How can anyone live for Eternity
When Eternity never ends?
It’s an objective that cannot be achieved
For it’s immeasurable.
Year after year might pass
But we never get there.

Space is the same:
Fly through a galaxy cluster
And you find more space
Then maybe another galaxy cluster,
Another after another, after another
Into Infinity.

Infinite Eternity:
Skies with no end
Never Ending
Teeming with countless stars.
Impossible
Yet here we are
Incredibly marvelling that we can think
That we even exist
To see, hear and feel
A world
That’s nothing short
Of a miracle.
Paul Butters

© PB 16\3\2020.

Time to rhyme and shine
All will be fine
Give me some wine

I rarely do rhyming lines
Prefer lines of rhymes
Rhymes within those lines
“Internal rhyme”
At least in this time line.

The summer sun has been summoned
So don’t be glum there in your slum
Ignore the ****, have some *** and chat with mum
But don’t be dumb and talk with a plumb
Strum that guitar with your fingers or thumb
Let that music hum
Watch them scrum for a crumb.

Just can’t wait to get into a transcendental state
From words that have some weight
To lead us through the gate
To poetic heaven

Paul Butters

© PB 4\2\2020.

I love music
But can only sing flat.
And I can’t play musical instruments
With their baffling array of keys or strings.
So, I try to write music with words.
For I also love to write.

Distant misty hills beckon my soul
To fly amongst banks of swirling clouds
Then up into the stars.

The impossible mystery of infinity intrigues me:
Beyond, beyond, beyond, beyond…
Endless stories unfold before us
(Yes, you can come too!)
Eternity that has no horizon.

I love to love
My love,
For love makes the world go round
Or so I heard.
I love all plants and animals
And people too:
All that Mother Multiverse has spawned
And reared.

Love is all we need
They sang
And they were right.
So let’s get loved up
With lorra loving.
Feel that love.

For that’s why I write.

Paul Butters

© PB 3\2\2020.

Repetition is the best petition.
Drive that refrain into your brain.
It’s my mission.
Driven on by Stewart Copeland the musician.
Drums and dance
Send me into a trance.
Transcendental music
Any way you choose it.

Repetition, repetition, repetition
Just as potent as nuclear fission.
Sometimes, for me, it’s just too much.
As crazy as Screaming Lord Sutch.
Yet here I make a telling submission
About the power of repetition
As beautiful as a painting by Titian.
A composition to appeal to your cognition
To get you into a better condition
Without transition.

There are four hundred and ninety rhymes
Of repetition
And that’s not something from superstition.
But I’d better avoid a war of attrition
Even with your kindly permission.
It’s great to prance
And have a dance.
I’m glad you’ve given
This poem a glance
To give its rhythms every chance.
My aim is to enhance
And cut through the boredom like a lance.

Poems are music
Poems are Romance
So let’s advance
Then make a stance.
That’s my position.

Paul Butters

© PB 2\2\2020 (first line written 31\1 then notes made 1\2). Final line added 3\2.

Please don’t view me as white
Or working class
Maybe middle class
Or straight or gay
(I happen to be straight)
Or Leaver or Remainer
Believer or Non-Believer
Aristocrat or Commoner
Patrician or Pleb
Or Anything else.

Don’t put me in a box
Or file
Or stereotype.

I’d rather be Unclassified
Or seen simply as
A Human Being.

Paul Butters

© PB 18\1\2020.

Whatever you write, make it memorable.
Just as memorable as Ivan the Terrible.
No need to be incredible
Just make those words indelible
From that mind of yours
And also theirs of course.

I used to think that rap
Was not very good.
Haha.
But now I see
Those rhymes so right for me,
And even raps that scan.
Yeah Man!

There’s always time
For a rhyme
Sublime.
Just let them chime.

These rhymes they staple things to your brain
To help you remember every refrain.
Things passed on by word of mouth
From Arctic regions right down to The South.

Remember, remember
That month of November.
Something that sticks
With each dying ember.

Keep aware of the power of words,
As musical as a flock of birds.
Do give in to the urge to write,
To make our day so gloriously bright.

Paul Butters

© PB 13\1\2020 (2). From jottings of 7\1.

Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go.
Let’s have a really great show.
Let’s fly just like an arrow,
Faster than a sparrow.

We know we are the best.
Let’s put it to the test.
Prove we are worthy champions
From The South Pole to the Grampians.

Just see our motivation:
Our hope is our foundation.
We’re full of self belief
And going to cause some grief.

We know we are so great.
To play we cannot wait.
Once more unto the breach:
A win’s within our reach.

Paul Butters

© PB 13\1\2020. From a diary jotting 7\1.

We watch from space
Safe in our spaceship
As a small rock planet,
That has orbited it’s star
Over seven and a half billion times –
All those billions of its years –
Is peeled away
And eaten
By that very sun
That gave it birth.

Two and a half billion years before,
This star ran dry of hydrogen
And grew
From yellow dwarf to red giant.

Now, nothing is left of three of its worlds,
All engulfed by flame
As the sun grew
Into a giant ball of death.
All history is gone.
Nothing to show
For countless civilisations
That adorned the third planet.

