Poetry is word-music
Word, word music.
Is soul, spirit, magical mystery
Quintessential essence
Of love and beauty.

Iambic and other rhythms and rhymes
Are optional
For, again, poetry is soul.
The Word is King.
Any word.

***
A singular word of double meaning:
Lickle bird and ******
No waxing lyrical here
Just a bit of lit that’s bound to fit
Uninterrupted
Brief word
Amongst sesquipedalian articulations
And rapturous birdsong that echoes through the forests.

So leave that doggerel alone.
Let your heart sing
Freely
Your spirit and soul
Shining like a supernova
Resonating through our minds.
A concerto of verbal sounds
Played with our inner voices.
Literary art
Expressed in musical notes.
Poetry.

Paul Butters

© PB 22\5\2024.

Wispy wheat fields wave in the wind
As the train chugs through
Along the track of Life that circles
To bring you back where you began.

They say The Journey is the thing:
Meandering through river cut valleys
Between towering mountains.
Rivers running down to endless ocean
That drowns our globe
We call the Earth.

Kids wave from the windows of that train
A custom of love for fellow humankind.
All aboard are full of hopes and dreams
And fears
Anticipating all manner of things
At their destination for the day.

Many have gone to the seaside this way,
While others have travelled for work
Or even a new life.
Our ancients may have been nomads
And modern folk too must sometimes journey.
There’s no place like home,
But first you have to get there.
Go safely everyone.

Paul Butters

© PB 19\4\2024.

Deep within the labyrinthine recesses of my mind
Lies my Id.
Or Subconscious
Or whatever you will.
So when I sleep and dream
My Id presents me with scenes
Full of seemingly incredible detail:
Countless objects set before me
In a wonderfully vivid landscape.

How on Earth does my Id store and display
All these amazing things?
Or is it conning me somehow?

For my Id loves to taunt and tease me.
With dreams of finding myself undressed
In public.
Stressful nightmares of being given impossible mental
And practical challenges to complete.
Of being lost and unable to find my way
Home.
Endless journeys by train and bus
Travelling the country in my quest
To get back in the *****
Of my loving family.
Bee swarms and nasty infestations of bugs.

The Forbidden Planet had its “Monsters of the Id”
And on rare occasions I have woken to continued dreams
Of snakes and people who shouldn’t be there.
And that Giant Eye!
God forbid my sleeping dreams should invade reality,
In the Twilight Zone.

But on the plus side, my dreams can be filled
With seemingly original music
And pleasantries I’d better leave
To your imagination.
Wink, wink.

Paul Butters

© PB 29\1\2024.

Time to wax lyrical,
Time to shout from the rooftops,
My words rolling like thunder
Across the whole wide world.

No mardy moods
Or negative vibes.
Time to replace killing with care
Hatred with love
Tree chopping and ploughing
With planting and wild growth.

Let emotion sing as music
Love and care
Musical words
Called poems.

What are we doing?
What are we doing with our planet
And it’s folk?
Aliens from other worlds might ask
And wonder whether to intervene.

Re-education is required
Getting us back to the ways
Of Mother Earth.
Teaching us to let go
Of our egos
Our lust for mere goods
And territorial land-grabbing.
It’s not what you have
But what you make of it

We only live once
And not for very long
So I say again
Love life
All life
From the tiniest ant
To the loftiest tree.
Enjoy a giraffe
And savour the aroma
Of a bower surrounded by flowers.

Let’s grow more forests
Teeming with life
Clothed in mysterious mists.

Unite together
To end poverty
And strife
Cease all wars
Treat everyone with respect
As equals
All free
All loved equally.

Paul Butters

© PB 29\11\2023.

Some say we all live in a “Multiverse” –
A myriad of universes
All parallel to one another
Invisible to us
Apart from our own universe
Wondrous as it is.

So in some other universe there is
Another version of yourself,
Where you turned right at some junction
Instead of left
And had a serious accident
Instead of winning the lottery.
Or nothing much happened
Or Everything.

Even my own fertile imagination
Is floored
By the endless possibilities here.
My mind is truly boggled
Fit to explode.

For every tiny insect in our universe
Might fly right
Or left
Or not at all
To thus create another universe.

I could write an epic poem on this.
To think that somewhere out there
I may be Immortal, or a King, or Rock Star
Or even about to be Executed
If not already dead.
And you might be these things too.

Versions of ourselves might live in universes
That echo those of fiction
In worlds such as Narnia, Middle Earth
And that of Star Trek, Star Wars
And Stargate SG One
To name but a few.

Oh to have a TV Remote
Like the fictional “Sliders”
To take us from this realm
To any other of our choice.
Or a “Uniscape”:
A machine like a Tardis
Which can take us to any place
Or time
Or universe
Or Other Multiverse???

My head is aching now.
My mind explodes
Like The Universe
And The Multiverse
Or Multiverse of Multiverses.
So I’d better stop
Before this becomes an epic
And my head explodes.

But, meanwhile, in another universe
I didn’t stop!!!

Paul Butters

© PB 18\9\2023.

All these vultures hovering around their prey:
Three golden prizes
Who will get there first?
Cue David Attenborough on commentary!
Coupled and single lions
Prowling about
Waiting for the chance of food and drink.

