When I was eighteen I wrote “The Bedrock”
In which I said
The Priority is to Survive.
But I’m sixty three now,
And that’s not enough.
It’s not all about Me, so
It’s time to decide
What is Good.

Well, my friend
All Life is Good.
Every living thing.
From enormous whale
To spiteful wasp,
Bacteria
To Ecosystem.

Yet some beings must be extra-cherished:
Those that are conscious,
Sentient and smart.

Intelligence as such is there to be nurtured
And knowledge learnt.
So too wisdom,
But above all
Love.
Do unto others as you would have them do unto you:
A great old saying.
Be a Humanist indeed,
But better still,
A Lifist
Who Loves Life.

All else follows on from what I’ve just said.
Go figure.

Paul Butters

© PB 25\9\2015 (2).

If I should ever say I might commit suicide
Then take me to a shrink
Straight away.
For I will have done a mental U-turn,
A complete reversal
Of my current mind-set
Which I’ve always had.

It is highly likely that when we die
There is nothing
Zilch
Finito.
World’s End for us.

I hope I’m wrong
As I’ve said before.
That’s there’s Heaven
Or Reincarnation
Or Something.
Immortality sells well.
Most religions offer
An Afterlife.

So Life is Precious
And all too short
For me.
Not to be sniffed at
For sure.
To be made the most of
And extended
For as long as possible.

Suicide bombers are the worst
Of course –
Killing others too
In a fit of Madness.

No, instead of suicide
I yearn for golden dawns and sunsets,
For trees on mountains,
Endless seas,
In our Eternal, Infinite Multiverse,
Blue sky or stars above,
Bathed by the radiant sun
Or cool Moon.

If you think of suicide,
Talk to us instead.

Paul Butters

© PB 25\9\2015.

Some say that God created the Universe,
But others say it was all an Accident.
Yet either way
Accident or God
Must have Existed
In some Realm or Place.

Think about it.
No accident without cars, ships, trains or planes.
No God without Somewhere to reign.

Oh yes, of course, it’s all beyond our mortal comprehension.
Outside of space and time.
But here’s the rub,
The Bard would say:
The miracle is that we Think,
That we Know we exist
Somehow.

Sentient Consciousness:
The most wonderful thing,
All lodged in the Brain.

Matter is easy
Compared with the maze
Of DNA.
Billions of years
Of Evolution
Punctuated
By mass destructions
That darkened the Earth
For many long years.

So now we can watch a golden sunrise
Or russet sunset.
We can marvel at the Milky Way above us:
Countless snowflakes swirling
Over the endless plain.

Paul Butters

Don’t ask me to pass the assonance assessment
Or time my rhyming to make you smile.
Alliterative pieces I’m proud to produce
After pondering, my pretty person.

No I’d rather be free
When I write poetree (lol).
Must write with meaning,
So don’t be demeaning,
Even if you are screaming.

Existence, God, Love, People –
They’re what I write about.
Oft without form.
Just enjoy.

Gorgeous gold glory starts the story
That ends with a tune under the moon…

Paul Butters

© PB 20\9\2015.

Is it time
To write a rhyme
Or should I write blank verse?
The meaning of the cosmos beckons me
So maybe my verse should just run free.

What matters is what I have to say,
Before I send you on your way.
We need a world of Peace and Love,
And shouldn’t need guidance from above.

Mother Nature asks for a rhyme
To help preserve her, for all time.
Doing otherwise is just a crime
For which we deserve much more than a fine.

If you don’t believe in God,
Then believe in Good.
And spare the rod,
There’s better use for wood.

Thanks for reading this, my friend,
We have now reached the very end.

Paul Butters

© PB 18\9\2015.

An away game at Leeds!
The Loiner Lion will have its feeds.
So it was, back in the day
When Revie’s Men held full sway.
Reaney, Charlton, Hunter, Cooper,
That defence was really super.
David Harvey, ‘keeper complete,
Guaranteed a solid clean sheet.

The midfield ruled by Bremner and Giles,
Billy’s energy, Johnny’s wiles.
Lorimer and Gray down the wings,
Recalling Eddie (Gray), oh my heart sings.
Jones and Clarkey gave us goals,
Lots of them, shoals and shoals.

73-74 our greatest year,
Opponents always full of fear.
Man U relegated that season too,
Better days there were very few.
We won the league by a merry mile,
Time to smile as we did it in style.

In 69 we lost just two from 42.
Opponents didn’t know what to do.
Burnley and City our only losses,
Otherwise we were the bosses.

92 was another good year,
Man U crying in their beer.
Then we sold them Cantona,
That really was a bridge too far.
The rest is history as they say;
We strive again to have our day.

In the second tier on Italian money,
Seeking the land of milk and honey.
The Premiership’s the place where we should be,
Please Messi, join us, on a free!

We hanker for those glory days.
God please help us with your mysterious ways.

