Season of mists and back to school,
Ruddy browns and falling leaves.
The onset of winter, oh so cruel,
As birds abandon sheltering eaves.

Sometimes you con us with an Indian Summer,
Mocking the end of the holiday season.
But shorter days are still a ******:
To celebrate I see no reason.

You hang around on your mobile phone,
Looking like you’re really weary.
Those birds to Africa have all flown,
Leaving us feeling only dreary.

Where are those summery Beach Boys songs?
Forget them all some say.
Those lovely colours right all wrongs:
The festive season is on it’s way.

For this is the annual Twilight Zone,
The evening of the year.
A time when many a seed is sown
Ready for Spring to appear.

Paul Butters

© PB 5\10\2018.

Back in my teenage college years
I was told about “Autistic kids”
Who lived in worlds of their own,
Seeing things through weird and wonderful specs
In social isolation,
Frightening in its completeness.

At sixty six I since have learned about many
Of their “traits”:
Their obsessions, inflexible routines and
Panic
At all change.
Their inability to read
Emotions or social cues
Or innuendos
Or irony.

I have worked with those with Aspergers,
Colleagues, friends and clients –
Indeed with people all over
The Autistic Spectrum.

And the main thing I have learned
In all these years
Is that in my own way…
I am one of them.

Paul Butters

© PB 1\10\2018.

When I sleep and dream
All laws of Physics go right out of the window.
At once
I’m in a room
Yet out in the open streets.

Turn my back on the house
And it is gone
No matter where I search.

There is Mum and Dad
And many more
No longer with us now.

Sometimes I recall they are dead
And ask them of their afterlife
But their answers make no sense.

At other times
People change from one to another
Or even morph into objects
Or animals
Or anything.

While dreaming
Stories and memories pop into my head
Often false
From nowhere.

I set out to do something
Only to get frustrated and lost.
Stress dreams just before I wake.
Dreams of jobs I hated
And piles of paperwork.

Dreams of the past, present and future.
No Tardis required.
All space and time
Thrown together
In the whirlwinds of my mind.

Yet the good news is
That sometimes I can fly.

Paul Butters

© PB 17\9\2018.

My short term mem
My short
My
M

Paul Butters

© PB 10\9\2018.

We watch our mobiles and our tellies,
TV on the internet,
Internet on the TV,
On the mobile.

Our lives are spent
Immersed in soaps
And reality TV.
Hours and hours
Of subsidised sport
And fake news.

Daily quizzes
And Jeremy Kyle
To keep us occupied
And Boredom at bay.

Like zombies we stare at our mobiles
Almost colliding
With people on the street.
Oh yes we chat
And message and text
With folk we’ve never met
Presuming they are real.

We play out time,
Betting and scheming:
Fantasy Leagues
And Facebook,
Snapchat and God knows what.

Occupying our addictive minds
Until the Grim Reaper comes.
“Comfortably numb” until the end.

Paul Butters

8\9\2018.

Oh let’s sing
Church bells ring
Dingaling ling.

Sing out loud
Boldly and proud
Enormous crowd.

Hear those chants
You debutants
Some breathless pants.

Poetry starts here,
Perhaps with a beer
Ask Shakespeare.

Oral tradition
An ongoing mission
So start the audition.

A memorable rhyme
Lasts for all time
Let’s make it chime.

Free verse is still fine
Bring in the wine
And vary the line.

Who cares if it scans
You grammatical fans
We don’t need your plans.

So free up your souls
Whatever your goals
And loose those controls.

Yes let your heart sing
A bird on the wing
Tingaling ling.

If singing’s your thing
Think what you’ll bring
Tingaling ding.

Paul Butters

© PB 7\9\2018.

Whatever did we do,
Before we entered the Facebook Wonderland?
Oh, we played in the streets
And went to pubs and socialised.
But who needs Reality
When we can chat with folk
From far away places,
Whom we’ve never met?

My mates are there too
Or some of them
And many of my blood line.
All together
In a kaleidoscopic land
Of “memes”, images and jokes.

We “Like” and “Comment”
“Reply” and “Share”.
It’s you scratch my back…
While the “Facebook Foundation” encourages us
With “Memories” and prompts
And “What’s on your Mind?”

For this is the land
Of the “Loving Community”,
Caring and Sharing together.
Though if truth be told,
At times,
It’s more like the old Wild West.

Paul Butters

© PB 23\8\2018.

The high shining,
Dazzling from the sky.
Hurting the eye with that piercing glare.
Reflecting from sparkling seas
Which shimmer in the gentle breeze.