That coffee takes ages.
Coffee?
Yes, for this is my local
And my pack and I
Are thoroughly enjoying our ale
With our lovely lunches
Served to us by beautiful barmaids.

Those golden prizes are the three front tables
From where you can see the golden sand:
On a beach
Dotted with distant tiny people
As some frolic in the estuary waves
On paddle boards,
Basking in the glorious sun.
Time for another pint.

Paul Butters

© PB 2\9\23.

I will only do this once
Walk down Pudsey Hill late one night
Admiring the stars
After seeing friends.
Walk anywhere one specific time
Or admire a particular glorious sunset
Every one being unique
In its blend of beautiful reds, blues, purples
And other hues.

So we have to make the most of Now
Be mindful indeed,
For there will be a time
When we can sense no more.

Mortality is certain.
Even the very plants are living on soil
Made from the remains of their ancestors.
And we eat the plants
And eat eaters of the plants.
Ashes to ashes indeed.
You know the rest.

But green living things live on
Making oxygen
For those yet to germinate and grow
Or be born.
Winter is soon followed by Spring.
Destruction by Creation.
An almost endless cycle
In the ***** of Mother Earth.

Paul Butters

© PB 9\8\2023.

Wot’s this ****** Poetry stuff?
It’s all Gobbledygook to me!
As far as I’m concerned you can just stick
Your iamb up your fat pentameter.
Wink.
And I don’t care whether some of it
Is like common speech.
Or clever for being slightly incorrect.
Wink.

So why do lilies have to mean death
When they are nothing but fracking flowers?
What’s with all these virile horses
And apples that are supposed to be bosoms?
They are bladdy animals and fruit
For heaven’s sake!
Nothing more, nothing less.

All this Moon in June stuff.
All these bladdy feelings about your dog dying
And unrequited love.
All sentimental words
And Repetition.
I’d rather read a tome like a car manual:
At least it tells you something
You can use in real life.

Yes, it’s all Vogon Poetry to me.
All pretanticulary epticism from egogargantoid
Arsenburgers who see themtegglers as the interferonical
Ellicopters of the bladdy cosmeticus.
And then there’s TS bladdy Elliot
With his cruel Aprils and his
Hoc ideo non potes legere quia lingua peregrina est.
Vita illius.

And while I’m at it.
Who needs history when we live in the present?
Art is no use whatsoever.
Give me a hammer and a spanner
Any day.
Leave those luvvies to their childlike play
And ballet dancers to their pillockettes.
Opera? Pah. Humpa dumpa.
Leave them Odious Odes to Cleverclogs Keats.
Poetry? No bladdy thanks.
(Written for some Friends.
Winks.
At too great a length
For most).

Paul Butters

© PB 13\7\2023.

Big Bang, Universe, Sun and Earth
Life and Death follows Birth.
All over in an instant
Before we become non-existent.

Nothing doesn’t have a colour
Have to ask why we bother.
Maybe I shouldn’t be so cryptic
Making things so Apocalyptic.

The Earth will fry
When the sun fills the sky.
Into a red giant swollen
All history stolen.

So better not think about this,
Just fill our lives with bliss.
Enjoy every day,
That’s the only way.

Paul Butters

© PB 1\7\2023.

The sultry summer sun ***** all moisture out of the soil
To leave cracked earth: mini earthquakes
Soil crumbling into choking dust.
Brown lawns say it all.
Suffocatingly hot indoors
And baking outside.
Desert threat.

It’s the height of Summer
And even the wind is suddenly warm
On this humid, balmy day.
Bumble bees buzz about
On my Cotoneasters, Valerians, Geraniums
And Wild Lavatera.
Broken backed Lavatera
From a deluge
The other night.

Rather this close heat
Than the icy blasts of Winter
Better to slumber
In comfort,
Grab a cold beer
And enjoy the Sun.

Paul Butters

© PB 24\6\2023.

It might well be that the cosmos exists
Only because we do too
And we sense the universe around us.
It’s like Schrodinger’s Cat:
Only existing for sure when we
Open The Box.
Or that Double Slit Quantum Particle Thing
By Thomas Young
Where Quanta seem to know
When we are watching.

Those glorious sunrises and sunsets
What we live for
Only appear
Because we are here.

Without us there is soulless light
Shining upon indifferent clouds
In a realm of lifeless gas, dust
And rock.

We are the ones who see
The awesome beauty of the sky
And all beneath it.
The ugly stuff too.
It is ourselves who decide what is beautiful
And what is but a scar on the landscape.

It’s a shame that we are here
For such a fleeting moment
In the wider scope of things:
This eternity.
So we must pass the baton on
To the next generation.

Our only hope is that the children
Will love the world
Better than we have done.

Paul Butters

© PB 30\5\2023.

Singularity
Then Big Bang inflating to
Our Universe now

Paul Butters

© PB 17\4\2023.

They’re really rockin’ in Bradford,
Off the Pennine Way.
Deep in the heart of Yorkshire
And all round Robin Hood’s Bay.
All over South Ossett
Down there to New Farnley.
Roast beef and Yorkie Puddings,
God’s County Yay!

Yull see ‘em rambling near Ilkley,
Right to the county line,
Sheffield steel and Wednesday –
A football team so fine.
Better still, Leeds United,
Greatest club of all time.