Paul Butters

© PB 11\9\2015.

Where would I be
Without the Internet and Tellee?
Yes it’s telly I know,
With its glitzy glow.
They’ll be watching down there in Walthamstow.

X Factor, Big Brother and many a quiz,
They are the equivalent of ol’ Show Biz.
They say we are ruled by all this media,
That all those videos are a bad idea.
Without them though it would feel quite queer.

Newspapers now have become old hat,
There’s not a lot we can do about that.
I seem to live in Facebook Land,
But many say it ought to be banned.
They bury their heads in that golden sand.

The Google answers my every question:
Lots of info for my digestion.
Facebook’s full of gossip and chat,
There’s every scope for acting the prat,
So if you don’t like it, just Take That.

I’m on the net most every morning.
Sad to say, it never gets boring.
(Though it still might carry a Government Health Warning)!
Near Noon I have to drag myself away,
But not too many kids are out to play,
It’s video games for them all day.

Any kids about, they’re on their mobile phones.
They’re starting to look like devoted clones.
They hardly look where they are walking,
Busy reading and occasionally talking.
The traffic they are always baulking.

To real life they pay no attention.
They all deserve to be in detention.
I have to wonder how brainwashed we are,
Let’s go on a show and become a pop star.
It’ll soon be empty in the bar.

Social Networking is what they call it,
So very easy to install it.
Instagramming is now the thing,
It’s all about the imaging.
There’s nothing like that internet ping.

So there you are, The Media Rules,
Thanks to all these technical tools.
Soon there’ll be no need for schools,
But will we make geniuses, or a flock of fools?

Paul Butters

© PB 5\9\2015.

Why am I here?
What is the Purpose of Life?
What is Good?
What should I Value?
Is there a God?
An Afterlife?
So many times I’ve asked these things.

Aristotle, Confucius, The Buddha….
All lived long before Christ
And asked the same.
What is Good…?
Who Knows?

So all we can do
My friends
Is go with our gut.
Just Do It!
Love and revere All Life,
Do unto others as you would have them do unto you –
A cliché I know…
Be empathic and compassionate.
Be a Humanist Plus.
Call it a “Lifist” if you will.

Use your talents to the full
Nay Grow Them.
Do not bury them in the soil.
Have Aspiration, ambition
And Achieve.

Forget about money
And celebrity.
Be honest in your labours.
Work always for The Common Good.

Promote your Wellbeing and your Health.
Give Education where you can.
Build bridges over all divides.
And never forget,
We are The Human Team.

Paul Butters

What if it's not Groundhog Day but Groundhog Life?
Or, when I die, will I simply pass on God's baton to the next living thing?
Will I go to heaven?
Or find Nirvana.
Reincarnation or Renewal?
Or none of these?
Life is real
Or just an illusion.
False memories
And history
Supported by science
And Religion.
We may be Matrix
Or pure dust.
We may live forever,
Or end right here.
Who knows?

Paul Butters

A metaphor, the ultimate actor.
Let’s mix it into a Whisky blend.
To rhyme or not to rhyme,
That is the question.
Let’s go for no.
That metaphor –
A fusion of words and meanings.
Compound image.
Subtle synthesis of correlations coalesced.
Marriage of minds.
Beyond comparison.

The poet, weaver of words,
Composing symphonies
Of spoken sounds.
Mixing metaphors:
Chemical brews
Of nectar,
For all to savour
In the theatre
Of the written page.

Paul Butters

“Where am I?”

Have I been transferred to hospital during the night?

I raise my head. Before me is a seemingly endless row of cubicles, each containing a bed upon which some person lies. Each person wearing a helmet and wired and piped into the back wall.

To my right is the side-wall to my own cubicle. To my left an identical wall. Some male doctor is sitting next to me, to my right, and to my left there is a female nurse.

Doctor: “Welcome back Paul.”

Me: “Where am I?”

Doctor: “Reality Paul.”

Me: “Reality???”

Memories of “The Matrix” and comical “Red Dwarf” flash across my mind. MMM. Yes, I’ve still got a mind.

Nurse: “Relax Paul, everything will be all right.

Doctor: “Paul, you just died from old age, very old age, in your sleep. Best way to go.”

Me: “Really???”

Doctor: “That’s right. You really bought it didn’t you. I’m sorry, but that was not Reality! This is. And you have not really died at all. In fact, Paul you are very much alive.

Earth, The UK, London…they are all fabrications. All fiction. And all that history and science those experts told you, it was all wrong. Only this is real!”

He gestures at everything around us as he speaks. But now he reaches for a dial on a console next to my bed.

Doctor: “When we put you into ‘Earthworld’ Paul, all your memories of reality were temporarily erased. But now it’s time to debrief. Now it’s time for you to Remember The Truth…”

And he turns the dial…

Paul Butters

There is no need for all this strife,
All that’s required is Love of Life.
Religions and philosophies all seek Good,
Trying to get us out of this wood.
All you need is Love, The Beatles said,
So let’s put Evil and Hatred to bed.