Reflecting and reflecting
From diamantine spires.
Echoed on the blackest night
By radiant cities
Lit by glimmering lights.

Our Gods hover over us,
Incandescent in their glory.
Their bright wings shimmer and shine,
Inspiring us to greater things.

Yet let us not forget
That all this blazing brilliance
Is everywhere:
Even in those shadow lands
Where ordinary people
Go about their daily grind.

Even though we sit in sheltered rooms
Bathed only by some television light
Or laptop luminescence,
If we but open our inner eyes
We can see
That the world is not as prosaic
As it seems.

Paul Butters

© PB 20\8\2018.

This muggy, sultry sun is no fun:
Longest sustained heatwave for over forty years.
Suffocating Sahara with Death Valley cracks
In the dry arid soil.

My electric fan shattered with a power surge
Into fragmented plastic shards.
I so miss it now.
It’s oppressively tropical,
With volcanic heat
And Pressure bearing down on us.
The clammy mugginess of a sauna.
Not the clean dry air you find abroad,
Yet still that remorseless torrid scorching,
Roasting and toasting.
Just too much.

Hot air clothed in humid moisture,
Stuffy and sweaty,
Steaming to a haze
And later
Thunder storms.

I long for a cool brew
To freeze my throat
And quench my raging thirst:
Ice cool, ice cool, ice cool.
I’m sure not talking
Of tea.

Paul Butters

© PB 6\8\2018.

All shrubbery around is shaken by the wind
As smoking grey clouds threaten rain.
But I sit snugly in my lounge
Idly contemplating a chicken-breast tea.

The long heatwave is over
For now.
Atlantic air has swept the mugginess
Aside.
Thermometers have settled down
While cooler moisture sooths our very souls.

This lounge of mine presents a landscape too:
Of settee, armchairs and table
Along with dining chairs and TV:
Mountains over carpet savannas.

But the kitchen calls me from next door
So no matter how lazy I feel
I really have to eat now.
This interlude must end
So very soon.

Paul Butters

© PB 29/7/2018.

Who needs words
When you can simply go ???
Or !!!
!!!
This poem will not make me any £££
Or even $$$
But I don’t give a *.
I just love writing 100%
& don’t * a d
About £££££.

I <3 to experiment with poetry and language,
Stretching those *aries.
*** let’s have a good LOL
And even ROFL.
Let’s play the %s
And send my spell-check
Into a red frenzy.

Any ???s ?
You !!!s at this ???
And I’ve only scratched the ~~~~~
There may be ####, #### more to come.
I <3 my Qwerty keyboard
With it’s !”£$%^&()_+ at the top.
The more I look the more I see.
@ last I’m free
From the Grammar ****.
=ly free from the tyranny of the word.

But worry not my lovely words
For I will always go <<<< to you
In spite of looking >>>>>>>
At all times.
The **.

Paul Butters

© PB 28\7\2018.

Life clings on
In deserts, ice sheets and hot acid pools.
Those selfish genes persist:
Batons in a Marathon relay race.
Generation follows generation.
Clone adds to clone.

So life spreads:
The mightiest empire,
Covering all the globe.
A world full of living wonders.
All manner of plants, insects and animals.
Oceans teeming with fish.
From tropical paradise
To awesome glaciers.

We must be mindful
Of this glorious beauty.
Mother Nature reigns supreme.
Sing and rejoice,
Party hard
And put aside
The awful truth -
That in the end
Everyone dies.

Paul Butters

© PB 26\7\2018.

It’s over, all over.
Our dreams have faded away.
Blackest January sadness blights July.
England beaten by Croatia
In The World Cup.

We reached the semi final
For the first time since 1990
Only to lose in extra-time:
Failing to see the danger
With our very youthful eyes.

So much to be proud of.
So much better than before.
We should have scored a hat-full,
But see the final score:
(One – two).

I really do hate losing
Whatever I watch or play.
It really will be ages
Before this pain fades away.

My defeats I long remember,
It’s from these things I learn.
Seeking to be a winner,
My inner passions burn.

We’re building to the Euros,
On in two year’s time.
Well ahead of schedule,
So losing’s not a crime.

The World Cup stays way out there,
Hopefully just on loan,
For in the hearts of England
Football has come home.

Paul Butters

© PB 12\7\2018.

You know the song
So bring it on.
Football is the theme,
And England is our team.

We invented the modern game,
So losing is a shame.
But we are going to win.
Let the celebrations begin.

Bring on Croatia,
We know we can outpace ya.
As for France,
We’ll lead them a merry dance.

If it’s Belgium we’re happy too,
They always let you through.
Though nothing is ever certain,
Until the final curtain.

