At long last Winter wanes
Slackening her icy grip
On our frozen land.
Those tiny buds
Have shown their heads
Above the parapet.

Spring’s summer promise
Wafts through the air:
The ghost of life
Warming everywhere.

I found a rhyme!
That’s so sublime.
Those Muses have awakened too.
All’s moistened by the morning dew.

Wizards of the word can now rejoice
At Nature’s wonder,
Singing with a soulful voice
And a crack of thunder.

April showers
Sooth the bowers
As May is on the way.
Soon it will be June in bloom
And an August holiday.

Is Spring or Summer my favourite season?
Well both are better than Winter’s treason.
It’s great to have these longer days
And soon we’ll be lounging in sunny bays.

Paul Butters

Trillions of years from now
The scattered remnants of our Universe
Float in endless darkness,
All stars extinguished.

Scattered fragments and swirls of gas
Are all that remain
Of what was once a glory
Filled with countless galaxy clusters
Shining bright.

But something happens.
A trigger point is reached.
Two particles attract.
Two more.
And more.

Ever so slowly, Gravity takes hold again
Then faster and faster
All that matter
Implodes.

The Universe contracts again
Shrinking down
To that central Singularity,
Back to that point
From which it all Began.

Paul Butters

Let’s make history, you and me.
Yeh, let’s make history, you and me.
Bringing Peace to the world of the free.
Spreading Love all round the globe,
From greatest whale to tiniest microbe.

Let’s make history you and me.
Ain’t no time for a cuppa tea.
But later we’ll have a jamboree.

Let’s make history you and me.
The world’s in a mess, everyone can see.
So many people, so much hate.
We gotta give ‘em a better fate.

Forget religion, forget your race.
Forget your nation, accept God’s Grace.
Come up and join us, let’s have a ball,
With or without some Alcohol.

The Beatles tried this, yes we know,
But that don’t mean we gotta give in.
You can always say I told you so,
Until that Goodness overcomes Sin.

We must keep trying, that’s all we say.
So let’s make history on this fine day.

Paul Butters

My Muse takes me to peaceful cool pools,
Under suns and moons.
Exuding stillness through picture-view tunes,
Beneath the sky’s fine glittering crown jewels.

A poem is a statement, a speech or a song,
From twittering birds to the crash of a gong.
Some are short and some are long,
They sound like The Beatles and Louis Armstrong.

A song, a song, we can’t go wrong.
Let it play amongst the throng.
A hit that goes to number one,
To serenade the fit and young.

Those harmonies are with me now.
All I can say is Wow, Wow, Wow.
Songs of Love and chants of Hate,
Words of Hope and tunes of Fate.

Come on you’ve pulled, let’s have a date.
Time for dancing, I just can’t wait.

Paul Butters

The greatness of Nature cannot be denied.
Her grandeur is plain for all to see.
Such sheer determination can only be admired.
See that tiny ***** on yonder rock face:
Some miniature plant has taken hold
Where nothing else could live.

We know that Mother Nature rules the Earth.
But what about the stars?
Billions of exoplanets wave at me
In my mind’s eye.
For life right here can thrive in boiling acid
And solid sheets of ice.

What scope for life is there out there,
Amongst the swirling galaxies
And gassy nebulae?
I tell you now:
There’s almost ENDLESS Opportunity
For life to evolve
Around this Universe
Alone.

Yes, she’s much, much more than “Mother Earth”:
More “Mother Multiverse”.
Mother Nature multiplied a million, million times.
Imagine That.

Paul Butters

Feel the Force
Just Feel that Force.
No sign of divorce.
It’ll keep you on course.

It’s everywhere,
Not just a Star Wars fiction.
It may be God out there,
The cure for our affliction.

Whether The Force like us can think
Who knows?
Maybe we’re on the brink
Of its ebbs and flows.

All around there’s a Spiritual World,
Or so some say:
It’s yet unfurled
But we are on our way.