Yorkshire, Kings of Cricket,
Oh what a boon!
Get down that wicket,
We’ll be champs by June.
Down a ginnel or snicket,
See our Olympic Champs.
Coal Miner Picket,
Relight those lamps.

Racing pigeons and ferrets,
Stereotypes tha knows.
Over t’top in Lancashire,
Them there’s our foes.
We’re the greatest county,
Our pride really glows.
We know you all do hate us,
It keeps us on our toes.

So we’ll be rockin’ in Yorkshire,
What more can I say?
Us Tykes're as barmy as Barnsley,
So I’ll be on my way.

Paul Butters

(With due thanks to Chuck Berry and also The Beach Boys)
© PB 2\5\2016.  Slightly Amended 14\4\2023.

Butterflies flutter and flitter
As wasps and bees zip about.
Yet sloths hang heavy
From lofty trees
As languid lions siesta in the shade.

Parched, hot deserts boil like iron in a furnace
Under a merciless sun
While glaciers freeze at the poles
In the black cold dark.

Soft breezes whisper amongst the grass and trees
But on another day the wind howls
Like a Banshee
Tearing those trees up by the roots
In a whirling chaos.

A tiny ant scuttles along the ground
Unaware of the towering Giraffe above
As it stretches its head into clouds of high leaves.

A day of angry black clouds
Is soon followed by a clear blue ocean sky.
For anything that can happen, will happen.
So expect the unexpected.
And glory in it all.

Paul Butters

© PB 3\4\2023.

It’s blue sky brightly sunny
As we await the Easter Bunny.
Still some clouds about
Rain might have a shout.

Remembering when Jesus died on the cross
Only to beat Death
So no longer a loss.

Let’s throw off our shackles too
Enjoy those Easter eggs,
Quaff a golden brew
And drain the barrel to the dregs.

It might be a crime to tire of rhyme
But give me a minute or two
Rhyme isn’t a favourite of mine
So I might not carry this through.

Forsythias, Daffies and now Mahonias
Gold flowers full of sun
Thinking of Begonias
Adding to the fun.

The Amaryllis must be out
Giving us a mighty shout
Other flowers too
What a lovely view.

**** and Robins are flitting around
Making lots of birdsong sound.
We’ve just sprung forward,
As you know,
So Nature is putting on
A bit of a show.

Symbolic eggs will soon be eaten
That chocky taste just can’t be beaten.
So enjoy Easter everyone.
Let’s hope we’ll be basking in the sun.

Paul Butters

© PB 30\3\2023.

I love to tell a story
Factual or made up.
And I love to type free verse,
Even the occasional rhyme
From time to time.

Love making conversation
Watching telly
Playing on Facebook
And surfing that ocean called The Worldwide Web.

In the nineteen sixties or seventies or whenever
I read a book in Pudsey Library
About a teacher who encouraged his students
To express themselves fully in free verse.

He wrote of short lines that
Shock!
And longer lines that linger in their elucidation of logical algorithms.
But otherwise there were no rules,
No doggerel-metres to follow,
Just freedom of expression.
So now I write this way myself.
Or rather, type.

And I keep typing.
Always typing.
One thing or another.
Constantly compelled to type
Something or other
Whether it’s a piece like this
Or not.

I keep on posting
And sharing
On the internet
Posting and sharing.
Hoping of course
That you will heed my words
And maybe have a go
Yourself.

Paul Butters

© PB 22\2\2023.

Vic Davies
That Davies bloke called Vic
He showed he isn't thick.
His table tennis can get bad,
Especially when he gets mad.

Liz Conolly
Mrs. Conolly, first name Liz,
Really, really is the biz.
Loves a seat at the front table,
Always gets there if she’s able.

**** Staples
Ah, here is **** Staples:
Loves his football from Grimsby to Naples.
Could be a pundit on the telly,
Always gives it plenty of welly.

Phil Sharpe
Mister Sharpe, first name Phil:
At table tennis he knows the drill.
Master of defensive ploys,
Wins his matches with lots of poise.

Ron Dawson (added 9\1\23)
Cider and Ale to Ron Dawson known as Rocket.
He has the whole World in his pocket.
Knows the routes of all the trains:
Lots of knowledge (on brewing and trains) fills his brains.

Paul Butters

© PB 6\1\23.

Steve Green (with extra verses)
Stephen Green
Who knows where he’s been?
Out on that bike
Sometimes taking a hike.
Loves Rugby League and ale
And Cider by the pale.

Ryan Jagger
Look at Ryan Jagger
Dancing with a swagger.
Full of jokes and taking the ****
Pours a beer-glass very quick.

Charles Lumley
Charles Lumley’s on full throttle:
He’s the owner of “Message in a Bottle”.
Stacks cans and bottles with precision
Never afraid to make a decision.

Jenny
You just can’t beat that lovely Jenny
She surely is worth every penny.
Hearing music, she has to dance
Enchanting with that cheeky glance.

Nigel
Doing his crossword, there is Nigel!
He knows everything from here to Rigel.
Need a proof-reader? He’s your man.
Want it in Latin? Nigel can.
Nuff Fer Now

Paul Butters

© PB 28\12\2022.