We’re owed (a lot) from Lady Luck,
But so long as we win, I don’t give a…
It’s time we won again,
Making boys into men.

I really hope we win:
Prepare for quite a din.
History could be made
That will never ever fade.

Paul Butters

© PB 9\7\2018.

Things that bother me:
Here on Planet Paul
In my sunshine bubble,
With its tempering, shielding clouds.
Where do I start?

Well, let’s begin with half-empty glass people.
For them the world is but a wicked place,
Full of evil and corruption
Crime and drugs
Like Milton’s bottomless perdition.

So then they wonder why they suffer
From depression
As they whinge about every little thing
From plastic beer glasses
To the tint of my sunglasses
To everything I do
Or anybody else
Who seeks to see
That glass:
Half Full.

And then we have The Outraged
Flanked by The Offended:
The PC Brigade –
As sensitive as a swollen red foot,
Suffering from a bout of gout.
Constantly on the lookout
For the slightest smear
Against their race, gender, religion
Or ****** orientation
Or anything else about which
They have the proverbial
Chip on the shoulder.

Outraged, offended, outraged
You bigot, sexist, blah blah phobic
Piece of excrement!

Well sorry you lot,
Whichever clan you’re from
(Maybe both!)
For I refuse to go your way.
I’ll keep seeking all that’s good in this world
And try to keep that glass half full.
I assert my right to freedom of speech:
To express my opinion
And say what I think.
For “harassment” is inevitable
When there are people about
With differing views.
Not forgetting
That some are quite insane.

Each one of us is beautifully unique:
A thing to be respected
If only tolerated
But cherished,
In the name of Love.

Paul Butters

© PB 9\7\2018.

Mist drifts amidst tall trees -
Above cool, clear blue pools
And grass splattered with dew.

We too should stay so cool:
Composed and rational even in a duel.
Forget adrenaline
And lose that Cortisol.
Ever see a dog or cat work out
Or do press-ups?
Watch those animals relax
And sleep:
Only springing up when something happens.

Avoid those fiery rages
As much as you can.
Steer clear of hell
With all its fury and flames
And violent eruptions.

Give me a golden pint
Of ice-cold brew.
Any beer will do.
Even without such help
Let us calm our hearts,
Lay back and relax
Even fall asleep for a while.
For we have earned
Our quiet hours
Amongst those misty trees.

Paul Butters

© PB 26\6\2018.

There’s always a sun bringing light
To places otherwise dark.
Anywhere in the universe
Always a star or two (or more) nearby.

Somewhere there is always life
No matter how transient it may be.
Life that flourishes
In icy wastes, volcanic vents, wide deserts:
Almost anywhere.
For life clings on
With utter determination
To survive.

There’s always grass and trees
Fish and animals
Birds and insects
Of some sort
Wherever life has taken hold.

Never underestimate Mother Nature
Wherever she reigns
Perhaps on planets of every size
Circling around stars
That boggle the mind
Compared to our humble Sol.

Just Rejoice
That We are here right now:
Able to witness and marvel at the wonders
Of a cosmic realm
That we have only just begun
To explore.

Paul Butters

© PB 25\6\2018.

I say again –
Fear has a vital function.
Without it our ancestors would have been eaten
By lions or sabre-toothed tigers.
We need it so survive
A terror attack
Or any physical threat.

Yet in modern days even mild anxiety
Has little use:
Filling us with Cortisol and Stress.
We are like rabbits in headlights,
Paralysed with worry
Over those exams and other tasks.

We must not Fear or fret.
As Frank Herbert said in “Dune”
We have to face our fears
And let them pass over and through.
For only we will remain.
We must stay Mindful
Of the here and now
And let the future take care of itself.

So I will not do Fear
Of any kind
Unless that **** or terrorist appears
And even then
I will try my best
To keep my cool.

Be clinical
Rather than angry
For Anger is the cousin of Fear
And only any use
When you rationally decide
To attack.

In short
Do not Do Fear
Or Anger
Unless you really have to.

Paul Butters

© PB 18\6\2018.

It’s an early hour
At least for me.
I’m half asleep yet full of thought.
As if my brain has churned through everything
Throughout the night
And come up with
Some answers.

This happens often
So poems and things emerge
At times like this.

It’s cool and calm right now.
I love this peaceful, early morning time:
No birdsong even.
Yet a pigeon and sparrow on my back lawn.
No sound of cars
Or any of the hustle and bustle
Of a working day.

So serene and soothing to my soul.
Safe as though I’ve hidden
Under the floorboards
Away from the sun’s hot glare
And the turbulence
Of Life.