So Feel the Force
I say again.
Time runs its course,
Do ya ken?

As Yoda would say,
Your mind you open
And powerful you will become.

Paul Butters

The ogre that I am, I sit in my man-cave.
It’s bathed in light from my TV and laptop.
Each is a portal to our ugly world.
Regulated crystal-city skyscrapers
Form Giant’s Causeways.
Aircraft eagle overhead
Reminding me of vultures
And 9\11.

Cars beetling about the suburbs,
Some Beetles, Ha Ha.
River highways cascading cars.
Ants rush everywhere,
A seething nest.

So many an ant,
Holding a conch to the ear,
Or staring mesmerised at that tiny screen.
Yoda fingers his phone…

And me I sit here,
Metamorphosing metaphors
For a while
Before I visit Facebook Land
Once again.

Paul Butters

So many are searching for The Truth.
We scan the heavens in our quest.
We pray to deities
And meditate.

Something to believe in
Is what we seek.
Some clue
As to what we’re doing here.

You can read about
Religions of the world
And Yoga and so forth.
Join a Brotherhood
Or Sisterhood of course.

A lifelong Odyssey awaits us.
But never forget:
The best place to look for Truth
Is within Yourself.

Paul Butters

He’s a material man
On a material planet.
Gobbles up money like a gannet.

Seeking status and promotion,
Upwardly mobile is his motion.
At his side is Madonna’s Girl,
In for a diamond, in for a pearl.

This poor creature has no soul,
Making a fortune his only goal.
Grandeur or Greatness is his God,
For the beauty of Nature he don’t give a sod.

This man doesn’t know what he is missing,
Life’s simple pleasures and Love’s real kissing.

Who really needs all those houses and cars,
Or getting seen in swanky bars?
What’s so fine about a designer label?
We seem to have built our Tower of Babel.

This man will be deaf to these words of mine.
The only mine HE wants, is a glittering Gold Mine.
Humanity divided into Rich and Poor,
Anyone sensible knows the score.

Nations chasing seas of oil,
While back at home the slaves they toil.
Waging wars for piles of money,
Everyone knows it isn’t funny.

Any hope for Material Man?
Unless he changes, he’s down the pan.
Please sir will you open your eyes?
Only Love is loved by the wise.

Paul Butters

So glad I wasn’t born a Daesh Child
Or Indian lower caste.
Or in some ghetto in Brazil
Or wherever.

The hands of Fate were kind to me,
Being born a Brit.
An easy life, compared to many men.

To think I could have been born anywhere:
A black, white or yellow,
Christian, Muslim, Jew, Hindu….
Even a Royal!

I’m glad indeed at what I am,
But should my birth determine all?
I must have Choices
Little though they be.

I choose Agnostic though I’m C of E,
And Humanist is my Way.
My Love of Nature is a solid choice:
Compassionate Kindness being my Creed.

My race and gender (and being Straight)
Are set in stone
Popular or not.
But otherwise I’m just very glad
To be Free.

Paul Butters

So you would conquer the world.
Do what Napoleon and ****** tried to do.
Take all our lands
And submit them to your Law.

But can’t you see?
You’ll never win their hearts.
Some will passively resist you,
Whatever that is.
And others will welcome you with open arms
Whilst waiting for the chance to strike.

Worse still
Your very own “folk”
Will grow green with envy
And plot and scheme
To bring you down.

The higher you get
The nearer that precipice you creep
And the greater your fall.

The bigger you are
The easier target you become.

Paranoia will annoy you,
But traitors will do worse.

Take my advice, my friend
And stay within your patch.
Have no “retreats from Moscow”
On your CV.
Better to win hearts and minds
By making sure
That you are truly Good.

Paul Butters

My Id creates my sleeping dreams,
Our Super-Id our World
Or Universe
Perhaps.

I think I’m alone with you,
But that’s not so.
For when I sleep, Something provides those dreams.
They say it’s the Subconscious, or the Id
But whatever it is,
I’m totally at its mercy.