Christian, Muslim or worshipping Buddha,
Atheist, Humanist, Taoist, Shinto, Hindu, Wiccan or any other,
It doesn’t matter for you are my Brother.
We’re all the same in God’s loving eyes
(Whether you believe or not)
From mighty whales to tiny flies.

Tigers bite and wasps do sting,
But each of them is a black and gold thing.
Life is precious in every form,
We all get beaten by that storm.

Give us a wormhole and we will find
Countless exoplanets that’ll blow your mind.
In the swathe of the universe we are but a speck,
Prepare yourself for an endless Star Trek.

But first we need to put our own Earth right,
And now it’s such a sorry sight.
Having technology is all very well
If all you can make is our version of Hell.
The human mind is far behind I hate to say,
We have to find the Loving Way.

Paul Butters

© PB 25\8\2015.

My lazy radar lets me down,
Sometimes I just look a clown.
They called me a lazy reader:
Well I think it was “reader”…

‘Fraid to say I’m very slow,
For learning that’s a deadly foe.
Marking books was very hard,
I was given a yellow card.

For every down, though, there’s an up,
Always a way to win The Cup.
I couldn’t skim, I had no choice,
But that’s what gave me my poetic Voice.

So if I’m slow to read your stuff,
Don’t forget I find it tough.
I’ll read your poem as soon as I can,
And if it’s good I’ll be your fan.

Paul Butters

Dem phones, dem phones, dem iPhones,
Dem phones, dem phones, dem iPhones,
Dem phones, dem phones, dem iPhones,
Now praise the Lord for the Web.

The Apple phone’s connected to the Vodaphone,
And the Vodaphone’s connected to the Google Zone,
The Google Zone’s connected to the Web Zone,
Oh hear the Lord of the Word.

Well the phone’s connected to a browser
And it fits very neatly in your trouser.
The browser connects you to the Internet
Faster than the fastest speed-jet,
Just the place for a quick bet.
Oh hear the Lord of the Word.

It might get you onto Facebook
Or teach you how to be good cook
Find you some ladies for a good…
Time.

Now Praise the Lord of The Word.

Paul Butters

Some say that when I die
My soul will fly
Into some newborn life
Human or otherwise.

So that could mean that I myself
Am full of older souls
Who once were kings or queens
Knights, paupers, heroes or villains:
Anyone that will have lived
And died already.

But since our living numbers ever expand
It could even be
That I am a new soul
Totally free of the past.

And all this that I write right here,
Could equally apply to YOU
My friend.

I find some comfort in
These radical thoughts,
Though others prefer
Nirvana.
(Freedom from the cycle of life and death).

Paul Butters

The sky: an ever-changing canopy,
Endless variety.
Black at night,
Punctuated only by stars and moonlight,
And clouds by day.

Cloud-ships sail along an invisible sea,
Scowling black clouds,
Or fluffy white palaces of snow.
No end of shapes and forms,
Yet sometimes formless mists.

Clouds that are net curtains
In the window to space,
Or growling black monsters
Firing deadly lightning-forks.

If we’re lucky,
There aren’t any clouds at all,
Just blue from horizon to horizon
Everywhere you see.

Golden-red dawns and sunsets
Contrast well with deepest blues
All colours and hues.

By night and day, Moon and Sun
Play Peekaboo behind those clouds.
And stars forever twinkle and swirl
Along the Milky Way.
No words can adequately capture
The beauties of the sky,
It just gives God’s Believers
Every Reason Why.

Paul Butters

Season of sun and sand and sea,
Holiday time for you and me.
Daylight right ‘til ten o’clock,
Don’t forget to wear sun-block.

Sitting idly reading Keats,
Watching kids with buckets and spades;
Sparrows with their frantic tweets,
Flying high above the glades.

Oh it’s great to be so free,
No more snow or ice for me.
Even mugginess is okay,
So long as it’s warm throughout the day.

Swimming in that so cool pool,
Sure beats sweating back in school.
Summer is my favourite month,
Whoops my rhyme-scheme just went Whoomph!

Nothing rhymes with month you know,
But let’s forget about that snow.
Let’s laze instead on lawn or beach,
And keep a beer within our reach.

Paul Butters

K, so here’s the deal,
English will change,
Goi!
Gr8 eh?
Lol.
B4u know it, all changed.
Fyi some call it Textese or SMS Language.
But through will become thru
And though of course tho
Anyway.
Goi.
K so this poem might not trend,
But I’m way ahead of my time,
That’s my Msg.
N2u tho that may b.
That things must change,
That is.
8 it don’t u?
Such g9.
Scary Tbh.
4 me and 4u.
(Bm&y;).
(I prefer you as yu it's tru).
Just Gfi is wot I say.
Even when Prw!
Somy?
Sotmg.
Soz
Laters – Sbtsbc.
Ttfn and bfn.
Say.
Sit my friend.

