In the Beginning there was Nothing.
Then Matter appeared.
Movement Mothered Time.
Our Universe Expands.
But wait!
How could there be a “beginning” if there was nothing?
For if there was nothing there would be no time.
And if there was no time there could be no beginning, or “end” for that matter (excuse the pun).

So, the “Beginning” came about only when Time began.
And Time began only when Matter appeared and Moved.
The moment when Matter appeared and when Existence began we have termed “Creation” or “The Big Bang”.
The latter implies some “Accident”, some cataclysm that just happened “out of the blue”.
Or rather, The Big Bang occurred from Nothing.

“Creation” implies that some “Intelligence” made the Big Bang happen or otherwise designed our Universe (or Multiverse or Whatever).
Some would call this Intelligence “God”.

But who Created God???
Surely we have to Begin with An “Accident”.
Could we really Start with God?
Start with an Intelligent, Omnipresent, Omniscient, Omnipotent, Immortal, Sentient Being?  
Out of Nothing?
From Nowhere.
Nowhen?

It would seem unlikely.
Humbler beginnings seem more feasible.
An Accident indeed.
A tiny accident that leads to greater things: much, much Greater.
To the Evolution of God perhaps.
(It is possible that God hasn’t even Evolved into existence yet.
Maybe We are taking part in that very Evolution).

But then we arrive back where we started.
Back to the same problem.
How was there a Beginning without any Time.
How was there a Nothing without a Something (indeed without Existence)?
How did Matter just Appear from a Nothing which couldn’t Exist because there wasn’t an Existence, wasn’t a Something?
I just Don’t Know.

Seems the Universe is expanding into Space.
For there to be space there must be Something that defines that space, something surrounding that space!
Is our Universe in a test tube?
Or perhaps space is created once matter appears, such as that which constitutes our universe.
Space must be infinite.
I cannot imagine matter being infinite, even containing spaces.
Space must be more than “Nothing”.
Space has to be infinite,
Otherwise we would have to ask,
What is beyond space?
Infinity.
Eternity.

In short,
Existence,
Life and Everything:
It’s Impossible.

Paul Butters

Oh what joy.
A little boy.
Jacob so happy.
A cheerful chappie.

Paul Butters

Sergio Aguero:
He’s my hero.
Title-winner against QPR,
The man sure is a Super Star.

Paul Butters

Rejoice and cheer!
We are here!
In golden sun,
We are number one.

Be grateful for what we’ve got,
Even though it’s not a lot.
Forget that stress,
You’re NOT in such a mess
As you think you are,
In fact you’re a star.

Think Positive I say,
Knowing it’s a cliché.
Yes, every dog has his day.

With special thanks to thee,
Readers of HP.
Thanks for all those Views and comments,
I love it when they come in torrents.
Like it when you like my stuff;
Without such feedback, life is tough.

Let’s celebrate all that we call ‘Good’.
Let Joy immerse us, in a flood.

Paul Butters

As I lay dozing in my bed,
I write poetry in my head.
Playing the page with well-worked words,
A mix of adjectives and verbs,
My Voice it resonates with musical sounds
And my imagination knows no bounds.

I like that!
I declare,
So soon I’m rushing down the stairs
To grab my pad.
Scribbling it all down
Did I forget to mention noun?

Forgetting words is just the pits:
That sends me into raging fits.
I’m on my laptop soon enough
To add more verses, off the cuff.

Microsoft Word becomes my home
As now I’m really in the zone.
I just can’t stop myself from doing this I know:
All I can do is let it go.

Paul Butters

Meh is what I say
When I feel that way.
It’s all in the expression:
That’s the lesson.
I ain’t a troll
‘Cos I say lol.
Our language is growing,
Toing and froing,
Ask old Mister Owen
(Our English Master back in the day).
I play these words
Along the page,
Hoping for a Golden Age
Of growth.
Not revolution, just evolution;
Some may say pollution
Even ablution.
The constitution
Of Progress.