They say that when you “lucid dream”
You realise you are dreaming
And can take control.
I’m not convinced!

Sure, when lucid you can steer that dream somewhat,
But once that horse decides to bolt
You are Lost.

I need to write some rules for dreams,
A code of conduct for myself and you:
When dreaming:
Never leave a room for it will vanish.

Lost your things?
Don’t go chasing them!
Wait for them to come to you.

Find yourself undressed?
Don’t worry,
You’ll soon be clothed again.

When you lose your way back home,
Don’t search,
Just stand and wait
For home to come find You.

Think driving
And you’ll maybe have a car
Around you!

Think friends
And soon they’ll all appear.

Oh yes my Id remains my boss for sure,
And heaven forbid I ever have “waking dreams” –
“Monsters from the Id” indeed!
A “Forbidden Planet” I’d hate to face.

But with some late-night meditation,
Maybe I can manage,
My crazy sleeping dreams
A little bit.

As for that “Super Id”,
Well that’s another story.

Paul Butters

Pleased to meet you.
But you better be pleased to meet me!
For I am the only one who is Me.
And I’m the only one who counts,
For I’m the one who’s experiencing all this:
For me.
Get it?

Doesn’t matter if you are the US President
Or Putin,
Or anyone else “Important”.
Nobody can affect
That what I experience
Is what I experience.

Nobody else will go through
Whatever I go though.
Nobody else will die with me,
Unless we happen to meet the same fate
Together!

You may be Royal
Or Rich,
Or All Powerful,
But all that matters to me
Is Me.

Maybe I’m Mad in saying this.
Perhaps the Whisky has taken hold.
Better than being depressed
I have to say.
Euphoria is better than gloom.

You too can be
As crazy as me.
Just free your mind
From the daily grind.

Never let those *******
Grind you down.

Love yourself
And Love
Whatever there is
To Love.

Paul Butters

During my teens I determined not to rely on some higher power
For what was Good or Bad.
And thus I entered Purgatory or Chaos
Or worse.
For years I struggled with
What is Good, of Value, Right?

But now I’m growing old I must Decide.
This much I know:
Every living thing is good.
Intelligent, sentient, compassionate beings are even better.
Be a “Lifist” and a Humanist too.

Cherry pick the best that Religion has to offer,
And discard the rest.
Some Christian Values are very good
When winnowed from the chaff of doctrine.

I’ll never like a wasp, I feel,
But I will always love all Life
And stand in awe
At Nature’s Force.

A Man of Peace
I truly am.
Embracing all my fellow men (and women!)
Loving my animals
My family
And my friends.
I’ll drink to that.

Paul Butters

A Note to myself and You:
NEVER ANSWER A TROLL.

“Don’t feed the Trolls” they say,
So don’t reply to them.
(Delete or block them if you can).

Let their bile or guile stand alone,
So that others can see
What bad people they are.

Ignore them completely.
Leave them to drown in the Silence.

Paul Butters

It’s just after 5AM but I am up,
Compelled to write and share with you
Bad images
From video and TV.

I gave you a newborn calf being killed by a lion or something.
But there are countless more.
Young seals being swallowed by killer whales.
A young queen bee stabbing its rivals to death before or after they hatch.

An unlucky wildebeest is pushed by a panicked herd
Back into the river
And into the jaws of a crocodile.
Survival of the fittest
Or luckiest.

Animals running about some abattoirs
Trying to escape death.
Fighting for their lives.
Watching their siblings die.
Enter Man.

A groggy man has survived being shot by a firing squad
So a soldier walks up to him
Puts a pistol to his head and fires
So the man falls
Fountains of blood pumping up from his head
To Beatles music.

Rows of orange shirted men kneeling
A hooded man behind each one
With sword ready at the throat…

So many horrors.
No fiction.
I wonder what God thinks….