Paul Butters

© PB 13\8\2015.

This planet orbits a yellow sun like ours.
It is in the Optimum Zone to support life.
Sure enough it has a wide variety of flora and fauna.
Highly intelligent life has evolved in its seas and oceans.
Its continents, however, are dominated by a species of primates.

Over the past 300 of the planet’s years they have developed
Some fairly high technology.
But they remain carnivores
Who regularly commit genocide.
They cut down swathes of natural forest
To grow chemically protected
Genetically modified nutrition-sources.
And they mine their planet empty
Of its mineral riches.
The planet’s ecosystem is being rapidly destroyed
By them.

Socially and psychologically they remain primitive.
Yet they possess the means to blow their world
To pieces.

With heavy heart I have to advise
We sign this planet
“No Entry”
For the foreseeable future.
“Forbidden” indeed.
A planet we call MW Orion 8478-3
That its natives call
That ever so common name:
“Earth”.

Paul Butters

Your shining eyes excite:
Those pupils, fathomless black,
That grab, and drag me down
Into bottomless pits;
Like magnets drawing me into deep radiance.

Your swirling, tumbling hair that makes me dream
Of cascading feathers wisping all over my face,
As leaning over you draw closer,
To kiss me with your moist, shimmering lips.

Those lips that pout their promise,
To cushion mine in hot embrace,
And pull me down a never-ending tunnel:
So deep to Ecstasy’s black space.

Your body is a flowing land,
A symmetry of mounts and vales:
Seductive wiggling curves,
With endless
Tapering
Legs.

Yet beauty’s bettered by your warmth,
For looks are just skin-deep,
It is your heart that I adore,
Your Love I wish to keep.

We should be soul-mates, you and I,
Of this I’m very sure.
With Hope, and Luck,
And not a little pluck,
Our Love can long endure.

If This doesn’t Pull her nothing will!

PAUL BUTTERS

I took her for some fish and chips,
We had a reight good time.
The two of us kept locking lips,
It really int a crime.

But then she saw this pilot bloke:
It really wasn’t fair.
Though I’m a super Trekkie clerk,
She saw me as a square.

What she saw in him I’ll never know,
There really was no reason.
But off she went with him, oh no!
It felt just like a treason.

Those fish and chips are getting cold,
With no-one there to eat ‘em.
Them mushy peas have gone to waste, be told,
But she prefers to cheat ‘em.

There are more fish in the sea they say,
And now I’m talking females.
Every dog will have his day,
I’d better watch my emails.

Paul Butters

I’m The One,
But so are You.
It all depends
On your point of view.

I write,
You read.
I sow
The seed.

No love songs
You will get from me.
Nothing sentimental:
Bull-dropping free.

We share this world
You and I.
Together we can
Reach the sky.

Your imagination I will seek
To fire.
Whenever I can,
I will inspire.

Well, dear Viewer-Reader,
It’s time to go.
I hope you enjoyed
This “Poetry Show”.

Paul Butters

Forests of coral adorn the rocky ocean floor,
Sheltered here in this sky-blue lagoon.
See the golden sand, shining through the still waters,
Fringed by plumes of palm.
The warming sun is smiling,
Flanked by fluffy white clouds.
Gulls are calling
Over the whispering sea.
A tropical paradise
Punctuated only
By impromptu showers.
Those colourful corals
Swarmed with teeming fish
Of every hue.
This is the place
To be.

Paul Butters

If God exists
He or She knows All
Is Everywhere
And Everywhen
And lives beyond
Space and Time.
For so it is to be a God.

She is far too great
To concern herself
With this grain of sand
Lost in the vastness of our Multiverse.

Our words can’t hurt Her,
Maybe make Her smile at most,
Even as we take Her name in vain.
Our petty squabbles
Are but fights
Amongst the ants.

She Loves all Life,
Though some be sacrificed at times
For the Greater Good.

I ask you all
To open your mind
And see us through Her eyes.
She cannot want us
To martyr ourselves
Or **** those who are different
In race or creed.

She will not give us Heaven
If we sacrifice our lives
To **** Her creatures
That she made
With such magnificent grace.

Above all else She is a Loving God,
Cherishing ALL that Lives.
Forget the ancient histories
Of warring and strife.
NOW is where we are,
And now is the Time
For Love.

Paul Butters

It started when she said Hello
Over forty years ago.
She was the only one to do so I suppose.
My heart was twanged
And I wanted her so bad.
Still it pains me so today,
I couldn’t find the words to say.

All I got was unrequited-love sick blues.
I couldn’t eat a thing
For weeks on end.

At a party she sat alone,
Seemingly aloof,
‘Til someone else stepped in...