Paul Butters

Mysterious, mist-kissed hills dismiss my dismal disdain
For Life’s strivings in the ivy wired mire.
Budding blossoms embrace my burgeoning bliss-filled *****,
As my soul soars into the seething skies.

My wings are beating with breathless wonder,
My imagination sends me to a destination
Beyond discrimination, defying appellation,
But not exclamation, at this elevation.

Smooth pools of cool blue hue contrast with cliffs
That overhang the huddled houses
Of the hillside village
On the way to who knows where.

The mists are shifting, ever drifting
Hiding everything
Except the mountain tops.
A new dimension might await us
Always moving as
Our journey never stops.

Paul Butters

A drop of Aussie poetry (guess from where):

The liquid amber is a nice drop.
I especially like the sherbert on top.
It caresses my taste buds with flavour
And I enjoy its savour.

An Australian man’s home is his Castlemaine XXXX
Full of Foster Children
Drinking nectar.

No more warring over God knows what.
No fretting over business matters.
Embrace the silence that precedes the dawn,
Or settles over a red-horizoned twilight.

Just chill on a slumbering beach licked
By a rippling ocean, as the sun sinks down.
Breathe deep and slowly and stay calm as you recline
On softening waves of slumbering sand.

Imbibe that smooth clear golden beer, its snowy head
Soothing your taste buds as it slithers down your throat.
Enjoy the glow of a chasing-whisky
As it spreads to parts that only it can reach.

Lay back and slumber down to dreaming
Peaceful scenes: remembering happy days
When all was well with the world in which you lived.

Sleep well, surrounded by peaceful people:
Miles of smiles from folk just loving life.

Paul Butters

As far as I’m concerned I am The One.
Just like “The Matrix” I agree.
I hate to be so selfish saying this
But it’s the truth I have to say.

I never did find Love I must confess,
So egocentric I just have to be.
I love my parents and my sister too,
But in the end it’s me who faces all
That Life will throw my way.

And when I die, then you will too
As far as I’m concerned.

No suicide bombing for me my friend,
No martyrdom for me.
Survival Instinct is my god,
Self-preservation is my creed.

I offer no apology
Self-centred I may well just be.
The bigger picture holds no sway,
I’ll just keep living day by day.

Paul Butters

Get your finger out!
I hear you shout.
Give Life a clout.

But what’s it all about?
What does it mean?
Out of what?
A hole in a gun?
Or your ***?

How do you think I sit?
Is my finger covered
In something not too pleasant?

So you think I’m lazy!
You must be crazy.
I’ve worked off my socks
Yet I’m tied to the stocks.

We are ALL in this mess,
Yes it’s time to fess.
Too much wrong in this world:
Time our flag was unfurled.

To do nothing is bad,
From Rome to Riyadh.
Don’t want to feel sad:
We’d rather be glad
That we acted
Without being distracted.

So get that flipping finger out!

Paul Butters

How dare you treat me like this?
You must be taking the ****.
Have you no respect to pay?
Will you just send me
On my way?

The problem’s Yours my friend.
With you I can’t contend.
You are just me, me, me.
You’ve left me totally free.

I’m better off alone,
With no-one in my zone.

You’re such a bigot and a snob
And nothing but a ****
Who fobs me off
With drivel
From your gob.

Your haughty arrogance makes me mad
As you are nothing but a cad.
Okay so you have all the power,
And over me you sure do tower.
But don’t be thinking that I’ll cower:
I glower waiting for my hour,
For my dog’s day
When You I shall devour!

Paul Butters

There’s nowt like some rapping
To get my feet tapping.
Alesha Dixon’s the *****
That got me mixin’
Today.
Saw her on a recording
Doing rap for Piers Morgan.
That might be pararhyme –
At best -
But who gives a dime.
Just feel like rhyming
With impeccable timing.
Let’s shimmer and shammer
And give it some hammer.
Alesha’s sure got glitter
There’s no gal fitter
No wonder she is
All over Twitter.
She’s as smooth and silky
As a pint of bitter.