Paul Butters

A newborn calf totters on shaky legs
Trying to balance and focus all at once.
Then seconds after birth a big cat pounces
With searing jaws.
The calf’s whole experience of life
Captured on film.

Paul Butters

Despite assurances that his treatment would be gentle,
Thoughts of the grinding drill made him feel rather mental.
But soon his spirit returned to high
As the pretty assistant brushed against his thigh.
All was well until he got the bill
Which gave him such a horrible chill.

But soon he was back to his usual mood of cheer,
As he looked forward to
His next taste of *****’s Pub food
And beer.

NS 22\1\2016

The very first thing a poet should do
Is throw that ego in the bin.
For being Great, or finding fame and fortune
Should hardly be your goal.

Just say whatever you have to say
With passionate heart and Voice.
Forget about Perfection
As all is relative:
And simply be Inspired.

Don’t be a slave to rigid forms:
Variety is the key.
Pulsing rhythms may match the heart
But missing beats have clout.

Be respectful to other poets at all times
And always return their praise, where you can.
Never criticise in a negative way:
Always be positive and supportive.

Keep out of inter-poet politics:
Such a waste of time!
Just write and write and write and write:
I simply cannot help it!

Paul Butters

I said something profound the other day,
So someone asked me, “Are you God?”
Well, strange as it may seem, I might be!

It’s possible, if unlikely, that I’m the Only One;
A Matrix Hero if you like,
That Everything Else is but a figment from my Super Id:
Perish the thought.

Yet I’ve precious little power
In this world around me now.
I’m just as helpless
As in my dreams.

I’m Not the God Religious folk talk of:
Omnipotence does not spring here.
Dare I suggest, though,
That God isn’t all He’s cracked up to be?

I’ve said before, maybe we All are part of God:
His eyes, ears and touch.

But what IS God?
I have to ask.
We each define Him (or Her, or It)
In our own way.

There must be higher powers
Of some sort
And Star Wars has its “Force”.

All things are Relative
And without end
So find your “God”
And make your choice.

Define your God
In any way you can.
But remember
It’s not your belief in God that counts,
It’s your belief in GOOD.

Paul Butters

If I were God
I would give the gift of Everlasting Life to Everyone
Without Condition.
Knowing full well that I exist
I would not need a single other soul
To believe in Me.

I’d never say you may have eternal life
Provided you Believe.
For I would feel Unconditional Love
For every living thing.

Yes, I’d cherish every living thing:
Be a Lifist if you will.
Yet I suspect that God:
He, She or It
Thinks just the same as Me.

It’s our interpretation of The Lord
That is at fault.
He…She… has a Plan
And waits
Like a mother hen
To wrap us All
In Her…
Bright outstretched wings.

Paul Butters

To me a poem is a Statement, even a Speech.
So, Friends, Britons and countrymen, lend me your ears;
I come to bury Britain, not to praise it.
The evils that empires do live long after them.
Colonial wrongs seem never put to right.
Achievements hidden away in dusty books
By historians, all honourable men (and women!).
Yet historians say the Brits were too ambitious
And too self-righteous by half.
For historians are honourable men (and women).
They say we must accept that we’re a tiny island nation
And accept our place in the world.
Yes, historians are honourable men (and women).
They say we were too ambitious.
But now, the world is threatened by dark forces,
And only the winner takes the spoils (and writes the history!).
Once more unto the breach us Brits must go,
To fight like tigers
And smite the foe.

Paul Butters

It’s a cruel old, desperate world.
Yes it’s a cruel old, desperate world.
Don’t often do the blues,
But you’ll know it when I do.

So hard to be a Reject,
Yes, so very hard.
So lonesome on your own.
You know where I’m going.

Those women do the choosing,
Yes Siree.
They sure do the choosing
And they ain’t picking me.

No passing on my DNA,
The line stops here.
No children will I produce,
Though I ain’t a queer.

Can I say that now?
In this PC world.
Probably not,
But my flag’s unfurled.

Well I warned you all.
These are my blues.
I’d much rather be writing
About some blue suede shoes.

