
Howling praises to the Mother
Of the good, green Earth.

The Elder Chief takes the peace pipe
Inhales the harsh tobacco
And passes it around.


Exhaling smoke, he begins
To recount stories and folklore
Of wise turtles and great Eagles
And earth spirits come and gone.
The young listen to the wise;
Imaginations taking flight
The fire dances in their eyes,
Wide and shining in delight.

I close my eyes.

In the early hours of the morning
When everyone is sleeping sound,
And the blaze, no longer burning,
Is reduced to embers on the ground,

I open my eyes.

Thin wisps of smoke still rise;
Ethereal fingers reaching high,
But disappear in wistful sighs
Before reaching the dawning sky.

I smell the scent of campfire
And something primal stirs;
I am the stoic hunter
From days of caves and furs.

I am a Native in the snowy mountains
Beneath a sky full of stars by the thousands.
And in the silence of the night,
A crackling fire burns in the woods
And under the swirl of the Northern Lights,
You’ll hear me howling with the wolves.
If I should die tonight
I will go in peace
Though I’ve lived but twenty years
I know that life won’t cease.

It will go on and they’ll move on,
My pets and friends and family
Happiness will find them once again
And I’ll be a fond memory.

If I should die tonight
I will not put up a fight
For I have loved and have been loved
And my life was rather bright.

I did not accomplish much
In my brief time here on Earth
I did not learn to dance or sing and I never wrote a book
But achievement is subjective and I lived my life with mirth.

If I should die tonight
I will not die in vain
For I brought laughter to those around me
And to a few I eased some pain.

Mind at rest and soul in peace
I’ll be lying in my bed
Dreaming dreams full of magic
Long after I’m dead.

I’ll roll over one last time
With a faint smile on my face
I’ll exhale my final breath, at last,
And my God I will embrace.

Before it is my time to go
One thing I’ll leave in ink:
If you have some friends and a family that loves you
You are richer than you think.
 Mar 2016 Paul Butters
Tom Blake
There is no room for pacifists
In this world;
It's a militant's Paradise.
We metaphor rivers
as the flow of life,
mindful of willows who
cast shadows on furlong banks.
Riverboats with tilting berths
temporarily knock stability.
But focus strengthens the steadfast.
Bulrushes hide the deeper pain
from our eyes
dark algae de-oygenates currents,
and as a metaphor again
I begin to feel
the up wind carrying
us to our rightful destiny
To be someone,
who's loyal by heart,
when I say:

". . . it's through"

*IT
IS
T R U E
.
If I told you that in the closet lived a whale
Would you say that was a lie or tale?

If you believed it
And afterwards
you feel naive then
It's a lie
because it was decieving

But if we both know it's not true
And I am amused
and so are you
Then we could call it a tale
And together fantasize
about the closet whale
Concept from the book"freak the mighty" by: Rodman Philbrick
(15,16) "I'm telling tales, my dear, not lies. Lies are mean things, and tales are meant to entertain."
Itches to the core
Butterflies begin to soar
Pupils narrow seeking
Heart's beat racing
Lips dry and waiting
Mouth waters
                     anticipating
Nerve endings fire
A spark within desire
How you pray it stays a kindle
Oh this wonderful thing
*Anticipation
Ready or not, here we go....
 Mar 2016 Paul Butters
Traveler
What do you perceive?
Is your god the only
God in existence
And out of eight billion
HUMAN BEINGS
On this mighty planet
You and a mere one and a half billion humans
That follow said deity
Are the only people on this earth that matter?

Those bombs that shook
Their expendable existence
Did you feel it in your heart
The fist of your intolerant god
That tore their worlds apart...

And no please don't perceive this
With your separatist heart intact
Your fairy tales
Have all gone to hell
What more horrors will they hatch...
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