These rhymes
Like chimes
Make me feel so fine.

Well that’s me done now
I don’t quite know how
This mood came over me.

It is infectious
She leaves me breathless
But hey I’m out of time,
What a crime.

Paul Butters

Nothing is not black
It has no colour.
The blackness of space is black
But nothing is nothing.
No light or dark,
No taste or smell
Or touch.

Nothing cannot know it is nothing
No more than we can know
When we are gone.

Our transient existence is a blessing
Here on Earth, beneath the Sun.
Sunshine shining, blindingly bright
Upon the foliage
Of Paradise bathed in light.

Paul Butters

Never be afraid to be quiet,
For you don’t have to be the loud Extrovert:
Putting on a life and soul of the party act,
While secretly sad inside.

Just be yourself.
Be cool and calm, and of course, collected
As they say.
Be happy with yourself,
At peace with all the world.

Esteem yourself and others will esteem you too.
Be cool,
For that is cool.

Just feel that tranquil lake,
Within your mind:
Rippling gently in the moonlight,
Stirred only by a sighing breeze.

Then bask in golden sunshine,
Reclining on the shimmering sand.
A thousand summers all in one.

Engage with people
And listen
To all they have to say.
Then when the time is right
Make known your point of view.

Until that time,
Stay quiet…

Paul Butters

Summer sun surrounds us.
Those icy biting winds are long forgotten.
We’re smothered by sultry, moisture-laden air.
A cooling breeze
Cuts through the verdant smell of fresh-mown grass.
The kids are playing:
Shouting loud.
Flock birds twitter,
What a crowd!

Those early mists give way to sun,
And wispy high-clouds stain the blue.
A happy sky to oversee our fun,
With sun to highlight every hue.

The Summer Solstice has been and gone
And nights will soon be getting long.
But it’s still hot I hear you say,
Who cares if thunder’s on the way.

We pay for sun with thunderstorms:
In Britain the weather soon transforms.
Yet now it’s time to cease the day;
I’d better send you on your way.

There is a Force throughout the Universe:
The Mother of Creation shows us so.
Those “Star Wars” writers were spot on:
Their “Force” reflects the truth, I know.

The Force has hidden depths beyond our dreams,
Full of Goodness and a Dark Side too.
Space and Time mean Nothing to this Force,
So we can’t track it to its Source.

All We can do is Hope and Pray
That we do Pass if there’s a Judgement Day.

Paul Butters

For seventy or more years TV
And radio ruled the world,
Along with telephones.
But then computers made their mark,
Soon followed by mobiles, Smartphones,
Ipads, Bluetooth, Wifi and who knows what?
In no particular order.

So herds of sheep migrated
Into Cyberspace
Even Myspace!
Then on to Planet Facebook
And Terratwitter.

We talk with people we’ve never met,
And meet folk with whom we’ve never talked.
It keeps us occupied I guess,
And gives relief from stress.

These images that yet fresh images beget,
I’m sure Yeats would agree.
I tolerate these adverts flashing in my face
And soak up knowledge to my solid mental grace.

A world of wonders beckons in
The depths of Cyberspace,
And as a Nerd before they were invented,
I have to say I’ve truly found my place.

Paul Butters

Look up above your head and you will see
A swirl of stars, all shimmering across the sky.
Countless specks of sand on a seemingly endless beach.

Beyond your sight the universe expands
At a frightening rate.
Faster and Faster
Quicker than light.
Thousands of galaxy clusters
Teeming with stars.

So many planets await us.
Many billions they say.
But it would take many thousands of years
To reach the nearest star
By rocket.

Unpack those telescopes I declare.
If we can’t get there
We can stand and stare.

Who knows what’s out there in our Milky Way?
We must keep searching
Come what may.