Chuck Berry rocks
I have to say.
Like him I’d rather
Send you smiling
On your way.

These blues are haunting
And full of soul.
I’d rather be uplifting.
That’s my goal.

Paul Butters

You are Great
Never forget that.
I’m telling you
You are unique
A DNA Lottery win.

You Exist
Are Conscious
Sentient
And so much more.
A Wonder.
Incredible.

Every bit, you are, of all these things
As Royalty
Presidents
Or any Power Figure
You care to name.

By all means be polite
To Kings and Queens
And figures of Authority.
But always know
Within yourself
That You are The One.

For You are the only one
That lives Your Life
And that’s the only fact
That Counts.

Give due deference to those in power
If only to preserve yourself
For your survival is
The only thing that matters.

Esteem yourself
For you are wonderful
Assert yourself
For you’re the only one
Who is I.

Paul Butters

I’m not sending festive wishes.
Well I have, but that’s not the point.
What good is being good at Christmas
And the New Year,
Only to be a *******
The rest of the time?

What use is a holiday peace
When your working day
Is spent killing…?

No
What I wish for you
Is Peace and Happiness all Year,
Every Year.
I wish for Peace and Prosperity
Set in stone for ever –
Nobody starving
No-one excluded
From Society’s camp-fire.

We need a Human Race
United
As One,
Respecting All
As Equals.

We need this all the time,
Not just in “The Season of Good Cheer”.
We need a Better Way
Forever.
Amen.

Paul Butters

Nothing is Impossible
Because there is always Something
And always a Way
For Something
To happen.

Paul Butters

Skipper Kevin Sinfield
Rugby League man who’d never yield.
Inspiration to his team,
Leeds Rhinos: Living the Dream.

Paul Butters

Davis Cup to Andy Murray,
Oh my God that man can scurry, in a flurry.
Sports Personality on the BBC,
Andy’s the pride of Team GB.

Andy Murray,
Replaced Fred Perry, the past to bury.
(Yet praise he does not curry).
First Wimbledon, then Davis Cup.
Team GB is on the Up.

Paul Butters

All is still.
No more “Chase” or “Eggheads” from Tuesday.
Everything is shutting down.
The Winter Break is soon upon us.
Our “Festive Season” it is called.

Even Winter is having a rest this year.
Sixty Fahrenheit outside now.
I feel like hibernating ‘til the Spring.
Yet some brave blossoms think the Winter over
Already!
Foolhardy flowers indeed.

Our services are stumbling to a stop
Like a long Bank Holiday.
Sports facilities are shutting their doors.
Cafes shutting soon.

If only this stillness could pervade
Those warring factions
Throughout the world,
All through the year.

Peace to All Men
We say.
Amen to That.

Paul Butters

They say God’s got a girl for every man,
But where are You?
Will I meet you when I’m old and frail?
If so a dreadful waste.
Or maybe I’ve already let you slip
Between my fingers.
Fear of Commitment
Might have done its worst.

Ever the Lone Wolf
I seem to be.
A confirmed Bachelor
Running free.

My love of Star Trek says it all,
I’ll not be going to the ball.
The only ball I want to see
Is on Match of The Day: on my TV.

Seems I’ll never be a *******,
Too busy being a reader.
More to the point I’m one of those Writers,
No time for those little blighters.

So I’ll soldier on each day,
Living comfortably on my retirement pay.
Writing my stuff and drinking my whisky,
Good luck to those who’d rather get frisky.

Paul Butters

Are they right?
Is our “Universe”
The Be All and End All?
Is it even the Only One?

Or is our universe one plume
In an infinite cloud of plumes?
One rocket in a great celestial
Fireworks display?

We may well ask.
And ponder on the notion this plume cloud
May be replicated
Countless times
In parallel dimensions:
A multiverse
Beyond our wildest dreams.

And God may be
A God
Amongst a Race of Gods:
The Greeks and Romans right,
After all.