Right now bright sunshine blinds us to the sense
That we all live in a nebulous mist of uncertainty
Only knowing that eventually everyone Dies
After witnessing the miraculous wonder of Existence.

Eternal Infinity is impossible
Yet so too are finite boundaries
That only last for seconds.

There must be an Ultimate, All Powerful, Supremely Intelligent Being
Somewhere
We would think.
But is that possible in an Infinite Eternity?
And would any such being really be Omni Everything?

So we soldier on
Keeping ourselves amused.
Watching out for any clues
As to what this is all about.

Paul Butters

© PB 26\12\2022.

Legend says that during the last Ice Age
There was a worldwide civilisation
Quite advanced
Which built magnificent pyramids in Egypt,
South America and South East Asia
And great cities
Some deep underground.

But at the end of that Ice Age
There was a cataclysm
As snaking comet-shards showered on The Earth
So the ice sheets melted
Causing a Great Flood
And almost all was lost.

Which begs the question
How far back do we really go?
Were those mythical dragons
So bravely fought by noble knights
Actually Dinosaurs?

Have We been around for many millions of years?
Oh for a Time Machine
So we could go back
To discover The Truth.
Scientists insist there would be nothing to find
As their theories and constructs are all
They can see
Or wish to see.
But Intuition tells me otherwise
So the search for facts
Must go on.

Paul Butters

© PB 25\12\2022.

In teenage years I and others dreamt
Of hover cars,
Moving pavements
And endless star treks.

But what did we get?
People shuffling along with heads in mobiles.
All transfixed by a Virtual World.
A seemingly endless forest of digital pages
As they scroll down through a teeming waterfall
Of so-called comments, images and memes.

But in the real world
Buildings crumble
People freeze and starve
Because some computer says
They don’t have the “Money”
To maintain anything or
Even feed themselves
Or their children.

Where did that image of a glorious future go?
You don’t need telling that
We have war in Europe
As mighty Superpowers and International Corporations
Jostle with one another
To control our lives.
World ******* is what they seek.

Their factories pour clouds of black smoke
Into the sky
While they appease us with Climate Conferences
And blame Mister and Missus Everyone
For polluting the planet.

But as I say, you don’t need me to tell you this
Or sooth you with a Moon in June.
As the Americans say, Reality *****
Which is why
All those heads are stuck in all those phones.

Paul Butters

© PB 9\11\2022.

How many times can I say
I don’t want to die
Or extol the bountifulness of Mother Nature.
And how many times can I gasp
At the wonder of our ever-expanding universe?
It is what it is
As I’ve said on many occasions before.

Yet that mysterious aura of spirituality still surrounds us.
Perhaps my Muse is having an early Autumn break.
We still are but tiny ants
Looking up and dreaming
About what lies beyond
Our star speckled night-skies.

It took us ages to find that we all come from Africa
That The Earth is not the centre of The Cosmos
And that really we know next to nothing
About anything.

We were so easily ravaged by a tiny virus called Covid
And still struggle against the excesses of Global Warming.
So much more still needs to be done.

It’s The Anniversary of Nine Eleven,
Queen Elizabeth II is dead.
King Charles III has taken the throne.
The kids are back at school now
And in the blink of an eye
It will be Christmas.

Paul Butters

© PB 11\9\2022.

Heat from the street beneath my feet keeps hitting me.
The sun above relentlessly shows no mercy,
Baking everything with its fiery stare.
Sultry mugginess smothers us in a sauna of sweat
As even the breeze burns my reddening face.

Global warming turns us into another Venus
As record-high temperatures
Scorch us into submission.
Even some Sun Lovers are hiding now,
While others insist it’s just Summer.
In heat like this there’s only one solution…

Time for a beer.

Paul Butters

© PB 17\7\2022.

Britain is a battle ground for global weather.
Sometimes four seasons per hour!
An endless variety of cloud formations
But occasionally clear blue skies.

I love all those clouds.
Seeing faces, castles and who knows what
In all those shapes.
Gloriously colourful dawns and sunsets
That make life worth living.
Oh those reds, oranges, yellows, blacks and blues!
You can’t beat a sunset.

Hate the wind
And the snow.
But snow does look pretty.
Those crystalline flakes
Gently floating to the ground.

But then we have thunderstorms too!
Lashing lightning, striking from black sky.
Rumbling thunder exploding all around.

Such endless variety.
Rain and hail pounding down the chimney stack.
Relentless sun scorching crack-ridden earth.
Every extreme.
All manner of disturbance
And beauty.
An accompaniment to being Alive.

Paul Butters

© PB 2\6\2022

Don’t read this.
Scroll down from it like you usually do.
Well, most of you.
Unless you are one of the faithful few.

But the words keep coming.
My Voice will not be stilled.
Free verse keeps pouring
A persistent stream.

Now, though, I am haunted by this thought:
That nearing seventy I have but twenty years to live,
Thirty if I’m lucky,
God willing.

And like everyone else I hide in distraction,
Eating and drinking,
Finding entertainment,
Indulging in meaningless competition
Pointless projects
And generally playing out time.

Others do likewise,
Building great empires
Or just idling away
Those passing hours.

Yet my mind reaches out
Beyond the Time-Space Continuum
To a place where everything has already happened
Our lives have already been and gone.
The Universe as such has lived and died.