I suppose I’m mindful now
Of all around me
As I meditate
About nothing in particular.

Even a little spider in my diary this morning
Has not disturbed this serene feeling,
This atmosphere of calm.
Carbon dioxide cools this room.
Ah, wrong kind of atmosphere!
I speak (inside my head) of more soulful emotion
As I said
But I’d better be careful
That I don’t fall back to sleep
Laid back here
In my comfy armchair…

Paul Butters

© PB 16\6\2018.

If you will indulge me, a Story for you:

"Ending"

I’m safely tucked up in bed now. So frail. When I think how fat I used to be. But I’m very, very old. Might even die tonight, in my sleep. Can hear the wind howling outside.
It’s not such a bad place this. The carers look after me well. If I’m lucky they will wheel me into the garden again tomorrow. Hope that wind dies down and the sun shines. Where am I? Can’t recall the name. This Dim Enta thing. So tired now. So tired…
“And wake!”
What? Where am I? On my back! Ceiling. Face! Doctor Sanders!”
“It’s over, Krol, welcome back.”
I remember. Doctor Sanders. I’ve been hypnotised, regressed to a former life. Lived that whole life! And now I’m awake!
Me: “Did I just die there?”
Dr. Sanders: “Yes Krol, in your sleep. Or at least the person you were died in his sleep… But did you get the full life experience this time?”
Me: “Just about, Bob. I can remember back to being about three. My parents, our little dog, a baby sister. Playing with a wooden train or something that you could ride in. But it seems I died in my sleep…”
Bob: “How far back in time was this?”
Me: “I was born mid-twentieth century, not long after the Second World War…”
Bob: “Fascinating. Better get you into Debriefing, before you forget it all.”
Me: “Yeah. It sure was a long life. Lots of history for you. I can’t get over that that was me!”
Bob: “You’ll soon adjust, Krol.”
Me: “That Death thing was scary, Bob. I was afraid of ‘dying’, as they called it, for most of my life. Thank goodness we found a cure.”
Bob: “Yes Krol, things were really rough back then. But come on, let’s get that report of yours done…”

Paul Butters

© PB 13\6\2018.

Busy humble bumble bees buzz and hum amongst my geraniums.
I squeeze past them as they hover
From flower to flower,
On my way into my electric blue
Kia Rio car.

At last the sun is out here,
Brightening up my garden vista.
Most days we have wallowed
Under a sea fret,
Feeling cold and damp
And annoyed
By news of record high-temperatures
Inland.

But now it’s warm and sunny,
With Red Admiral butterflies
And my back-garden Abelia Shrub –
“Beauty Bush or Pink Cloud” –
Bedecked with light pink flowers
With their subtle aroma.

My days of sport have gone well
And I can sit back in my armchair
And relax.

Paul Butters

© PB 8\6\2018.

Oh God, whoever and wherever you are,
Do you really want me
To sit and wait for your son Jesus to save me?
Do you want me to just bow down
Before You
In supplication
And leave everything to you?
I think not.

For We are your infantry
If you will
And we are here
To kick the a* of Evil
And make things work
Throughout this Creation of yours.

I’m sure you want us
To be self-reliant
Creative and inventive.
For You have Delegated much
Of Your Work
To Us.
Which is why
We were Created.

So to sit back
And wait for Salvation
From You
Is not
What You
Are looking for.
I’m sure of that.

So let us Believe
In Ourselves
To Achieve
Whatever is required
To make the world
A better place.

We can make God
So proud of us
As His creation
If only we get up
Off our backsides
And show Him – or Her – or Both
What We can do.

Paul Butters

© PB 22\5\2018.

Rise up with passion,
Rise up with joy.
Rise up with Love
That can never cloy.

Keep rising
Way beyond the stars:
Much further than Venus,
Well past Mars.

For Life is a Wonder,
Only lived once.
Don’t ever waste it,
Don’t be a dunce.

Let inspiration guide you
Way beyond this realm
From the shortest grass
To the tallest elm.

So Love all Life
Is What I Say
Be kind to everyone:
Try to make their day.

Show every mercy
Whenever you can
Respect all others
Woman or man.

Every Life is a freak of chance,
So play the music,
Begin the dance.

Paul Butters

© PB 21\5\2018.

Deep within the spacial abyss that is my brain
There lies a little blue planet called “Paul”.
Hidden away from most of reality
This world is full of wondrous dreams.

Its drifting continents are full of sporting arenas,
Traditional pubs and inns
And swarms of gorgeous women.
Lofty mountains overlook sandy beaches
Fringed by sun kissed palms.
Endless vistas of hill and dale
Teeming with Life.