But oh what’s this?
We spot a tiny spacecraft!
Must reel it in.
Examine it.

It has a name:
“Voyager 1”
Inside: a Golden Disc!
A Golden Record.
We can play it.
Images of hairless bipeds.
Ancestors from that third planet.
Sounds of animals and someone laughing.
Images of bipeds taking sustenance.
And best of all
More sounds
Of something called “Rock Music”:
A being called “Chuck Berry”
“Singing a song” called “Johnny B. Goode”.
For we have feet too
And it makes them tap.

Paul Butters

© PB 12\12\2019.

He lounges in his armchair
******* on a ***
And quaffing beer.
His eyes are glued to the telly,
Watching Corrie
Then footie
Before heading off to the pub.

He feels he’s earned his basic pleasures
As he checks his mobile
For emails and Tweets
And Facebook posts.

Comforts earned by slaving away
All day
For some faceless bureaucrat
Hidden away in his company’s
Ivory tower.

For this is Joe Public.
Ignore him at your peril.
He has lots and lots of mates.
And he is fed up of the “Nanny State”
With it’s, “You shouldn’t do this”
And , “You shouldn’t (or should) do that”.

He’s fed up too with the PC Brigade
Having already escaped the “God Squad”.
But he’s ****** angry
At simply being ignored.

You can keep Joe happy
With Celebrity and Social Media
And sport
And even “Pointless Quizzes”.
He avoids Education
To maintain his “Street Cred”.
But there will come a point
When he’s had enough.
And once that happens
His festering grievances
Will surface
Like killer sharks.

And if he joins a mob of like-minded souls
Who knows where that may lead?
Perhaps to Revolution.

So think on, my friend.
Take care of Joe.
Indeed of Every Joe.
For Joe could be
The Most Important Person
In The World.

Paul Butters

© PB 30\11\2019.

Did The Universe exist
Before it was seen
By us?

Some say you Are the universe
Looking at itself.

Chicken or egg,
Egg or chicken?

That mystery
Called Consciousness.
Macrocosm in a Microcosm,
Solar System in an atom.

We imagine all
So everything exists
Within us.

Miraculous.

Paul Butters

© PB 6\11\2019.

Many take Faith in God
Or The Spiritual World
Or other Power.
It gives them Purpose
And makes them feel good.

I smile for them
In their Positive View
And wish them luck with that.

I hope they are right
In their beliefs
For I may benefit too.

But, let’s face it,
Science shows
That when we die,
Each one of us,
Our flame is totally
Extinguished.
No-one lives forever.
Everyone dies.

We are reduced to skeletons
Or scattered ashes
(Unless kept in an urn)
Or in some other form
Of “preservation”.

These are the facts
From which
We cannot escape.

All the more important then
That as the cliché goes
We make the most
Of what remains
Of our Life.

Important that we Love all living things
And do our best
To Achieve all that we can,
Aspire and Succeed
For a better world
And for The Common Good.

Paul Butters

© PB 3\11\2019.

(Two more lines added to 4th stanza 4\11).

Hello, Autistic Adam here again.
When I was a student
They taught me
That Autistic kids live
In a weird world of their own:
A place of mystery
Too strange to describe:
A bubble universe
Cut off from “normal” folk.

I couldn’t picture what Autism was
Until, to my surprise
I learnt that I myself
Am Autistic.

So hard to describe,
But I can’t read those social cues
Or innuendo.
Do you really like or love me?
Or are you being polite
Even two faced?
I cannot tell.
Does a coffee mean coffee?

Tell me to jump
And I probably will.
For I take things literally.
You say, “I’m in trouble!”
And I think you really are!
Be careful what you say.

I’m so full of fear, anxiety and anger
Yet cannot tell what words of mine
Might anger you.

I cannot understand women…
But oh, that’s normal!
Haha.
But seriously,
People are baffling.

I have no girlfriend
Because I cannot tell
Between (them showing) interest and “being polite”.
The Dating Game is way beyond
My comprehension.

I’ve never asked anyone out
As I wouldn’t know where to take them
Or how to behave whilst we’re there.
Relationships are way beyond me.
What on Earth is that about?
I need a Rule Book…
If she kisses me
Should I propose?
Just don’t get it.
Better get a dog
Or cat.

I am a fictional character
As you know.
But I’m sure I’m a typical “case”.
Even my creator
Has his own Autistic traits.
There’s much of him in me.
And no I’m not referring to God here,
But who knows?
Maybe S\He is Autistic too
To some extent.

Paul Butters

© PB 18\10\2019.

I’m Autistic Adam.
Sorry for not looking at you.
I cannot stand seeing stares.
Just cannot look.
Sorry too for playing my electric guitar
As you try to talk to me.
But if I didn’t like you
I would have the speaker switched on.

Please don’t talk too long,
As I must have my tea
At seventeen hundred hours:
That’s set in stone.

And then I must attend
To my collection
Of football cards
And memorabilia.

After that I’ll read my maps
And study facts
In peace.

No!
I will not change my schedule!
The mere thought of that
Fills me with dread
And terror.