And when my brain returns
Back into this Realm
It encounters the sheer Science
Of an endless Cosmos
Endless in all dimensions
All directions
All times.

The mind is boggled
By Existence
Bringing substance, time, infinity and eternity
All impossible
Yet inevitable
Once something happens to Be.

Wherever you go
There is something further
Always a here and there.
Always a past, present and future.

Indeed, all impossible.
But I have to concede
There must be some Ultimate Intelligence somewhere
Even Sentience
That we might call God.

And maybe what The Ancients called “God”
Was but the nearest “god” we know of!

Yet don’t expect Him or Her or It
To come running
To our aid
Especially as
There may be no such thing
As an “Ultimate”
And no way to escape
From the Space-Time Continuum.

We are lost in the impossible,
So maybe all we can do
After all,
Is make the most
Of what we’ve got.

Paul Butters

© PB 12\4\2022.

An app for this
An app for that
An app even,
To feed your cat.

Mesmerised by mobiles
All these zombies shuffle along
Nearly getting run over
So internet throng.

Scanning with their debit cards
No time for cash
But I don’t trust these things
With their laser flash.

All this social media
Where is it going?
So much information
Toing and froing.

Good to keep in touch
And so easy to Google
Want to make a noise?
It’s better than a bugle.

Better check in on Facebook
So you all know where I am
Time to check my emails
To bin the latest scam.

But whatever happened to talking?
It’s now a forgotten art!
The cyber revolution:
This is just the start.

Paul Butters

© PB 19\3\22.

Succulent, seductive floral displays please my senses no end.
Spring is here!
Promise of countless flowers
As Summer surrounds us with scorching sun.
Before long those Daffodil buds will trumpet out
And cherry blossoms will brighten each lengthening day.

Birdsong serenades us
In a twittering chorus.
Nature’s Jazz wakes me up
With every blushing dawn.

We live in Paradise
Yet keep our senses closed.
Immersed in mobiles and social media
The wealth of nature is ignored.

So open your eyes and listen with those ears.
Stop bombing neighbours
And robbing the poor.
Love Life
Embrace Mother Nature
And make the most
Of what Providence has provided
For us all.

Paul Butters

© PB 4\3\2022.

A gigantic, great giraffe thrusts his head
With that incredibly long neck,
Up into the high trees
To kiss the canopy.

He nibbles at those leaves,
Swirling them into his mouth
With that enormous tongue.

With his mottled, mosaic-patterned hide
He looks like a leopard on stilts
As he towers over all he surveys.

He’s not the most stylish of runners
With those spindly legs
But with that ever so long neck
This Giraffe is the king of the sky.

Only birds like Eagles can look down
On the Giraffe.
He is the highest mammal around
Tall and proud
Seemingly miles above the ground.

Paul Butters

© PB 21\2\2022.

The shires bask serenely in the summer sun.
Streams flow smoothly down the green hillsides.
All is well with the world
As apple blossoms bloom.

Such peaceful scenes are soothing to the soul.
Spiritually uplifting: a sensual seduction
Of sight, sound and aromatic smells.

Snakes may hiss and stoats may snarl,
But nothing reduces this sense of peace and calm.
Assonance and sibilance flows as I scribe
My idle dreams upon this page.

It’s good to let your imagination loose
To planets out there amongst the stars
Or simply let it roam over the slumbering countryside.
Good to escape the struggles and strife
Of daily life.
Good to sleep easy
After meditating at our leisure
Refreshing ourselves with Mother Nature’s
Soothing Love.

Paul Butters

© PB 8\1\2022.

Science suggests that when we die
We become no more than skeletons and dust.
But The Bible says we will end up
With God in Heaven.
Others believe in Reincarnation:
That we promptly return
As another being –
A person, animal or whatever.

But what if God lives in each of us
One at a time
For Eternity?
What if He or She (or Whatever) foregoes those “Super Powers”
To experience Mortal living
In these frail bodies of ours?
Over and Over
Without End.

Which raises the possibility –
A reminder of “Matrix”
And just a fleeting thought
That right now I could be “The One”:
I could be God.

Paul Butters

© PB 4\1\2022.

I am The King of All Existence.
Only I can Live this Life of mine.
So I have to be King.

Yet I choose to treat Everyone as an Equal.
That includes Kings and Queens and Presidents of State
Animals and Humans,
Rich and Poor.
Anyone Sentient.

I would like to be treated as an Equal in return
But know that could be
A Big Ask.

All I can do
Is work on People
To try to get them to be like me:
Assertively dealing with everyone else
As Equals.

We have to Work Together
As a Team
For The Common Good
The Wellbeing of All.

Is this too much to ask?
We will see.

Paul Butters

PB 1\1\2022.

On the eve of twenty-twenty-two
We are ready to celebrate
Another New Year.

But throughout The Milky Way,
Eighty five percent of stars are red dwarves
Which nestle worlds that are tidally locked.

Such planets have no days or seasons
Nothing to show the passage of Time.
Half of each world faces its sun,
And the other half remains in eternal night.
For anyone on the ground
The sun never moves across the sky.
It stays perfectly still.
Always midday, twilight or whatever.

Here there is no New Year.
Or Christmas
Or Winter or Summer Solstice
Or Seasons.
Not even a single Day.
Imagine living like that.