Yet what matters most to us
When all is said and done,
I have to say,
Is none of that
But simply
Whatever happens here
On this little blue world
In this corner of
The Milky Way.

Paul Butters

Right now I’m alive
For now.
How long will I thrive?
Don’t know.

For most of Eternity
I’ll be dead.
Such is Mortality
It’s said.

Let me meditate on that.
Let me contemplate the moment.
Sitting on my mat
Dreaming a romant.

Yes I’m alive
Of that I’ve no doubt.
But where’s my drive?
I must have a scout…

Been to Tenerife and Malta
Scotland and Wales.
Never Gibraltar,
Few travelling tales.

But I’m not a roamer,
Rather stay at home.
Yes ever the homer,
And often alone.

My laptop and telly
Are all that I need.
Give me Keats and Shelley
For a good read.

So it’s right in the Now
I really must stay
No why, who or how
To darken my day.

No thoughts of the past
Or dreams of the future.
Make each second last,
Turn off that computer.

This moment has gone,
Now that you’re reading.
Let’s have another one,
That’s where I’m leading.

For now never lasts,
That we all know.
It’s lost in our pasts,
No longer on show.

I try here to paint
What has been and gone.
An attempt to create
The eternal song.

Paul Butters

I tried to write a sonnet once
But only wrote twelve lines.
With number I am ever the dunce,
Make errors of all kinds.
Ten syllables is what’s required
Repeated fourteen times.
It makes me oh so very tired,
Before I find those rhymes.
And now I need a turning point,
A solution to the problem.
It’s time for me to rock this joint
From Cleethorpes up to Rotherham.
It looks contrived does each old poem,
So back to the drawing board I am going.

Paul Butters

To miss a staff meeting is no joke.
It extends the time between a smoke.
Once outside cigs are passed around:
The air is filled with smoke and happy sounds.
Too soon the session comes to an end:
To the customers’ needs they must attend.
So it’s back to the job,
Where they earn a honest bob.

Norman Stevens

I have for you a brand new word:
Of “Nightmare” we all have heard,
But now I give you
“Daymare”.

Yes, a day of Daymares –
Those little nagging Anxieties
That grow to deep Depression.
Can I pay my bills?
Will I pass my exams?
What will people think (of me)?

We all have had those Daymare days
When all goes wrong
And nothing will go right.

Bad days
Like when my parents died,
Nervous breakdowns,
Running over a cat
And a squirrel.
Fillings falling out.
Lunch is burnt.
We’re flooded!
And many more.

Times of sadness, anger and frustration.
Times to cry.
Times when it’d be better
To Die.

So, here I give you “Daymare”:
A word I hope
You seldom have to use.

Paul Butters

People like that I speak plain.
They don’t like when poets are vain.
Hope they love this little refrain.
Think I’ll do it, again and again.

Flowery language isn’t always for me,
I keep my verses wandering free.
Simple words do hold the key,
So a sapling becomes a tree.

Paul Butters

Call it “Faith” or call it “Hope”,
Whatever it is, it helps us cope.
Scientist say we live then die:
Death brings Nothing, no reason Why.
We’re made of matter which doesn’t last,
So soon we’ll be a thing of the past.

Religions offer an afterlife,
With just reward for all our strife.
We hope there will be more than this:
A spiritual world, even heavenly bliss.

We pray those boffins are all wrong,
That God (or Whoever) will summon us with his gong.
Physical reality really *****,
Even if you’ve lots of bucks.
Our common prayer I can’t conceal:
That simply put,
THIS isn’t REAL.

Paul Butters

Should we all stop eating meat?
No, we’ll starve of protein doing that.
But yes, it’s morally right.

What about plants?
We’ll starve: fruits and berries are all right.
Eat meat instead!

Are we doing enough to avoid nuclear war?
Not enough, we are doomed.
Too much: the next level is with nuclear-holocaust-mutations!