Sorry.
I cannot come to the party
You have arranged for me.
Just don’t do parties
Or “social events”
Or people
Period.

I’m very much the lone wolf,
Which reminds me:
Dogs and other animals
I love
With a passion
And obsession.

Give me a walk with a dog
Any time,
Or a cat to stroke.
But never
Ever
Try to make me change
My day
In any way.

Paul Butters

© PB 30\9\2019 (2).

We have to talk,
Talk right now
While the time is ripe.

It will be difficult
For both of us,
But we have to grab
The bull by the proverbial horns.

We’ve let things drift,
You and I.
We’re in a rut,
I hear you sigh.

We keep our secrets,
Both of us;
From one another,
There’s the rub.

A relationship stuck
In the mud.
Your loyalty questionable
I have to say.

Sorry if I’m wrong
But I must declare
I’m pretty sure
Your eyes are elsewhere.

I don’t know where to go with this.
If only we could “kiss
And make up” as they say.
But it’s not as easy as that.

We must come clean
With one another,
For what’s a relationship
Without trust
And honesty.

So
My friend
Just what is going on
Between us?
Or have we reached
The End?

Paul Butters

NB this poem is pure fiction, from my imagination.

© PB 30\9\2019.

At five in a morning they scavenge about,
Punters at a car boot sale
Searching for bargains with torches.
Why the lights?
Because it’s still dark.
Why dark?
Because it’s SEPTEMBER.

September: the month when the kids go back
To school.
When bowls goes indoors,
Snooker starts;
Cricket draws to a close,
As bad light stops play.
Premiership football into its second month
And Rugby Superleague into the Playoffs.

Telly programmes that have run all summer
Grind to a halt
And Winter TV takes over.
“Question Time” is back
Along with parliament,
Though Boris soon closed it
This year!

The nights get longer,
Minute by minute
And soon those leaves will turn
That lovely golden hue:
Ironically the mark of Death.

Thoughts will soon be turned to Christmas
As we steel ourselves
For another Winter.
Halloween and Bonfire Night
Are coming soon.

This year we have “The Brexit Deadline”,
A new distraction
Drawing our eyes away
From the eternal passage
Of time.

Paul Butters

© PB 23\9\2019.

The sun shines into my lounge:
Golden reflection
Making me feel good.
I glimpse blue skies
Through front and back
Windows.

There is something beyond all this.
Something going on.
I sense an atmosphere,
Smell the aroma of
A universal force:
An energy
Subtle
Surreal.

An all pervading mist
That permeates my life:
A haunting sense
Of spirit.
Something beyond.

We are but tiny chicks,
Covered and warmed
By mother’s wings
Soothed by ethereal music
And songs from heavenly choirs.
Whispers winnowed through those windows
While a hazy sun shines through.

For now I bask
Under the glow
Of that warming orb.
High thin swirling clouds
Tempering the heat.
All is peaceful
And serene today
As life’s long mystery
Drifts on.

Paul Butters

© PB 16\9\2019.

We love our balmy summer days
But you can have too much of a good thing.
The sun can ****
But even in England
It can get oppressive.

Until a storm last night
It was relentlessly hot
Humid and stuffy
Under a sultry sun.
Hard to breathe and
So difficult to sleep.

Now it starts again
As the cloud burns back
So the sun shines bright once more.

They say it won’t last this time
As Atlantic Weather sweeps in from The West.
They’d better be right
For enough is enough.

Paul Butters

© PB 28\8\2019.

A massive moth outside in the night
Flings itself at
My bathroom window.
Another Icarus
Sorely tempted by the electric light within
My house.

A swooping vulture
It tries again and again,
Fracturing its fragile wings:
Battering itself to exhaustion.

Perhaps it curses some Moth God
And feels a failure in life,
Totally frustrated
At not being able to reach its imperative goal.
Not knowing
That had it succeeded
It would now be
Incinerated.

Paul Butters

© PB 25\8\2019.

I walk to the pub or club,
Talk with folks,
Go play table tennis
Or shop.
But apart from all that chat,
Where do I get my “World View”?

How do I know what’s going on
Outside my little comfort zone?
I could even be another Jim Carrey
In some “Truman Show”,
Being filmed for some TV soap
That I’ve never seen
By Big Brother cameras everywhere;
Feeding off fake news
About the universe outside.

For everything we “know”
Comes from TV
And our mobiles
And PCs.

It could all be as false
As Trump says it is,
If he really exists!!!
Where is the Truth?

Will a No Deal Brexit be a catastrophe
Or a breeze in the park?
Are our “Enemies” really in the wrong?
Is the wider world anything like
It’s painted
On TV???

The con men, and women
Probably have us
In their pockets.
So all we can do
Is be as vigilant
As we can
And hope
That true Reality
Will be detected
At last.

Paul Butters

© PB 19\8\2019.

Running the gauntlet down Midchester Road,
A veritable suburb of Gleethorpes City,
You pass a line of house-castles
Of the well to do.

But don’t be fooled
By what you see,
For I know someone
Who lives there.

And he will tell you,
Of bountiful gardens
Stripped bare
And concreted over
So that families can park their fleets
Of expensive cars.