Time happens
But the measurement of Time
Is manufactured
By Mankind.
Let’s not forget that
As we celebrate
And as we navigate
Our Days throughout The Year.

Paul Butters

© PB 31\12\2021.

Some insist they do not want to read about Space,
One of my favourite things.
They would rather I spoke
About what’s going down on Terra firma.

But to them I say
That there are billions of galaxies,
Stars and planets out there.
So the odds are that
There are countless worlds just like Earth.

Right now,
On such an “Earth”
There may well be
People just like us.
They might look different
But still be sentient beings
Eating and drinking
Even going to the pub,
Watching soaps and sport on their version of TV
Squabbling over who will tidy up today...
Or debating issues on Social Media.

They might be worried about global warming,
Or suffering some Pandemic,
Even waging interminable wars,
Just like us.

For, when all is said and done,
Our very own Earth is just like the rest:
A little blue world
Lost in the blackness of Space.

Indeed, we too are out “In Deep Space”
Every bit as much
As all those other Earths.

Paul Butters

© PB 26\12\2021.

For single, retired folk like me
Christmas and Bank Holidays are a bind.
Everything is closed,
No buses running,
Friends, like me, are staying home.

No pub for me today.
No squeezing through hordes
Of once a year drinkers
To get to the bar.
I’d rather enjoy my armchair
At home.

But the peace is pleasant,
A nice winter break.
Right now it’s all about
That baby in a manger
Being visited by three wise men.

I have a Christmas Dinner
Ready to microwave
And stocks of beer, whisky
Plus crisps
To keep me going.

Plenty of time to reflect
On another year gone
As seventy looms large for me.
Another year of Coronavirus Variants
As we work our way through
The Greek Alphabet.

Another year of stops and starts
Having to adapt
To whatever monster rears
Its ugly head.

I’ve kept playing table tennis
When the hall’s open
And walked to pub or café
When they’re not closed.
Doing well for a veteran
Can’t complain.

It’s peaceful at Christmas
That’s my refrain.

Paul Butters

© PB 25\12\2021.

Whenever people criticise me
They usually don’t know that
I am my Biggest Critic,
Beating myself up
Like Tyson Fury.

It’s how I spur myself on,
Hopefully to better things.
But what things?
I still don’t know.

Oh to have blind faith
And sense of Vocation
As many others do.
A solid set of Values.
A script to follow
Opinions to declare.

Instead I dither
Undecided
Lost in an ocean of ifs and buts.
Too bright and open-minded
For my own good.

Worse still, I’m oh so eager to please.
I think myself incorruptibly honest,
Yet the truth is,
I only tell people what I think
They want to know.
It’s how I was brought up.

But then again
Am I willing to fight
For what I stand for?
Should I really be Devil’s Advocate
Just to “stick up” for my views?

Better methinks to hold my counsel
Or be diplomatic
Which may be okay
So long as I actually decide
What I think and feel
Within myself.

And there’s the rub.
What do I stand for?
Do I really think for myself?
Like so many others,
Am I dragged along:
Brainwashed by Media hoo ha
And hype?
Superficial sound bytes
And rallying calls.

I need to search my soul
And find my true feelings
And beliefs.
I know that I Love Life
In most of its forms.
I’m all for Wellbeing
And The Common Good.

I need to focus
On these things:
On making the most of
This Paradise World
We seem bent on ruining.

In short
I must stoke those fires of Love
And enlighten others
To do the same.

Paul Butters

© PB 13\12\2021.

Our so-called “Universe” is an erupting volcano
Spewing out gas and solid matter
To form a cosmic web
Of incandescent galaxies full of stars
Rushing away from us
Ever faster
Until we see them no more.

We tiny mice men gaze up at the sky
To make out next to nothing
Of the wider landscape
On which our universe-volcano
Sends out its plumes.

Us mice we sit, idly supping our pints of ale:
Taking a break from “shopping”
For the better half.
Blithely taking for granted
The wonder that lies above our heads.

A cosmos riddled with black holes –
Places where Time has stopped.
Where if you somehow survived
You would be frozen solid
With no knowledge that Time keeps moving
Out there beyond the Event Horizon.

If Time has stopped
How can anything exist?
How can Hawking Radiation seep out
When there simply isn’t time?

Even Brian *** doesn’t know,
As he sits and sups his pint.
None of us know.
And as my glass empties,
Just as the universe will eventually empty,
All I can say is
Let’s have another one.

Paul Butters

© PB 7\12\2021.

Perhaps someone thought of an Existence:
A Cosmos so arranged
That its skies would be adorned with stars
Full of worlds
Where sentient life was
Inevitable.

Just an inkling of a thought,
A singularity
That dreamed of a singularity
From which Everything emerged.
All imaginable good and evil,
Making Pandora’s Box look trivial.
Evolving intelligence
From primordial slime.
Wonders everywhere that we
Will never see.

All from just a thought.
But better think on this:
We are that thought.

Paul Butters

© PB 20\8\2021.

This little world is like most worlds
Throughout the Cosmos.
Here the sun never moves
From its place in the sky:
Seemingly endless morning or eve,
Take your choice.

No concept of time.
No seasons.
Nothing to show the passing of the years.
Just that sun.
Moons optional.