Hindsight says she didn’t like me anyway:
She criticised my teenage spots
And the way I danced.

I wasted so much time on her,
Spurning others for my senseless crush.
Giving up only when her long distance boyfriend appeared.

Since then I’ve always guarded
Against getting emotionally involved
Before being socially involved.

It has been said that I’m aloof,
Staying on the fringe,
Avoiding commitment.

You have to take that risk
They say,
There is no other way.

I’ve seen the pain that “Love” can bring,
Romantic songs I will not sing.
I’d rather stay here on the shelf,
Peacefully living with myself.

Paul Butters

A poem is built with sounds
Liberally littered with alliteration
Rhyming reason
Aspiring assonance
Up metaphorical mountains.

Each letter plays its part.
A cast of cascading chords
Making mystical music
For the discerning ear.

Operatic musicals from the Muse:
A crescendo of noise
Or sometimes
Whispers in the winnowing wind.

I write because I must,
Because I need to
In answer to
The Call.

Paul Butters

The Sun’s beaming smile
Bathes the plains with gold.
Lord of the heavens,
Circled by your sons
We call planets,
Your searing heat
Keeps us warm
And well.

I love the summer
With those shiny beaches:
Radiant reflections
Kissed by sky-blue surf.

Sun, you are a surge of nuclear bombs
Devastating the darkness,
Destroying the frosts of outer space.

Blindingly beautiful
Yet you redden evening clouds:
Red sky at night delight
Indeed.

Ball, orb, sphere, call you what you will,
Sol if you prefer.
The pale moon mimics you
Even blocks you at times,
But you are never eclipsed for long.

The sky is your playing field
Though the starry crowd is hidden
From your fiery light.

See the sky brighten
Just before dawn,
Then witness the birth
Of another fine day.

Paul Butters

I will be,
Or I will not be,
When I die.
The logic goes.
More likely the latter,
But who knows?

The Bard was right:
A simple choice
Between
What is
And what isn’t.

Unless you take the Spiritual View
Or even
Reincarnation.

What might I come back as?
I have to ask.
A lion or an Ant?

Is everything a dream?
Or just some Godly idea
Of a Joke?

The Truth
We Seek.

Paul Butters

The Laws of Physics say
That Everyone Dies
And is Gone:
Every blade of grass, insect, man and woman.
Every sentient being.
From Big Bang to Big Whatever.
They all Die.

Yet is there more than this?
Something of the spirit.
More than ghosts
And poltergeists.
An afterlife
In Heaven.
Another Realm.

Some say that when you die
You re-join The One Being,
Let’s call it “God”.

Your individuality may be gone,
But you become part of that Super-Consciousness,
The One,
And thus Remain.

The logic of this is frightening:
It means that I am part of God,
Just going through a phase
We call Life,
In readiness for
For Ever.

You too are part of God
And logic dictates
That I am my own Mum and Dad,
My sister, friends and everyone else:
Mother Theresa, ******, Shakespeare
And Eddie The Eagle.

I am a wasp, a lion, a dolphin, a tree
Maybe even a germ.
Another poet
Commenting on my poems.
I’m even You.

Better get on with it then.
I’ve got plenty to do!

Paul Butters

Our scientists say that before The Big Bang
There was Nothing
And therefore
No God.

Through red-shifted space they “see”
Back to The Beginning.
Exploding Singularity.
A photon winks into existence
And BOOM.

Yes they are conceited enough to think
That all we see is all there is to know.
Like people pre-Pythagoras
Who thought the Earth was flat
They Lord it
With Confidence.

Yet Eternal Infinity
Beckons us on.

A light year is 5,878,499,810,000 miles.
An estimated 81,000 years Ion-Drive flight to the nearest star.
About 100 thousand million galaxies in the universe:
70 thousand million million million stars.
But we know it all.

Some say our universe is a bubble
Growing within another
Like a baby in a womb.

Some say it will grow forever,
Slowly petering out
‘Til all is cold.
Others that it will stop, shrink
Implode
Then be reborn
With another Big Bang.

Who knows what will happen?
Not me.

Paul Butters

Ease your way
Into Sunday,
Monday’s here soon enough.
Friday’s best,
Time to rest,
The week was tough.

Boozeday Tuesday is okay
I must say
And Table Tennis Thursday ain’t bad too.
Wednesday’s fish and chips are yummy –
They fill my tummy,
Washed down with a brew.

I love Saturday sport,
Who would have thought
I’d get set in my ways?
Such is my week,
Hardly unique,
But on Sunday I laze.

Paul Butters

There has to be a better way.
Than endless warring,
Selfish ways
And committing countless crimes:
Robbing Peter to pay Paul.

Go look:
Beyond beyond:
Infinity eternal,
Eternal infinity,
Infinite eternity,
Eternity infinite.
The home of God,
In all its splendour.

Then see,
Within yourself:
I say again:
Heaven is in us,
Somewhere.