See those conservatory extensions
And widened pavements.
A lady poses,
Doing her best
To emulate the Kardashians.

Money attracts
No end of thugs
And dodgy dealers:
Swarming parasitic wasps
Around the honey ***.

Nights of drunken revellers
From the local pub:
Swaying from trees
And kicking cans about.
Boy racers tearing down the road,
Music systems booming
With a mindless
Moronic drumming.

“Where has reality gone?” asks
My despairing friend.
They have their money
Their riches,
Expensive toys
But few of them are Happy.

What happened to “Goodness” and virtue
And dreams of Utopia?
Where are the heroes
Inventors and creators?
Instead we have a world of celebrity,
In which true talent – even genius
Is ignored and undervalued.

“Where are we going?” my friend exclaims.
Things get worse and worse,
The world all in reverse.
For it’s “Unreal City”,
Far from pretty.

So have a think,
Don’t let yourself sink
Even further into the mire.
Just get real,
You know the deal,
It’s you I’m trying to inspire.

Paul Butters

© PB 2\8\2019

(with help from a bloke who lives in such a place. Same town as me).

Since ancient times crowds of men have asked:
What is the purpose of life?
Me included.
Since my later teens and into my sixties
I have wrestled with this question.

To me, it was never about wealth or status.
People waste their time
With such things.

So what should we do
That is Really Good?
WHAT is “Good”?

For me, Life as such is Good.
What use is the Universe,
With its sprawling galaxies
Of fire, rock, dust, water:
Incredible vistas
Shock awe
Eternally Infinite
What use without
A Witness?

We are that Witness,
But should we be much more?
And all I can think
Is to cherish all that lives,
As life itself
Is the most wondrous thing
Of all.

Our purpose then is to nurture
Life at it’s best:
To make it better and better:
Stronger and brighter
More intelligent
With more Love and compassion.

Some will say
Why ask?
Extraterrestrials may have
Another View.
We may be but bacterial infestations
To be cleansed away.

Yet other “Aliens” may well agree
With every word I type.
And like many of us humans
They may be warning
That we must take
Much better care
Of this Paradise
We call Earth.

I call myself a “Lifist”
A believer in
Christianity at it’s best
(But Not it’s worst),
And other Religions too…

So let’s take the best
Of these Beliefs,
Nurture Nature,
Love Life
And just
Get on with it.

Paul Butters

© PB 31\7\2019.

Beautiful Sylvain valleys and grassy savannas sooth my soul,
As here within my compact brain-cave
My mind wanders
Though a Multiverse
Of Realms.

From unfathomable gorges and deep down oceans
Up to soaring skies,
My inner eyes take in
Vistas of Infinity.

Imagination has no limits
Being a blessing and a curse.
Endless dreams of gold and honey
Opposed by fears of monstrous evils
Too horrific to ponder here.

My Id keeps churning up all manner of memories
And creations of the brain,
While in the background
Music plays
Punctuated only
By my Inner Voice.

Words, words keep welling up
From subliminal springs
Deep within my head.
Words, images, sounds
Feelings, tastes and smells,
Reality processed and reformed.

Reality recreated indeed
In finest detail,
A confusion of sights and sounds.
Give me those balmy days,
High in the hills
And low on the plains.
Let me bask in glorious sunshine,
Take a slumberous siesta
Then quaff that golden nectar:
Any brew will do.

Lets be kings and queens
Of the poetic landscape
Enjoying all
That The Muses
Will sing.

Paul Butters
© PB 26\6\2019.

Do not take glory from conquests and wins
Or climbing stairways into ivory towers.
Rather, take glory in Mother Nature’s work
And glorious sunrises and sunsets.

Oh those sun-down colours: reds and golds,
Deep purples backed by azure blue hues.
Every sunset unique
Like every swirl of clouds.

Yes every sky is different.
My mind makes pictures from those clouds
Except on days of formless, fathomless mists.

Beneath these skies
We have a lovely vista
Of trees and savannah.
Satellites show us a wondrous world
Full of amazing sights.

But best of all we have
People
And animals
Of all kind.

Folks with whom to share
This glory
The real glory,
Every day we waken
To greet the new bright day.

Paul Butters

© PB 29\5\2019.

Being or not being,
Existence or no existence:
That is the fifty-fifty question,
The flip of the coin.

Everything is down to this –
Pure chance.
A celestial bet.

Yet can non-existence exist
Without existence?
Was it all inevitable?
Mathematical formulae
Beyond the mortal mind?

There may be some answer here,
To this cosmic riddle.
But it’s way above
My intellectual scope.

We can choose
Or grow
Our Gods
And hope for spiritual
Redemption.

But fully knowing
What it’s all about
May never be achieved
No matter how hard
We try.

All we can do is make the most
Of what Lady Luck
Has spawned
To us.
Thank Goodness
That we are here,
Take care of our world
And hope
That Life will last.

Paul Butters

© PB 24\5\2019.

Our bright blue world
Shines across space
A beautiful beacon
That shouts
Life!