The plants are black
Under a dark red sky
All sombre
All still
Apart from the odd cold wind
From this planet’s “Dark Side”.

For, like most planets,
This world resides in the Goldilocks Zone
Of a Red Dwarf Star
A zone where water may flow
Under the glow of a star
Like the vast majority of stars
Throughout the universe.

This world’s residents might well look out
Into space
With envy at our golden sun
With its blue Earth
Adorned with a coat of green
And its seasons
And days and nights.

They may learn from us about time
About our freedom to roam a long way
Without meeting tropical desert
And eternal frost on the dark side.

They may gasp in wonder
At this Paradise of ours
As they ponder their black grass
And hide from solar flares.
No respite from that relentless red sun,
No sense of time
Apart from monotony.

And they might wonder at us,
As we fail to care
For our glorious world
As it basks in our golden sun.

Paul Butters

© PB 28\7\2001.

The miracle –
To see, to feel, to touch, to hear, to smell
To be
To know I’m me.

A miracle repeated centillions of times over:
From the tiniest bug to the tallest tree.
So many sentient beings
Brimming with thoughts and feelings
Powerful emotion
And boundless imagination.

Evolution is but a continuation
From some timeless beginning
That could have created time itself.

Particles still wink in and out of existence –
Endless miracles beyond our vision.
All animals are just like us,
Seeing, feeling, thinking, wondering.

We take all this for granted
Rushing about
With our petty concerns –
Seldom taking the time
To stop
And look
At the sheer wonder
That is
Now.

Paul Butters

© PB 11\7\2021.

A spiritual place.
Set amongst ancient mountains
All clothed with timelessly old trees.
Streams and waterfalls gurgling
Down to meandering rivers.

Countless ancestors buried
Or ashes scattered here.
Battered old castles
Haunted mansions
Even the odd old parsonage
Perched upon a bleak northern hill.

You can’t put your finger on it,
But there is something in the air:
More than the howling wind;
Still present even when the thunder
And lightning
Stops.

Ghosts of the past are amongst us
As surely as the aromas of flowers
And cut grass.

The ancient souls are still with us,
No doubt wondering
What the hell we are doing.
For here are civilisations that
Have basked in glory
For many generations
Only to fall and crumble.
Abandoned, lost cities,
Cultures and even languages
That have blossomed and thrived
Only to fade away.

Perhaps the same fate awaits us too.
All things must end.
For even the very universe
Will fade away
Into a misty sea of protons
Leaving no memory of anything
Or anyone.

All that will remain
Is this spiritual backdrop
Countless souls
Refusing to go away
Even in the blackest night.
Dry ice still creeping
Through the gloom,
Never surrendering.

Paul Butters

© PB 25\6\2021.

Keep cool and calm,
Don’t do any harm
To others or yourself.
Even when rejected,
Don’t be affected.

Swim through the storm
Don’t even get warm.
Maintain self esteem
You know what I mean.
Control your emotion
In all the commotion.

Be Mister (or Missus) Cool
And don’t be a tool
For their challenging way –
You know it won’t pay.

People can be evil,
We all know that.
Almost primeval –
That’s a fact.

Feel good about yourself
Ignoring all barbs,
Keep up on that shelf
And deflect all those words.

If you can, smile and laugh,
Show you’re not bothered.
Like a giraffe
Don’t get smothered.

Beat them with wit:
Show them you’re mentally fit.
Use sarcasm too –
You know what to do.

If they then want to fight
Bring it on if you must,
But if outnumbered and outpowered
Get running -
Leaving a cloud of dust.

But first don’t react
Or do anything you can’t retract.
Keep your Cool
Don’t be the angry fool.

Assert yourself
And say what you want.
While doing your best
Not to affront.

What more can I say?
Being Cool is the way.
That’s my message
For today.

Paul Butters

© PB 22\6\2021.

Garden aromas
Indescribable
Yet taken for granted
Amongst a spiritual haven
Of sacred trees
Resplendently coloured flowers
And glorious grass.

Aromas of blossoms and dew,
Cut savannahs
Rain and drought
Foxes and cats.
Doggy Paradise
Where they can sniff
And scuffle,
Dreaming of truffle.

A Summer retreat
You cannot beat,
Better for a pond
To strengthen that bond.
Just sit or stroll
And soak it all in.
There is plenty of time.
You can only win.

Paul Butters

© PB 25\5\2021.

Dazzled!
Blinded by the Sun.
My eyes scream in pain.
But then they ease
And as I soak up the scene
My spirit lifts.

All is brightly lit
In glorious sunshine.
Lush green foliage
Reflecting those golden rays
Provoking images
Of sunny beaches
Swaying palms
On remote tropical isles.

Under the dome of a hazy light-blue sky
Bedecked with fluffy fair-weather clouds
We bask in the sun, sun, sun.

What more can you ask for
On a balmy summer day?
Well, maybe a cool pint of ale.
Amen.

Paul Butters

© PB 13\5\2021.

Scientists say that everyone dies,
Having a set lifespan,
With the only possible exception being
Some unique jellyfish
Who regenerate like Doctor Who.

Yet religious folk claim
We will have eternal life
So long as we believe
In Their God (whoever).

So who can we believe?
Are any of them right
At all?