There is a Dark Side too:
I have my “Mordor” for sure
And my own Sauron.
Who doesn’t?
Lands full of man eating wasps
Fearful ghouls and witches
And torture chambers
Full of dental equipment.
Giant eyes
And Mirrors
Which take on a life
Of their own.

But let’s focus on the Brightness here:
The music and poetry
And even dance
And romance!
A place where we can “Get Around”
To Beach Boys harmonies,
Rock to Chuck Berry
And enjoy whatever delights Carlsberg can conjure up,
If not a pint of “*****’s Beer”
From Cleethorpes.

Paul Butters

© PB 10\5\2018.

Spoon me some soothing sounds.
Make me swoon though it’s not even June.
Croon beneath the moon
Amongst flowers in bloom.
For summer soon will loom.
Heat will hit us:
Boom!

No more gloom and doom.
See the Peacock’s plume.
Toast the bride and groom.
People passing from womb to tomb.
A Spring-cleaning broom
To clean the room.

What a boon.
A beach with many a dune,
Behind a cool lagoon.
Time to play another soothing tune.

Let dormant corms awaken
In the warm
Before the storm
While insects swarm.

Let babes be born
To fields of corn
In the early morn.

Blow your horn,
Your hair all shorn
Wearing nothing torn or worn.

Such fun to play with words like this.
For me it’s like a blissful kiss.
Not a thing to find remiss,
Or lightly dismiss,
Miss.

Well that’s the end of all my play.
So that will do,
At least for today.

Paul Butters

© PB 27\4\2018.

Tall trees swaying in the breeze
As colourful flowers adorn cool bowers.
Sylvan beauty everywhere,
So good to see, so great to share.
Pastoral pallets, if that makes sense.
Lofty mountains, jungles dense.

Mother Nature reigns Supreme,
But all I want is some ice cream.
Scorching Summers, don’t we love them?
All our troubles, let’s rise above them.

We walk through a desert:
Bone dry and sterile,
For mile after mile.
Trudging endlessly
Through emptiness.

But then we see it!
A tiny stalk
Forcing through the claggy sand.
Life!
Nature so determined
To break through
Anything.
Giving us Hope
Of better things.
And sure enough: we find there’s more and more
Until we are surrounded
By lush green trees.

Spring is just like this.
Hardy plants pushing through the soil.
Tight buds that slowly open
As Mother Nature wakens
From her icy slumbers.
Hope gives way to warmth
As Winter is banished
At last
For another year.

Spring is such a time of promise.
Looking forward to summer days,
Lounging in the sun.
We enjoy our Easter eggs
In the knowledge
That Whitsuntide is coming,
And then the “Summer Hols”.
It’s time to smile.

Paul Butters

© PB 7\4\2018.

People playing out time.
They work all day
Doing mundane jobs.
Passively watch the telly
And play on their mobile phones.
Week in week out:
Same routine,
With the odd break.

So what is The Purpose
Of all this?
We have our struggles and strifes,
Our glorious wins –
All forgotten once we go.
Generation follows generation,
Each an essay
At the game of Life.
So I ask again,
What is The Purpose?
I've asked this most of my life.

All I can say,
Scratching my head,
Is that we are here just
To Appreciate
The Beauty
Of our Universe,
This World we call “Earth”
And all that Mother Nature
Creates.

We must meditate on this
And make more music.
Listen to our Muses
Then sing, paint, write, sculpt
Or whatever Art
We care
To flow
From our souls.
Amen.

Paul Butters

© PB 1\4\2018.

Don’t cut all your food up before you eat it:
Slice as you go.
And don’t mix up your curry and rice first:
Take some curry, add some rice…
“But I can eat it all at once this way”.

Cut your box hedge only once or twice per year.
“That will let it grow six foot high instead of four though”.
Do all your shopping at once.
Plan ahead so you don’t have to nip out for things.
“Hate shopping. Rather buy as and when.”

Put your Geraniums in pots over winter.
“I’ll need hell of a lot of pots!
Will break the roots
Digging them out
Of that claggy soil.”

Your Artex could have Asbestos in it:
That could be dangerous.
“I’m not about to drill into it
And breathe in the dust am I?”

What you don’t know when your car MOT and tax are due?
“My garage knows and they look after me.
But I checked them on the internet now.
The garage is right.”

You didn’t know you’d paid off your mortgage
And you claimed for a moat?
“I’m a politician”.

Why do you put all that ******* on Facebook?
“Because my friends Love my posts and say so.”

You are supposed to…
You shouldn’t…
You should…
You mustn’t…
You Must!

"People!"