And global warming?
Our greatest threat.
A hoax!

What should we do?
Just what is Good?
****** if we do and ****** if we don’t.

Should we be pacifists or should we fight?
Anyone Out There to put us right?
If there are,
Their lips are kept tight.
Even God, with all of His might.
One Man’s Good is another Man’s Evil,
From a great blue whale to a little Boll Weevil.
For now We stay on a lifelong quest,
Seeking out what might be the best.

Paul Butters

“Praise be to Allah, Lord of the Worlds,
The Beneficent, the Merciful.
Owner of the Day of Judgement,
Thee (alone) we worship;
Thee (alone) we ask for help.
Show us the straight path,
The path of those whom Thou hast favoured.
Not (the path) of those who earn Thine anger
Nor of those who go astray.”

This we said to you, oh Great One, in the Quran
So many years ago.
But Lord your flocks are fleeing from your fields.
We need your Sheepdog to round them up in their confusion.

They do not see you are a God of many names,
“God” being one of them.
Over the ages you have been Zeus, Jupiter, Odin, Mother Earth, Jehovah, God, Allah
And many others.
But always you were The One True One,
Beneficent and Loving.

All men (and women) are equal in your eyes.
All Life to be cherished and preserved.
Thou shalt not ****
Is what you said.

So Allah now’s the time
To correct your children:
Breathe into them
The essence of your thoughts.

Enter their minds as The Holy Ghost,
So many Scrooges there:
Enlighten them
To know what is really Good
And rediscover what it is
To Love.
Amen.

Paul Butters

Here is Paulo,
Always on the ball **!
He thinks he’s Ronaldo
Playing on Madeiran sand lo.

The Caistor Couple, Patricia and Paul,
They’re at *****’s to have a ball.
I’m not talking about playing sport,
More about beer and ***** and port.

Paul Butters

This poem is by Norman Stevens in response to MY poem about HIM. Have made some minor changes.

In *****’s Bar on High,
Sheltered from Cleethorpes sea and sky,
Paul Butters utters words of cheer,
While quaffing his pint of *****’s beer.

He sets about his spicy meal,
Loading up for his evening’s sport,
When he’ll aim to be the real deal.

Owner Bill’s Angels prepare another stew,
To help down another “home –made” brew.

They nip outside for another “staff meeting”,
Paul says they’ve gone for a ***,
But THAT I’m not repeating.

Throughout these capers,
Norman reads his informative papers.

Sipping his Nectar Beer,
He’ll leave in good cheer.

Norman Stevens
Assisted by Paul Butters

(C) PB\NS 17\11\2015.

I’m no author, novelist or poet.
I’m just Me,
And don’t I know it.
I don’t need to be classified,
As long as I’m writing, I’m satisfied.

Typing out words, line by line,
I don’t care if they don’t rhyme.
I don’t care if my verses don’t scan:
I’m not always an Iambic Man.

I just say what I gotta say,
I’m not worried about any pay.
Words come to me without much bidding,
The world of its evils I hope to be ridding.

I love to spread lots and lots of Love,
Bringing peace to all like a messenger dove.
Things of beauty bring joy, John Keats rightly said,
To make us sleep easy when we go to bed.

So I’ll paint what I paint,
And sing what I sing,
Just letting those words
Do their magical thing.

Paul Butters

Mike Bee,
Wandering Free.
My *****’s Pub Sunday Luncheon mate,
With always plenty on his plate.

Then at The Crow’s there’s John and Keith,
Using Sam Smith’s to wash their teeth.
What they don’t know, isn’t worth knowing,
Lots of banter to keep me going.

They call Brian there, “Encyclopaedia”,
With lots of facts, he will feed ya.
He’s so bright cos he’s from Leeds,
And knows his I before E except after Cs.

Paul Butters

Norman Stevens
Always gets evens:
Reads my stuff on his smart telly.
Go on Norman, give it some welly.