Is death the same for all?
The same for a man or woman
As for a blade of grass or withering rose?
The same for all men and women?
For humans and animals alike?

Have we been told the truth
About this and other matters?
The questions go on:
Conundrums whirling around our minds
As we inwardly crave Salvation.

All we have now,
To cling on to,
Is good old Hope.
Faith has no certainty
For me.
I never kidded myself
About that.
There’s only Hope, Hope,
Hope.

Paul Butters

© PB 10\5\2021.

The sea sweeps to the far horizon:
Infinity’s edge,
As endless waves lap onto the shore.
Above us gulls wheel and scream
Hunting for prosaic fish and chips.
They ****** them
From hapless humans
Down below.

And the breakers keep breaking.
Elsewhere the ocean rages,
Storming the cliffs
With spraying cascades of water
And thrashing rain.

Here today, though, it is calm and clear.
Up above we see an even greater ocean:
That of blue sky
And nightly black space.

Up there we truly look
To infinity
Eternity too.
Vastness
Beyond our comprehension.

We people are but tiny specks
On island beaches
Insignificant particles
Of humanity
Lost in a universe
That knows no bounds.
Yet here to enjoy
Those golden dawns and dusks,
Fanned by freshening breezes –
Much gentler versions of gales and hurricanes.

Never forget that the sea is mighty.
Just love it
When it’s in a peaceful mood:
Soak up the spirit of surf
As you watch those endless waves.

Paul Butters

© PB 8\5\2021.

Over thirty thousand years ago a pregnant she-wolf
And her mate lay hidden in the grass
Watching some of our human ancestors
Hunt with spears, bows and arrows.
They were very impressed
But more than that so hungry
That they followed those humans home
Hoping to steal some meat.

They were just about to ****** that food
When a humans appeared
All around them.
They were caught!
All they could do was look up with pleading eyes:
“Please don’t **** us! We just want food.”
Seeing one of them was heavily pregnant
Those humans presumed them starving
And threw them meat
Then let them go!

Hungry again, they went back for more
And the humans fed them
And even stroked them.
This was so much better
Than having to search for prey
So often without reward.

And as time passed they took to accompanying these humans
On their hunts
Then ferreting out some prey for them to shoot
Rounding animals up
And retrieving those shot down by arrows.

Soon the rest of their pack joined them
And the female wolf had her pups
Near the human camp
Where it was safe.
She taught her pups
To plead for food and care
With their eyes and whines.

Those wolves remained forever,
Generation after generation
Each litter getting cuter
And softer
And more loving
Towards mankind.

And so they evolved
Into a seemingly endless variety
Of “Dogs”.
From Rottweilers to tiny Poodles,
German Shepherds and Collies to Chihuahuas.
They became known as “Man’s Best Friend”,
Showing us unconditional Love
And loyalty:
A bond like no other.
Even evolving raised eyebrows
And deeply sad eyes
To attract our love and care.
Domesticating themselves
Yet begging the question
Who is really “the master”?
My money is on
Them.

Paul Butters

© PB 20\3\2021.

Shapely steaming trees make clouds of their own:
Raining daily on the rainforest.
Rumbling jungles serenaded by a clichéd cacophony of birdsong.

I love all trees wherever they are:
Pinewoods in temperate zones,
Palms on tropical isles,
Ancient oaks full of magic.

See breeze kissed canopies high in the sky,
Forests deep in mysterious gloom.
Let Attenborough portray the rest.
Tarzan and Robin Hood to reign forever.
Keep your axes and saws away.
Let’s plant as many trees as we can
And watch them grow.

Paul Butters

© PB 18\3\2021.

Leeds United on the attack
No sign of holding back
No matter what the score
We keep knocking on that door

Slicing through opposing lines
Creating chances many times
We really should score many more
That would bring us to the fore

Bamford bangs them in of course
Making us a formidable force
Get those shooting boots on, one and all
Let’s get past that defensive wall

Raphinha brings Brazilian magic
His silky skills are so fantastic
Kalvin runs the midfield show
Gives our team a rapid flow

Bielsa’s brain and dedication
Provides us with a firm foundation
He has us marking man for man
Keeping to the pressing plan

People hated us in the past
Now they love us, no more typecast
Strange to be so often praised
Enjoying having our profile raised

So here’s to Leeds, our beloved team
Hoping soon to be the cream
Keep going you men in white
Aiming for a future bright

Paul Butters

© PB 10\3\2021.

Even if we went beyond the bounds
Of space and time
We would see an infinite multiverse
Lasting forever.

For We are lost
So utterly lost
Amongst countless numbers
Of galaxies and stars.

Words cannot do justice
To this miraculous wonder.
Call it a cosmos
Or a universe
What you will
This black vastness
Is beyond human comprehension.

Our own little Earth
May well be replicated
Endless times:
Infinite numbers of rocky worlds
Orbiting their suns
In cosy Goldilocks zones.

Perhaps each universe explodes to life
Then fades
Like some Groundhog Super-Age
Lasting many trillions of years
Each Repeat.

But it matters not
As eternal infinity is time and space enough
For anything to happen.

And it matters not
Unless there is someone around
To witness and experience it all.
And that’s where We come in.
That’s our role.

Paul Butters

© PB 4\3\2021.

Brevity bangs

Paul Butters

© PB 19\2\2021.