Paul Butters

© PB 26\3\2018.

See the grandeur of our universe:
Flocks of far-flung galaxies,
Shrouded by clouds of swirling gas.

A vastness too great to comprehend,
Filled with solar systems
That defy imagination.

Yet none of this is as wondrous
As a tiny bug:
A “lickle life form”
That can look around
And say to itself
(In a language of its own):
I am here.
This is my world.
No idea what is beyond
What I can sense,
But I know I’m here.
And even the greatest galaxy
Cannot do that.

Paul Butters

© PB 19\3\2018.

Confidence is key
In oh so many ways
Much more than with
The things you do.

Walk tall, stand still,
Be open and direct.
Show them all
That you are completely
Unafraid.

Don’t fidget, look around or gabble on.
Don’t show your anxious self.
Speak slowly, with pause
And show you are assured and calm.

For confidence is like a virus,
Spreading out throughout the room,
Infecting all
With that assertion
That You
Are Number One.

If only I myself was brought up this way,
Who knows what I’d have done?
But better late than never,
As they say.
Let’s start,
By being tall,
And cutting out
That slouch.

But remember,
Never compare:
Treat everyone as equal,
Never be arrogant:
Be gently assertive.

Paul Butters

© PB 9\3\2018.

I say again: the fifties film “Forbidden Planet”
Brought us “Monsters from the Id”
Where your worst nightmares
Were brought to life
From the deepest recesses
Of your subconscious mind.

The Id is such a frightful thing.
It can create the greatest pleasure
Or the most horrific monster.
Even God may have an Id.
Maybe that Id created this heavenly hell
We call Earth.

Does anyone anywhere have any control
Of The Id?
Probably not.
Those mountains of our mind
No man fathomed.
Gloomy jungles infested by crocodiles.
Endless depths.

The Id holds all the cards,
Letting us have a memory
Now and then.
Imagine if our dreams
Could truly come to life!

Bad enough that the alligator within us
Swishes with fear
And anger
The moment we feel threatened
When really we are safe
As “Mindfulness” shows.

Yes, the Id is King of the brain,
No democracy here
And all we can do
Is play along
As best we can.

Paul Butters

© PB 27\2\18.

Have you ever woken up, got washed and dressed
Started you morning routine then…
Something’s not right!
Wrong place or feature
Or whatever.
You are still dreaming!
You shake yourself
And at last
You truly are awake!??

They say that Life as such
Is also but a dream.
So imagine, when you die
You find yourself on another bed
And remember the “Earth” in which you fell asleep.
A lifetime’s experience
All packed into a few hours of dreams
In a room that resides
At a higher level.
A higher level that too
Might be a dream within a dream.
An infinity of levels of dreams,
Life upon life.
Imagine that.
Boggle that mind of yours
With infinite dreams
For eternity.

Paul Butters

© PB 11\2\2018.

My “Daffies” and Bluebells are budding now.
Maybe my Crocuses too.
Roll on Summer is what I say,
Clichéd though that may be.

No more dark dreary “days”,
With biting icy winds.
No more freezing fog
Or fretful snow.

Let’s have glorious sunshine
Bathing all our land.
Ice cream and holidays,
Leisure and luxurious slumbers.

Those Daffodils will be history by “Flaming June”
And with that “roll” will come the “rock”
Of sugar seaside sticks
With dancing music.

Oh to bring back Rock and Roll,
So we can do it again
Down on the beach
Where children ride on donkeys
While dogs frolic on the sands.
To play football again,
Jumpers for goal posts
On lush green grass.

Sunny summer.
Bring it on.

Paul Butters

© PB 9\2\2018.

Mike Bee
Likes a fast read.
The End.

Paul Butters

© PB 1\2\2018 (2).

Ease your way into the day.
Don’t be in a rush.
Enjoy the sight of the sun’s bright ray
On the green of the grass so lush.

Let yourself so slowly awake,
In the early morning hush.
Be as cool as a languid lake,
As dawn begins with a blush.

There’s plenty of time to earn your pay,
So easy on that brush.
Hours of time for making hay
And your enemies to crush.

Hard work is over rated, I really have to say,
But intelligence is a must.
Using talent is the way
To earn yourself a crust.

So start out steady, as I said,
And don’t be rushing from your bed.

Paul Butters

© PB 1\2\2018.

Those eyes
So sad
So loving, loyal and true.
Who can resist that look
From a dog?

Best family member
Of the animal kind.
So devoted to his Mum and Dad
And even uncle.

No fickleness here:
Unflinchingly faithful.
Loving to run and fetch
For his master or mistress.
Even bring in the ‘paper.