If Mankind perished:
Exterminated cataclysmically
Like the dragon dinosaurs,
How long would our cities stand?
How long before our cars rusted
And buildings toppled,
To leave the odd dam or pyramid
Poking through the tangled jungle mass?
A few hundred years they say.
Then nothing.
All gone.

Yet have such holocausts
Blighted Man before
Back through those swirling mists of time,
Thousands of years ago?
Great civilisations built by clever men and women,
Only to be dashed to the ground
By who knows what.
Atlantis and much more.
Advancement cruelly culled.

For Man,
Like the world,
Is much older than we thought
Or think.
Some say that aliens helped us build
Those ancient wonders.
Yet maybe we should cast away this
Self – effacing view:
Acknowledge that
We did it all
Ourselves.

Paul Butters

What’s poetic about a foundry worker’s son,
Born and bred in Leeds, now idling my time away
In a rinky **** seaside town? What’s poetic
About sitting on my laptop reading Facebook
And pressing Like now and then? It’s got me typing
Like a modern poet, no rhyme or metre to be seen.
I’m going to (roughly) count the syllables then chop this
Into verses. Then post it on my favourite
Poetry sites, plus my blog.

Perhaps there’s poetry in me being a Working Class Boy made good.
In me being a Pro Careers Worker after failing
My Eleven Plus. Even got to Grammar School
For a couple of years. Taught English for six.

The Internet is my Salvation.
Television too.
Is that prosaic enough for you?
**** that rhymed! Knowledge and images,
That yet beget… and much more too.
No need to be there in person.
Just enjoy.

When writing poems there is no right or wrong.
It may be plain or sound just like a song.
Heroic couplets aren’t the only way.
Yet people always have to have their say.

It may be perfect, it may be not.
Just lose a syllable
Or go completely
Free.

Read unnamed samples of some classic works and you will see
That often you can add the names yourself.
They are distinctive.

A Shakespeare,
A Keats,
A Milton
Or a Yeats.

What matters is whether a poem works,
In some way,
At least for yourself.

Make your poems Memorable,
That’s what I say.
No need to be incredible,
Just let them play.

Read them with your inner voice,
Write them that way too.
Hear the music in those words,
This I’m telling You.

In ancient times these poems were songs,
Remembered off by heart.
At least you’d call them statements,
Knowledge to impart.

Iambic metre’s very common yes,
And so of course is rhyme:
To make these verses remembered
Through the course of time.

Yet verse is best as poetry,
Lyrical if you will.
We have to write with feeling,
And give the reader a thrill.

Paul Butters

It’s time for a rhyme
I hear you chime.
It’s time to hit the beat.

We’re ready to dance
Without a glance,
Pick up those Tyger feet.

Those drums do thump,
Dancers grind and bump,
The party’s in full sway.

Don’t feel like strolling,
Just want to be rollin’
In the scattered hay.

Them guitars are twanging
I’m really panging
To twirl you round and round.

Some like to fight;
I’d rather dance all night
To that raucous rebel sound.

Let’s go.

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

Into a new dimensional realm
I sprang:
Into a world so lost in vastness
Of space and time.

Somewhere out there
In the outer reaches
Of an obscure universe.

A planet full of life,
Of sweeping oceans
And towering mounts.

A place so beautiful,
Beyond compare.

All peopled by
Multi-coloured multitudes
Of sentient beings.

To where had I escaped?
You may well ask.
The loveliest world of all,
Of course.
A heaven of the heavens:
Our planet Earth.

Don’t fear your fear
Or even anxiety –
Nagging Neurosis:
Even if it makes you pour with sweat
And tremble.

Don’t fight your fear,
Or seek to suppress it.
Don’t dumb it down
With tranquilisers and the like.

No need to be Superman,
Nor Wonder Woman.
No need for Spock-like Volcan
Emotional mind-control.

You aint a wimp
Because you are afraid.

Don’t bury your fear
Or shake it off.
Just Listen to it!
For Fear’s a Warning.
It’s doing a job.
A Red or Yellow Alert.
Warning You
About what?

Through fear we survive
To thrive.