A sphere swathed in clouds
That when seen from the surface
Present endless shapes
Which change from minute to minute.

Shapes never the same thing twice
And on a misty, murky day
Totally formless.

Below these clouds and mists are further clouds:
Of leaves on lofty trees
And flocks of birds.
Swarms of insects
And dust storms in the desert.

But in the greater scheme of things
Ours is an ocean world
Bathed in water.
A Paradise of trees and grass
Dotted with a vast array
Of animal life.

A planet clothed in forest
And flowery meadows:
Providing oxygen for all who breathe.

So all I have to say
Today
Is please don’t cut those forests
Down.

Paul Butters

© PB 8\5\2019.

Feelings of fear, anxiety and hate
Served us well
Back in ancient times
When sabre toothed tigers threatened.

Those adrenaline rushes
Meant that we survived
Through taking flight
Or standing to fight
Like demons.

But in modern times
When physical threats are rare
(Though still too many)
We must Avoid
Such negative emotions.

For Fear can make you
A rabbit in the headlights:
Chronically anxious and depressed.
Or it can turn you
Into a snarling animal,
Snapping at everyone.

On both Arrakis and Earth,
Fear is the mind-killer
And little-death,
To be faced down
And then forgotten.

For we must, I repeat, cast aside
These negative feelings
Of fear and hate.

Instead we need
To nurture
Every budding
Of Love
Joy
Excitement.

We must empathise,
Be compassionate
Sympathetic
And Loving.

Above all,
We must Love.

Paul Butters

© PB 13\4\2019.

You are right my friend:
The World is full of evil,
Full of inequality
Poverty, crime and fraud.

Of endless cruelty by inhuman humans
Fuelled or fed by drugs
And a lust for Money.

Radicalised robots rampage everywhere,
All brainwashed and conditioned
By social media.

They slump over their mobiles,
Looking for Pokemons
And their next fix.

We know there has to be a better way.
But how can we re-educate
These seething masses?

How can we snap them out
Of their reverie,
Filled by Celebrity
And sugar?

I call myself a Lifist
And Humanist,
As I cherish Life in all its forms – except wasps!
And I Love People
In spite of all their wicked ways.
Love’s Power lingers in my heart.

But how do we get this message across?
In the good olde days
Religions ruled
Through Fear of Hell
And worse.

For Science has changed all that.
People no longer Believe
In Anything
Except Money
And Power.

All You Need is Love
Is what John Lennon said.
So why are we waiting
For people to listen?

Such a simple message
That you know is right:
Love Life.

Paul Butters

© PB 10\4\2019.

I wake early in the morning
And start to play with words
In my head
Again.

Can’t help myself:
It just happens.

Words are instruments in my orchestra.
Let composition commence!

Alliteration adds to my message
As assonance drops a sonic ****.
Let’s add an occasional rhyme
To help the verse along.

Music from the Muses
Makes me swoon,
Then I click my cursor
And sound-like words
On a mat appear.
Please don’t groan
Or even murmur.
I hear the sparrows
As they twitter and chirp,
While I just sit here
And belch and burp.

I must be addicted
To poetry.
But all I can say is,
That suits me.

Paul Butters

© PB 31\3\2019.

The World is ruled
By massive corporations
And nations.
By Trump, Putin and The Queen.

But I say again:
Only I have ownership of My Life.
For I am The King of My Mind
And, from my point of view,
When I die the Universe Ends.

It does not matter to me
That when I go,
Life goes on.
What use is that
If I’m not here
To see it?

Even now
What do I care
About what goes on
In Ivory Towers
And murky corridors of power?

Maybe it’s my Whisky
Or Autism
That informs me I am King.
And yes I’m being self-centred.
In my Matrix I’m “The One”.

But you’ll get no apology
From me.
Yes, I’ll be polite
And try (a bit) to comply
With rules of etiquette.
But don’t be fooled:
My self esteem keeps growing
As I shake off the shackles
Imposed by a society
That seeks to make most people
Little more than
Corporate slaves.

I may appear to be a “nice man”
But underneath that mask
Is a heart of steel.
For I am The King
Of My Life,
On Planet Paul.

Paul Butters

© PB 30\3\2019.

Death, afterlife?
Sorry
But I think we are **ed.

Paul Butters

© PB 25\3\2019.

You can’t beat that musical beat,
From tinkling triangles
To blaring horns.
A quick ditty
Or grand symphony.

Music can mould mountains,
Oceans and plains.
Make you feel any emotion
Or atmosphere.

When songs and poems marry,
Their offspring are awesome:
“Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?
Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality…”
Mercury magic.

Those rhythms run like chugging trains.
They fight pitch battles
Within our brains.

Drums keep beating,
Guitars whine.
Ever repeating
All through time.

Chuck Berry with his rock and roll,
Aretha Franklin, Queen of Soul.
Elvis truly was the King,
Want some crooning?
Play some Bing.

Beatles, Queen or Stones,
Who really cares?
Roll over Beethoven
Bach or Lennon
On your dancing squares.

I know that rap can give you the blues,
But there’s so much music
You’ve got plenty to choose.

Musical memories adorn our minds,
Warm associations
Of nostalgic times.