See him jump for joy
As you grab the lead
That he’s brought you.
It’s “That time”…

If you let him,
He’ll lick you all over
Before rolling on his back
For a belly rub.
(And his Missus is just the same)!

But those eyes have it:
Bottomlessly sad
So you just have to give him
Strokes and cuddles.

Paul Butters

© PB 21\1\2018.

Enjoy your cuppa tea and coffee.
Sit back and relax.
The world is full of strife and corruption:
Untold Evil.
Yet it’s Paradise Earth.

We take for granted
Our timeless oceans,
Mountains and plains
Teeming with Life:
Forests and savannahs
Herds of Wildebeest
And prides of Lions.

Quaff that beer and lager,
Let your Whisky burn your breast.
See those panoramic views
On your television.
Get your mobile out
And check what’s going on
In Social Media Land.

Wallow in a bar of chocolate
And dream of stroking dogs and cats.
Indulge in Romantic Fantasy,
If you know what I mean,
And be mindful of everything
That gives you joy.

Make Life a Celebration:
Party Time,
Full of sporting
Laps of Honour
And harmonious choirs.

Smell that cooking:
Roasts, fries, breads and cakes.
Taste it in your mind.
To the sound of birdsong
And Eric Clapton.

After all,
You only live once.

Paul Butters

© PB 14\1\2018.

I wish I could say something good
About growing old and dying.
For sixty years I had a great relationship
With Mum,
But then that demon Dementia brought her
Living Death.

She thought in the end I’d
Betrayed her,
“Allowing her to be put in a home”.
And then, to rub it in,
She was allegedly abused and badly bruised
By evil members of staff.
Mum passed away
Two months later.
The last time I saw her
She was waiting to be taken to the loo
As I was ushered out.

We all grow old,
Gradually fading away,
Tormented by Diabetes, hypertension
And strokes.
Full of arthritis
And gammy knees.

The list of ills goes on,
No proverbial light at the end
Of the tunnel.

So all I can say is live for
Now.

Make the most of our Share of Time.
Take comfort in passing on the baton
To the likes of Jacob
My great nephew.
Teach him and his peers
As well as we can
To take care of The Earth
A **** sight better
Than we have.

Try to Improve ourselves,
Keep growing
Every single day.
Keep learning
Experiencing
Living
As long as we can.

Paul Butters

© PB 8\1\2018.

That faithful dog is waiting at your door,
Bursting with unconditional Love.
He (or she) is pining
For your arrival.
Whining and crying,
All ashake.

At last you are here!
Forward he leaps,
Almost losing balance with the shake
Of his tail.
Ready to lick you
Into oblivion.

So you ruffle his ears
And pat him on the head.
“Good Boy!”

Meanwhile The Cat sits
In haughty isolation
Watching coolly
Indifferent to all.

But you still go to her
As she rolls over
And bears her furry tummy
For you to scratch
And her to purr.

I love these pets
Or rather
Family Members.
While they are with us,
There is nothing better.

Paul Butters

© PB 7\1\2018.

Long after I’ve gone –
As if that wasn’t bad enough –
Billions of years from now
The Earth will be engulfed by the sun
Which by then will be a red giant.
If not swallowed, then badly scorched.
Hopefully “We” will escape before then
With all our “Goods”.

But Trillions of years later
There surely will be no escape
When The Universe falls apart completely.
For it will thin into almost Nothing:
Frozen emptiness.
All our history, art, literature
Forgotten.
Death of Deaths.

No more Shakespeare, Beethoven, Einstein, Curie.
No Britain, America, World.
No Human Race.
Is there any hope of salvation?
Nothing in the Material World it seems.
Only, perhaps, a “Spiritual Solution”.

Paul Butters

© PB 29\12\2017.

They crawl along the streets like zombies:
Heads cowed over Androids and iPhones.
Busily pressing buttons,
Risking life and limb
As they cross the road.

It reminds me of “Star Trek Next Generation”
When young Wesley and the rest
Were hypnotised
By some alien “game”.

Sometimes they sit in huddles,
Messaging one another
Or playing, yes,
An addictive game.

All lost in a dream world
On Facebook or Twitter-Chat Whatever.
Soon we will no longer “fall out” with anyone:
We will “Unfriend” or “Unfollow” them.

I still prefer my laptop.
But how long before I too
Succumb to this addiction?
How long before my “Facebook Morning Splurge”
Becomes a day-long trawl?

Before I know it I will be like the others:
Lost in panic –
Frantic
Because I forgot to bring
My mobile.

Paul Butters

© PB 25\12\2017.