Paul Butters

(The symbol * = see word list)

Hi* Reader!
A monna, a fem* both build their family here,
In lands where waqua* flows
And noush* is grown.
They shelter, cosy, nestled in their housdom,
Or dommus
If yu prefer,
With kids arunning wild,
Alongside dogologs* and pusses.
It cost a lot of brass to buy
That house
But yes
It really was so worth it.

On weekends dad gets out the vroom
And takes them for a run.
The youngsters chaktac in the bak
Luving it: driving thru
The sunny vales.
Back home,
They all sleep well
Each nite.

From families like this
Are nations built.
Generation,
After generation.
A growing culture
On the bedrock
Of Humanity.

Paul Butters

Word List:      Hi = hello, monna (formerly mon) = man, fem = woman, waqua = water, noush = food, housdom or dommus (formerly domhouse) = house, yu = you, dogologs = dogs, pusses = cats, brass = money, vroom = car, chaktac = chatter, bak = back, luving = loving, thru = through, nite = night. (These words I term “Buttish”, after my surname, though I acknowledge some are “borrowed” from others).
* domhouse amended to dommus; mon to monna (2nd draft).

Thanks people for liking a poetic Story for a change. Here is the follow-up.

In Part One we visited the universe one hundred and ten trillion years after the Big Bang. Our hero Omega and his people escaped the last known dying red sun by becoming living spirits. Now they must embark on a remarkable journey... (By popular request)!

Omega and his associates flew faster than light. Up ahead there appeared a white pin-*****.

“A star!” exclaimed Omega.

“Not a star,” corrected Father, “It’s another universe!”

That tiny white gem grew into a globe, until it filled most of the “sky”.

Father: “Omega, you have a choice now. Most of our people are going on to that universe. To a new life. But some of us are going further first. We are going to take full advantage of this spirit form, and travel out as far as we can. We are going to try to discover the truth about Existence.”

Omega: “But how will you find your way back, Dad?”

Father: “We have established an unbreakable link with our people. When we have completed our quest we will follow that thread and return home. Are you up for it?”

Omega: “Of course. You only get a chance like this the once.”

Father: “Good. Let’s go.”

All the goodbyes were made and the two parties went their separate ways. For Omega, his odyssey began.

This time, they seemed to fly away even faster! Another “star” appeared. Then another, and another, until the whole “sky” was filled with a myriad of them.

Father: “Yes, son, you guessed: these are not stars but universes. We are somewhere in the middle of a Multiverse. And we are heading out!”

At some point Omega became aware that there was a “boundary” to the multiverse. That the multiverse was some vast globe of universes! Soon they were leaving that globe. Before long they were looking back at that circle his father called “The Multiverse”.

Then Omega became aware of another globe in the distance. As they moved away, this second globe looked much larger than the first. Like a sun and earth. But then other small spheres appeared: until there were eight of them orbiting that “sun”. Omega’s multiverse was the third of those eight from the “star”.

Father: “It’s an Oxygen atom, son!”

Omega: “What?”

Father: “That sun thing is the nucleus and its, er, planets are electrons. Two in the inner shell and six in the outer. Classic Oxygen.”

Omega: “Wow!”

They kept going. Soon they encountered more oxygen atoms as they sped away from their own “atom”. They also encountered countless Hydrogen “atoms”.

Father: “Water! We are in water! Lots of impurities though.”

Their pace seemed to multiply. Nevertheless it took ages. Eventually, however, they left what turned out to be a stream of water. Falling to some unknown ground. Slowly but surely, though, a “figure” materialised above them.

The realisation hit them all at once. Frozen in “time” before them was, a little lad having a *** behind some bushes! And both their old and "new" universes were somewhere within that stream of *****.

Father: “I think it’s time for us to return home, son.”

Paul Butters

Can stories be poetic? I think so? What do you reckon? Read on...

The giant red globe of the sun hung over young Omega’s head. That great orb filled nearly a quarter of the sky. Omega found it hard to believe that the sun was a “red dwarf star”. Yet who was he to argue with his elders?

A chill wind blew along the desolate beach. In the distance, some giant ***** were on patrol, looking for a meal. Above the *****, some rowdy gulls were waiting to scavenge anything the ***** might leave.

Not much to report here. The usual dismal scene. Nothing here to reflect the importance of these moments. Omega had seen moving pictures of other planets, on which they had things called “days”. This particular “Earth” here was “tidally locked” so that the same side faced the sun at all times. The sun was always there, solidly positioned above Omega’s head.  Here on the equator, they “enjoyed” maximum warmth: yet it was not too much above the freezing point of water!

Mother appeared.

Mother: “We will be ready to start in ten Lunons, Omega. I will call you then.”

Omega nodded. He gulped, nervously and mentally reviewed why this ritual was necessary. What had the elders said?