Paul Butters

© PB 4\3\2019. Last stanza added 6\3\19.

In my late teens I would wonder
What is The Purpose of Life?
What should I Value?
What is truly Good?

But now at sixty six it seems so clear:
Life per se is what matters.
The wonderment
Of selves
That know they are selves.
Of sentience married with intelligence.
The miracle we call Life.

At nineteen I said
That the First Priority
Was Survival.
I wrote a thing called “The Bedrock”
To grow this theme.
And what was it that had to survive?
It was living beings
Nurtured by Mother Nature.

I am a “Lifist”
If you will:
Cherishing all that lives.
Humanist Plus
And more than Conservation.
Health and Wellbeing
For The Common Good.
A touch of Socialism
And Equal “Opps”.
I coined the word “Positivism”
To sum it all up.

Is this all poetry?
Maybe not.
But the greatest poem lies all around us:
The very world and universe
In which we live.

Paul Butters

© PB 18\2\2019.

Be careful whom you talk to
And what you say,
For things can be twisted
Any which way.

These are troubled times,
That we all know.
It’s oh so hard to tell
Friend from foe.

I love to be open and express my self,
But some things can’t be said: they are not allowed.
We have to stay silent I’m afraid to say,
And be PC to fit in with the crowd.

Oh to be honest
And tell the truth,
Like it was
In the days of my youth.

Paul Butters

© PB 6\2\2019.

Black hole kisses
******* me out of myself.
Kisses wrapped in hugs.
Intimate moments at intimate times.
Memories to treasure
On a cold winter night.

We once played a New Year Game
In which you kissed a girl
Then swopped her with another:
Twenty or so kisses
To compare.

One kiss so wide
I could hardly stretch
To meet it.
Ending up
Trust me,
With the big fat unresponsive one
Too drunk
To even know
She was being kissed.

Recall one time being coolly kissed
Politely:
A kiss that said
In no uncertain terms –
If you want passion
You’d better go elsewhere
My dear.

For kisses are like handshakes:
Some firm and friendly;
Others too hard
Or too limp.
The young don’t always get it:
Lettuce limp
With their customary hands.
Physical expression
A dying art
Like conversation
In this digital age
Of mobile phones
Snapchats
And Insta-Images.

Time to rekindle the past,
Go back to playing out –
And away!
Get mud ****** mucky
All gloves off.
Back to Basics,
That’s The Way.

Paul Butters

© PB 5\2\2019.

Oh Brexit!
Where is the Exit?
You can’t make your money
You Tory Grandees,
Nor can you
Remainer MPs.

We’re running right into a very hard cliff;
Before we get out we’ll all be so stiff.
There’s no majority for any option
And Theresa May’s deal is but a concoction.

Vote after vote and endless debate.
March twenty ninth is the Closing Date.
Can we escape?
I really don’t know.
The media are loving this pantomime show.

This sorry charade is filling the news,
We’re all sick of hearing everyone’s views.
Please get me out of here
I hear you say
Surely, surely there must be some way!

So come on politicians
Get your fingers out
And show these Europeans
We still have some clout.

If we can’t do that then just pack it in
And throw the whole thing right into the bin.
Whatever we do I’m just past caring
But I hope you’ll tell me thanks for sharing.

Get on with it!
That’s the yell.
For until we resolve this
We are in Hell.

Paul Butters

© 30\1\2019 (Written in the early hours!).

In the final analysis
We are but colonies of bacteria
Swimming about in our own primordial soup.
Who knows what pacts and treaties
Have been made within our very bodies?

Aeons and aeons of evolution
Have led to this:
The human being.

So much mindless life,
Following instinct,
Building and building
To produce intelligence.

Natural Selection,
Seen by Darwin,
Such a beautiful thing –
Presented by Attenborough on a silver screen –
God’s Formula:
The mark of Genius.

Paul Butters

© PB 22\1\2019.

It has been said to me
That poetry
Is but Words
And Gobbledygook.

So how can I explain
What poetry is?
It’s something intangible,
An atmosphere,
A spiritual thing.

Poetry is essence,
Touching the soul.
A kind of Magic,
As Queen used to sing.

It makes you tingle
And shudder
And glow.

Much more than a shopping list
Or legal decree
Poetry flows from the heart,
Lyrically lancing
Through space and time
To create a universe
Of bountiful beauty,
Where even the ugliest monstrosity
Is transformed
Into heaven
On Earth.

It saddens me to think
That seemingly soulless people
Miss out
On this.

So all I can do
Is keep on singing,
Carry on writing
In the enduring hope
That one day
They will see the light.

Paul Butters

© PB 2\1\2019.

Let’s get hysterical.
Let’s go mad
About the Winter Solstice passing
And our football team winning.

We party hard
For Christmas and New Year.
The Americans do Thanksgiving too.
Bad times for turkeys
Great days for making sales.

Anniversaries, birthdays and Celebrity celebrations,
Big Brother and Get Me Out of here.
X Factor and Lithuania’s Got Talent.
All excuses
For making mayhem
And a fast buck.