In this quiet corner of Cleethorpes
Serene somnolence soothes my soul.
Growling dark clouds make it feel like night
Lying above the whispering mists
On this dank dreary day,
Though mild this year.

The sun rose at eight fourteen
And will fall at three forty two.
For it is indeed the shortest day
Of 2017.

Tomorrow will be
A whole Two Seconds
Longer.

So by around the twenty fifth
Of this December month
We’ll reach that time
When the Ancients saw it getting lighter
And chose to Celebrate
Big Time.
For so the Festive Season
Began
All to Enjoy.

Many a religion has latched onto this
Annual Event.
So it’s Party Time
All over the World.
Time to reflect
And turn our eyes
Towards the Future.
Hoping again for Peace and Love
To Everyone.

Paul Butters

© PB 21\12\2017.

Keep getting "Forbidden 303" when I press "Save"
On a new poem.
"CSRF Verification Failed".....
The Fake Geek dot com says
Put "about:config" in your address bar.
Did this.
Got Warning to go no further.
(Later I went on but it didn't fully resolve the issue).

Went back to my poem:
Saved as a draft!!!
What's this all about?
Same on all browsers.
Paul Butters

PS See The Comments Below and elsewhere on this. Thanks All.
Later I found my pieces were getting saved as drafts which I could "make public" and post. Then Eliot announced it was Fixed - which it was for me at any rate.....

The Cosmos:
Our most awesome Universe
Plus whatever lies Beyond
If there is anything.
A sky full of galaxies and stars.
Vast further
Than we can comprehend.

Born of The Big Bang
Allegedly
This Matter Explosion
We call “Universe” –
Eighty Billion Light Years
That we can see,
But more than Fourteen TRILLION Light Years
Across
They say.
All ranged in an orderly fashion,
Perhaps with the footprint of God.

Yet, just as wonderful,
Out in the Mexican Desert
And all down America way
There is a delicate tiny sunflower
Which comes in a range of colours
And is also named
“Cosmos”.

Think on this.
As The Universe spread its wings
After The Big Bang
So these “Cosmos” petals
Spring out
Offering their hands to the sky:
Tiny Cosmos flowers
Offering prayers
To The Cosmos.

Paul Butters

© PB 19\12\2017.

Every home has a Mother
Waiting with open arms at the door.
And a Dad in his armchair,
As the tradition goes.

Welcome to the lounge
Where we can huddle by the fire.
TV in the corner
And - if you have them –
Dogs and cats to stroke.

Then there’s Sunday Lunch
And those daily aromas of baking.
Memories of scooping out the bowl
And eating most of the peas you shelled.

Home – a place of refuge
Where you can bring all your troubles
And have them resolved.

Our Mum kept a beautiful garden,
Resplendent with colourful flowers.
An oasis on a council estate.

As Dorothy Gale of Oz fame said before me:
There’s no place like Home.

Paul Butters

© PB 20\11\2017.

Association Footballer Ronaldo,
The new Wizard Waldo.
Oh what a fandango,
You bet he can tango.

Paul Butters

© PB 18\11\2017.

“Who let you in?” jokes Henry the Doorman,
Waving the signing-in book
Like a wanton dervish,
With a glint in his eye.

But in you go,
Into a dimly lit room,
Filled with smoke in yesteryears.
Men in huddles
Hatching plots
Or just playing cards
Or Dominoes.

In the corner those darts are flying,
While blokes stand chatting
At the bar.

Next door you find The Snooker Room,
Where all is silent
As “World League Championships” are underway.
Snooker and billiards to be precise.
Men so serious
Some sitting sternly
Worrying about their match.
The odd breakout of conversation
Over some dispute or debate.

Back at the bar
All is well.
No need to be PC here.
You can say whatever you want.

We drink and drink,
Until the bar closes
At whatever time.
The chat gets louder
As the ***** loosens our tongues.
Then home we roll together.
Every Club.
A place I love.

Paul Butters

© PB 15\11\2017.

The Cosmic Dance
Sends me into a trance.
I do love space
It’s really ace.

What more can I say?
I need more pay!
Speckled stars
Form The Milky Way.

Star Trekking I’d love to do.
Talk about a room with a view.
All those planets, all those stars,
From exoplanets to sandy Mars.

Space they call the final frontier,
Others would rather stay right here.
Sunny Earth is the place to be,
Roaming widely, running free.

See those palm trees,
On those shores.
In that soft breeze
The great outdoors.

Grasp the day,
That’s the thing to do.
Make it pay,
It’s down to you.

Paul Butters

© PB 24\10\2017 (poem 2) – First two lines written 1.20 AM in my paper diary.