Oh yes. The Universe began 110 trillion standard years ago with the “Big Bang”. It had expanded at an incredible rate. In those early days the universe had teemed with stars like the sun. Most of those stars had travelled together in great wheels and clouds called “galaxies”. Those galaxies had been full of light and heat, and life!

Yet all that abundance had been before the “Degenerate Era”, when the universe had thinned out so much that no new stars were formed. The remaining stars had died and died. So now the sun above Omega was the last known star.

They were about to enter the “Black Hole Era”, when the universe would be dominated by Black Holes of course. After that would be the “Dark Era”. Finally, about 500 trillion years after the Big Bang, the universe would undergo “Heat Death”. Well, that was what Omega recalled from his lessons.

What was bothering The Elders was the state of the sun. It was foundering. Soon it would just blink into darkness. Before then, the world would just get colder. A bleak prospect.

Mum reappeared. She ushered Omega to “The Circle”. The children were joining with the adults and Elders now. That central obelisk, encircled by the populace, was brightly lit. They all formed an unbroken chain.

Omega felt a great glowing from within. It was happening! Warmer and warmer. Brighter and brighter. All of them shone and flowed and coalesced. Then they each broke free and flew apart!

It was done! Every one of them had transformed into a spirit energy being! Each was now a shining orb. So alive, and free from what would have been a slow freezing death under the last dying sun.

Such joy. Eternal life achieved at last. None of them had heard of our Earth. None of them was human. There were similarities with us, but they were quite alien. Who cares. They were sentient beings who had escaped the death of the last star, and ultimately the universe.

Paul Butters

Forsythias flower now,
A shock of yellow petals
Matching my Daffodils.
Pure yellow,
Brighter than the sun.
Galaxies of petal-stars
Hanging from spiral arms.
As numerous as a shoal of fish,
Or flock of birds.
Nature stuns us with its numbers.

Winter hangs on
With chilling grip.
But blossoms like these hold promise
Of warmer days.
My crocuses were first:
Defiant spears thrusting into the frosty air.
And now the second wave is here:
Flower after flower,
Bird after bird:
Robins and Blue ****,
Blackbirds and Sparrows.
Pesky gnats are out
As everything awakes
From hibernation.
Yes Spring is here,
Showing us once more
The sheer resilience of Life.

Paul Butters

We are aware that we are,
But who is there to tell?
Will anyone know we were,
Once we leave this mortal shell?

Are we here just by chance?
From a Cosmic Dance?
No Hot Jupiter near our Sun,
Our system is The One
For Life.

We may well be unique,
The rest of space looks bleak.
A single winning bet
Consciousness did beget.

We are the living race,
Here by God’s good grace.

Paul Butters

Without Nothing there cannot be Something.
Non-Existence precedes Existence.
No Dark means no Light.
No cold no hot, no soft no hard, no death no life.
Up and down, left and right, East and West.
Calm then storm, stillness then action,
Heavy and light.
Chaos and Order.
The finite and the infinite.
All compare.
All are Relative.
Without Something there is no Nothing.
Without Light no Dark.
No Good no Bad.
No Knowledge no Mystery.
No Mystery no Knowledge.
All Relative.

Paul Butters

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

Remember Johnny Giles
A player with all the wiles.
In midfield he did scheme:
For Leeds he was a dream.

Nicole Scherzinger,
What a messenger.
A Friend so loyal,
Regally royal.

Oh Nick Clegg,
Why did you have to beg
For a Tory-led Coalition,
Sending the Lib-Dems into Perdition?

(PS) All hail be to great Don Newton,
Always had a winning solution.
Played table tennis with flashing blade,
A Legend that will never fade.

Paul Butters

Let’s make a point
And rock this joint.
What with Putin and ISIS,
We’re all in crisis.
I sound like Ali,
From here to Bali.
Let’s give Peace a chance,
Our world to enhance.
What happened to Love?
Where’s God up above?
Don’t need globalisation,
Just one Human Nation.

Time for a stanza:
Let’s have a bonanza.
But seriously folks,
This is no time for jokes.
We must have compassion,
It isn’t on ration.
So please hear my call
And Love one and all.

Paul Butters

When Rome fell down,
Don Newton with his flashing blade
Took over.

He marched the corridors of Table Tennis power
For more than fifty years.
And graced a multitude of committees with his
Presence.

As Mister NALGO, Don constructed
A glorious empire
Of countless teams
At many a venue:
Down Pasture Street,
In Weelsby, Yarra, Knoll,
Electric Club,
Saint James...
To name a few.

Amassing titles and cups
From every division
Of the Grimsby League:
A roll of honour too long to recall,
Now stretching to the horizon.

No fancy sponge, reversed rubber,
Or long-pimples for our Don.
Give him a plain old Barna bat,
Devoid of sponge, short-pimples out,
To give that ball a mighty clout.