Any present will do
No matter how useless
Or banal
At times like these.
Compulsory enjoyment
Even if you’re ill.

Oh what sheep we are.
(Apologies to sheep).
We must conform
Comply
Follow fickle fashion
And hug the herd.

We may be social animals,
But woe betide anyone
Who is
Different.

“Be yourself” they say,
But do they mean it?
Course not.
The “Individual” is cursed,
Cast out
A *****.

It’s time to stand back,
See the truth
And find your inner soul.
Break the brainwash,
Defy the dictators
The Nanny State
And really,
Really
Be You.

Paul Butters

© PB 1\1\2019.

Stand back outside space and time
And you will see
That we are dead
Through most of Eternity.

Our lives are twinkling little stars
Lost in the void
Of blackest space.

Look closer now
At any star
To be amazed
At a Solar System
Too much to put
Into words.

For every living thing
Creates a Universe
In its own right.
So every death
Extinguishes
A universe too.
And every birth
Creates
A universe anew.

I cannot express
How wondrous it is
That we can think and feel
The way we do.

All I can say
Right now
This day
Is
Let’s make the most of it.

Paul Butters

© PB 27\12\2018.

They drop from branch to branch
Of my Cotoneasters:
An extended family of lickle spuggy sparrows.
Their aerial scouts are flitting
From shrub to shrub
While the main party flies up and down
Up and down.

For they have spotted the wild bird seed
That I have scattered
All along the bottom of my back lawn.
So now they make their way
In regimented fashion,
Up and down,
In and out,
Ever wary of those murderous cats.

Now and then they are joined by **** or robins
Or other lickle birds unknown
To this city suburb lubber from Leeds.
Not forgetting those massive fat pigeons
And delicate doves
Who all join in the frenzied feeding
Without a care in the world.

Meanwhile a couple of blackbirds
Patrol their territories
Ignoring the seed
In preference for some scraps of meat or fish.

Later on the foxes will spring forth,
Sneaking around the streets.
So all we need is a commentary
From Sir David Attenborough
With his “Dominant Males”
And “Courting Rituals”
For all to be complete.

Mother Nature loves our little seaside town,
Patrolled by gulls
And guarded by our dogs.
I must get walking in the Spring
When the flowers reappear.
Look forward to that.

Paul Butters

© PB 20\12\2018.

What is left to say
About our humdrum daily lives?
Monday to Sunday all year round
In time manufactured by mankind.
Monotonous mazes of standardised building blocks.
Daytime TV all timetabled and scheduled
The Interweb
Media meditation
For brainwashed, mindless zombies:
Heads immersed in mobile phones
Or faces bathed in television light.

Crime ridden streets await us
When we venture forth
To pre-appointed places
In a world we call “Routine”.

Little wonder then
That Imagination soon takes over
At least for me.
Heading off to Planet Paul
For flights of fancy
Fuelled by Star Trek
And Battlestar Gallactica to name but two
Of my favourite shows.
For I love Space
And anything else that lies beyond
The dreariness
Of the Here and Now.

Why do you write?
They ask as if Confession is required.
I stumble on my words
Trying to explain
How I simply have to write.
For I never can stop dreaming
And once I dream
Then I simply have to share
Whatever I’ve dreamt
With all of you.

Paul Butters

© PB 18\12\2018.

Under a mocking Sun,
I may be The Only One.
Or very close to that.
Yes, here I am again,
Back on this theme.
For all I know is that
I feel and think right now.

As for others,
I can but surmise
From what I see and hear.

Yet who provides this World
In which I live:
A many splendoured Universe?
Human builders built these streets:
Residences flanked by cars.
But Someone must be Dreaming all this
And it can’t be little me.

They talk of Big Bang and Evolution,
Like is some form of Revolution.
But Who provided that First Spark,
Light created out of The Dark?

Who is Responsible
For tiny particles
Winking in and out
Of Existence?

My own Id gives me splendid dreams,
But these are nothing
Compared to what springs forth
From some Super Id
Out there somewhere
Or somewhen.

Evolution takes its course,
Following a formula
That transcends
Space and Time.

Many call The Author “God”
Of course,
And why not?
We each have our God,
Defined however we will.
Our Sun has been a “God”,
And maybe still is to some.

Whatever we believe in,
There are Powers around,
Way above our heads.
Whoever or whatever they are
We can but Hope
That they smile upon us
And keep us safe.

Paul Butters

© PB 3\12\2018.

Good old Norman,
Thank goodness he’s normal.
Unlike many a friend,
He hasn’t gone round the bend.
Stevens is his surname:
He never plays the Blame Game.

Such a decent chap
And never utters *******.
Whoops, I had to miss that rhyme,
To avoid committing a bit of a crime.

Norm is quite the hero,
And something of a Shakespearo.
He’s maybe my biggest fan,
From England to Japan.

Reading poems from me,
Right there on his Smart TV.
So Norman enjoy your beer,
As I will always be here.

Paul Butters

© PB 1\12\2018.

Who put the “sub” into “subversion” and “subculture”?
Was it the same people
Who built schools:
Those prisons
Where kids are tortured
And brainwashed
Into being “good” conforming citizens –
Factory fodder
Trained to sit in lines
Labouring at meaningless tasks,
Questioning nothing?