There you have it, a Clerihew,
Oh what an how to do,
Very silly, very true.
Why I love them, I haven’t a clue.
Time now for another brew.

As I’ve said before:
Write a Clerihew:
It’s easy to do.
Two rhyming couplets of any length:
Short and simple, that’s its strength.

Paul Butters

For Atheists, God does not compute
And religious fervour does not suit.
Believers, on the other hand
Keep their heads down in the sand.
Both camps are certain they are right,
Faiths for which they’re willing to fight
And die.
Well maybe not the Atheists
It must be said:
They stick to logic,
Ruled by the head.

For me I’m baffled why these folk are so certain.
We won’t know The Truth ‘til the Final Curtain.
I guess an Agnostic I’ll always be,
So let’s sit down for a cuppa tea.

Paul Butters

With a Jewish religion and a German Queen,
Who has a clue where the Brits have been?
Mum’s clan were Huguenots,
Dad’s maybe Welsh.
Lots of Africans in our football teams.

Keep out those immigrants many do say,
Even those whose parents came from Bombay.
We’ve lots of patriots from Pakistan:
The younger generation, Brits to a man.

But some are Radicals I hear you say,
We should be sending them on their way,
Back to Asia where they belong,
To the tunes of a UKIP song.

So what is “British” we must ask,
For this is not an easy task.
Justice and Democracy I hear you shout,
Tiny islands with some clout.

Shakespeare, Beatles, Rugby Lions,
Churchill clapping foes in irons.
Let’s be glad that we are free
And settle down to a cuppa tea.
Paul Butters

They **** the Earth
And take
Its Riches
Killing Mother Nature’s things.

Corporate corruption crushes
The common people
As Euro Bureaucrats
******* the Nation-State.

Religious Fanatics,
Who shall be nameless
Seek to impose their Laws
On every Land.

Beheading anyone who differs,
They let their brainwashed suicide bombers
Wreak havoc
All across the world.

We know they’re wrong
And know we’re Right.
But what can we do?
It’s time to fight.

This world is mad.
All craziness goes on.
Another breaking-news.
Wot?

Paul Butters

Wondrous whirling worlds of words
Wander away.
Smooth musical tunes from the Muses melt my mind
And make my heart go boom.

Sunny sylvan scenes ****** my soul.
In a simmering silence
Broken only
By birdsong.

It starts with simple wordplay,
Toying with those letters
Until some magic kicks in.

Visions of versified viewscapes
Mess with my head.
Eureka moments marching across the mountains
Of my brain like screaming Banshees.

So thus a poem is born
From seemingly idle play.
Those words are worked again
And posted here
To brighten the reader’s day.

Paul Butters

Maybe Existence is wave after wave
Reaching out into infinity.
Perhaps We are All
The eyes, ears, skin and tongue
Of The One.
So that S\he may experience
Life
Existence
Consciousness.

Soul after soul is born
To carry on the torch:
Infinity of souls.
And no matter what happens to those souls
The One Remains
Into Eternity.

Our job is simple:
To see, hear, touch and taste
For the One
And learn as much as we can
Of what it’s all about.

Paul Butters

When The Great Bard wrote his epic plays
America was the new frontier
A widening world of wonder.
But now we look with eagle-eyed telescopes
Out into the depths of space
Beyond the beyond
Back through countless miles and aeons
To Thirteen point eight billion years ago
When our universe appeared.

Send your minds-eye through swirling sandstorm fogs,
Each grain a galaxy
Each galaxy a beach
Of stars.

Most stars are circled
By endless varieties
Of worlds.
There must be Earths out there,
Again too many to number
Making our own a single speck
In that endless night.

The saddest thing, of course,
Is that all these worlds are out of reach,
Unless we find a wormhole
Or that fiction “Star Trek” comes to pass.

Without some warp drive
We are marooned on this island
We call Earth.
Yet we can look
And think:
Imagine what it’s like out there
On sister Earths
In jungles,
Up mountains
And on sky-blue seas.

Paul Butters