The simple things in life
Were all he wished:
A pint of mild,
Or game of chess,
Would always go down well.

This table tennis granddad knows the score,
And takes his leisure now,
Contented as
The sun goes down.

Paul Butters

Prose is writing that goes right across the page. It rolls on, sentence after sentence, usually about things mundane.
But Verse is where you yourself
Decide the length of
Line.

Or stanza indeed. Some call lines “verses”. They can be very long.
Or short.
Iambic metre may be used
And other metres too.
You can write anapaests if you wish.

Yet Poetry is neither prose nor verse
As such.
It is about skyscraper forests looming large,
Trees spiking though mysterious mists.
Poetry is sunshine, filling your heart
With radiant joy.
Black nights of deep depression
Give way to a golden dawn.
The lonely
Find Love.
That’s Poetry.

Paul Butters

I’m Cameron, call me Dave,
Power I do crave.
I’ll tell any story
To con you into voting Tory.

We friended on Facebook,
Scrolled down our profile pages.
Lived together in a virtual world.
Our images and websites we shared
With Instagram incisiveness.

Meet all my friends.
Block any you do not like.
All busy we are, doing nothing.
Like if you agree.

Laptops were not enough.
Users subscribed to Smartphones,
Iphones, and God knows what.
Google them if you wish.

And if you like my words
Retweet them.
But beware!
I now use words like lol,
And even ***!
Hehe.

Sometimes I multitask,
Flicking TV channels
Like a Subbuteo striker –
Gone virtual by now I guess.
Flicking and flipping while I scroll
My laptop page.

I make new tabs
As I message many friends:
Emoticons exploding
All along the way.

I’m Tivo-boxing clever
All the time,
King of my domain.

So get your VDU lit up
And monitor my words.
Download my thoughts
Into your memory banks.

I hope this all computes.

Paul Butters

Ping Pong World Champ Andrew Baggaley,
Wow that lad can really play.
Dethroned the “King” who came from Russia,
Then 1966d that kid from somewhere near Prussia.

Quarks, photons, gluons: sub-atomic particles:
Quantum fluctuations
That wink in and out of existence.
Where do they come from?
Where do they go?

There must be somewhere else.
Somewhere beyond our space and time.
Outside our multiverse,
Our Realm.
A parallel dimension next to ours.

Heaven?
Who knows?

We ourselves are made of particles:
Many a water molecule,
blinking in and out.
So in effect we are dead
As often as alive.

But am I God?
Are We God (assuming You are Real)?
Yet we have little power.
We can’t be God.

Maybe We are The One Mind,
Dreaming all together.
Dream Creations in our very own Dreams.
Within our virtual, mortal shells.

We are caught in an infinite,
Vibrating energy stream,
Perceiving an illusory Virtual World,
Living the Dream together indeed:
The One Mind.

Paul Butters

Film and television cameras:
Roving eyes for many of us.
But are We the cameras on the world
For an audience somewhere out there
Beyond the stars?

Our world: a studio for countless films.
The animal race a production crew
For programmes watched by spirit beings.

And who collects these reels of Life?
Where is The Director?
What Company employs us all?

Those with feelings of Déjà vu do ask:
Which Take are we doing now?
And Minds of Science claim
We can Forward Fast or Rewind.

It’s one great mystery of course:
The longest journey of them all.
A soap opera to beat all others:
This film called “Life”.

Paul Butters

One day I found myself in Paradise,
Completely out the blue.
I don’t recall a warning:
From nothing I came through.

Into a new dimensional realm
I sprang:
Into a world so vast.

A planet out there somewhere,
In icy space so lost
A Universe not crossed.

A world so full of life,
Of sweeping seas
And towering trees.

A place so beautiful,
Beyond compare.
We stand and stare.

All peopled by
Multi-coloured multitudes.
From which the radiance of sentient life exudes.

To where had I escaped?
You may well ask.
So let’s unmask:

The loveliest world of all,
For what it’s worth.
A heaven of the heavens:
Our planet Earth.

Paul Butters

Authors moan of Writer’s Block:
They can’t unpick their inner lock.
A black expanse is all they see
Their rhymes are but a tragedy.

“The Block” is writers’ constipation,
A failure of imagination.
What laxative is there for this?
You feel like you’ve been sent to Dis.

Oh where did those ideas go?
That blank page fills them full of woe.
Play with words is what I say,
Then soon a poem is on its way.

Don’t try so hard is my advice:
Perfection can be such a vice.
Watch telly, films, anything you like,
And let your mind just take a hike.

Listen to music by all means,
Like you used to in your teens.
Watch the news, or take a stroll,
Drag yourself out of that hole.

Take a nap whenever you like,
Sleep will get you ready to strike.
Toy with words again I say:
Best inspiration springs from play.

Paul Butters

Remember David Beckham
The footballing great from Peckham.
He would always bend it
So no-one could defend it.

Paul Butters