So still we are ruled
By Tory Grandees and Brussels Bureaucrats
Keeping us in our place:
Social Control
Over Job Centre slaves.

It’s the same the whole world over:
The rich wallowing in luxury
While the poor starve to death
Exposed to pitiless winds.

For once words fail me
About our Unfair World.
Children dying everywhere
While fatcats feed in a frenzy.
No wonder people talk of Revolution
And terrorist plots.
Our air is full of carbon
While trees are cut
Down
For seas of palm oil.

We need to reconsider
What we do
In all our ways.
Enough is enough.
It’s time to nurture nature
As denizens of Planet Earth.

Paul Butters

© PB 23\11\2018.

Remoaners to the left, Brextremists to the right,
Theresa “Maggie” May has an uphill fight.
I can’t see her lasting many more days,
Unless she changes her stubborn ways.

Theresa is an immovable object.
Her hubby must be totally henpecked.
Trying to please just everyone,
Annoying all is what she’s done.

Right now she is UK Prime Minister,
But her own back benchers are getting sinister.
Some say she’s sold us down the river,
A thing for which they can’t forgive her.

Others claim she’s gone too far,
As we should stay just where we are.
Some see Europe as our friend,
But others say the UK we must defend.

Ireland is a sticking point
A thing that’s gonna rock the joint.
They don’t know where to put the border,
Without causing grief and disorder.

What an impasse, feels like stalemate,
Are we heading to be a slave state?
Who knows what’s going to happen next?
No wonder we are all perplexed.

Paul Butters

© PB 17\11\2018.

Armies of words gather in my head
To march so boldly onto the page.
They work their wonders
Who knows how?
Why they pick me as their channel
For their landing craft
I’ll never know.

Some accident of birth:
Genetic fluke –
For which I take no credit –
Makes me nectar to these ants
That line themselves into verse.

Compulsion drives me to write
As salmon must jump those water falls
To return to their spawning grounds.

I have to speak, or rather type:
Express myself
No matter what,
Whether good or bad.

Is there a cure for this affliction of mine?
Can I ever stop myself from writing?
I very much doubt it.

Paul Butters

© PB 16\11\2018.

Back in the day,
When I was a little whipper snapper in Leeds,
We would go “chumping”, as we called it, for firewood,
For weeks and weeks.

Everyone built towering infernos,
Ready for November Fifth:
Bonfire Night.
Some made effigies of the “evil” Guy Fawkes,
Leader of the “Gunpowder Plot”
And stood in the street saying
“Penny for the Guy”.

What a night!
Roaring fire on a chill Winter night,
Those flames burning your face.
A World War Three
Of Fireworks:
Rockets, Catherine Wheels and bangers.
Bangers to scare the girls.
Kids painting pictures in the air
With sparklers.

And best of all,
That yummy gingery Parkin cake:
A taste I cannot put
Into words.
Oh and deep dark
Treacle Toffee,
Jacket potatoes,
Roast chestnuts
And Crunchie-like cinder toffee.

It’s many a year since I went to a bonfire.
Politically correct firework displays
Are more the modern thing.

Seems strange to burn the effigy
Of a man who had the sense
To try to blow parliament up –
Especially a Yorkshire Man.
Ha ha.

But then I read that good
Religious reasons are behind
This bonfire Celebration:
Those flames are orange
After all.

Not wishing to create divisions
Anywhere in the world,
It’s still good to see traditions
Being maintained.

Let those fires and fireworks keep rising,
Constantly emerging from the shadows
Of Halloween.

Paul Butters

© PB 27\10\2018.

Written at the request of Stephen Chapman. “Treacle toffee” added later, with “jacket potatoes” and “cinder toffee” added on 31\10\18. "Roast chestnuts" added 18\11.

Let me inspire you to go higher:
Lost among the stars.
Our universe glitters, spread across the sky.
The world keeps turning,
Resplendent with hills and mountains,
Dales and plains.
Continents surrounded with seas and oceans
And clothed by grass and trees.

Mother Earth is blessed with flora and fauna:
Sentient beings of every shape and size,
From mighty whales and elephants,
Through furry friends like dogs and cats,
Tall giraffes, slithery snails, right down
To scattering ants and pesky flies.

Smell that fresh sea breeze,
Hear those rolling waves,
Screams of gulls
And twittering sparrows.
Feel the warm moist air
Of an Indian Summer.

Be mindful of all that is around,
Yet let imagination wonder,
For out there
There is more
So much more.

Dark Monsters of The Id
Are out there too,
We all know that.

But Life in all its splendour
And determination
Is there for all to see.
Oh to live forever with such things.

Paul Butters

© PB 16\10\2018.

Donald Trump
Is no chump.
Makes America rich,
Without any hitch.

Says what he thinks,
And never even blinks.
Kowtows to no-one:
Just gets the job done.

Paul Butters

© PB 15\10\2018.

Donald Trump
Sure packs a thump.
For America First
He does his worst.

Paul Butters

© PB 8\10\2018.