In bygone days it saved us
From dinosaurs and sabre-toothed
Tigers.

What is the danger now?
What are you doing wrong?
How are you putting yourself
At risk?

What terrors lie along this path?
What are your instincts whispering
In your ear?

Intuition tells you what?
What is there to fear?
Just listen
And feel.
Embrace your fear.

Survive
To thrive.

Paul Butters

With swirling serves and
Arcing,
Lashing loops,
The Table Tennis King
Of spin,
Attacks his foe.

In gladiatorial combat
He reigns supreme,
Sweeping and swirling,
Smashing,
And feather-touching,
That gyrating ball.

For many hours he’s trained and sweated,
Perfecting skills from very youthful days.
He started in the youthie playing “Ping-Pong”,
To rise, a phoenix, from the local flames.

His coaches now sit very proudly,
Having made him sweat and toil.
With all that stamina-work behind him,
No way will he go off the boil.

At last he stands victorious,
Having made that final ****.
There is no game like Table Tennis,
And winning’s such a glorious thrill!

PAUL BUTTERS

A bacteriophage virus
Sits snugly inside a germ
Which looks up
Not comprehending that
It lies on the surface
Of the eye of an ant
Who stands guard outside her nest,
A miniature citadel.

The ant looks up at the sky,
Not knowing that her home is hidden
In the garden of an observatory.

And here the astronomer looks up
Through her telescope
Trying to imagine what wonders
She might find.

Only aware
That beyond our universe
Is a multiverse,
A greater Realm,
Infinite possibilities acted out
Infinite times
With infinite variations.

And perhaps,
A spiritual world
That makes our realm
Look smaller than
A pea.

Heavens Above!

Paul Butters

Mother Nature rules the World,
And probably
The whole Universe.

Our Earth, a planet blue,
Just teems with Life.

Even deep beneath the ocean,
Amongst those geysers,
Oh so Hot,
You will find Life.

Lakes filled with acid,
Bone –dry deserts (look underground),
Solid sheets of ice:
They all are home-sweet-home
To bacteria
Or Viruses,
At the very least.

We bomb those cities to piles of rubble,
And poison the Earth with God knows what,
Yet always, given time,
Life will re-assert itself:
That sprig of couch-grass,
Those flowers.
Mother Nature never does give in.
Life springs eternal.

From amoeba to a dancing dolphin.
So utterly determined
To survive.
Clinging to existence
Like a limpet on a rock.
Invincible in Her tenacity.

Paul Butters

Just take your mind beyond our time and space
Continuum.

All things have happened, whatever they are.
The Universe has died, or been reborn
Again and Again,
In God’s Embrace.

You and I were born and passed away.
Andromeda and the Milky Way were merged.
Our Earth was roasted when the Sun ballooned into a Red Giant.
The Human Race had its day
And learnt its fate.

And I wrote this.
It all has happened, as I say,
Yet still is happening
Now.

Paul Butters

We seek another Mother Earth,
Another Planet Plenty:
A World within a Goldilocks Zone,
Snuggled up
Where everything’s just right.

Out there we gaze,
High in the sky,
Up amongst those swirling nebulae.
See those galaxies twirl,
As gas-clouds spawn new stars.
Supernovae die
To be reborn
As clouds of suns
And Planets.

Countless Billions of Worlds
All waiting
To be explored.

**Paul Butters

Inspire me to aspire.
To fulfil my every desire.
Come down you Muses.
Swoop low from Mount Olympus.
Fill me with your blazing fire.
Make me rise like a Phoenix,
Soaring aloft with burnished wings.

Give me a vision
Of Heavens paved with gold.
Let me see palaces
Carved from diamonds
Made in Neptune’s
Molten core.

Blind me with a light
So fearsome
I can barely look.
Show me infinity,
Eternal bliss.
Make me feel
A boundless Love.

Well,
What are you waiting for?

Paul Butters

Where are you Paul?
I'm in Cyberspace Mum.
My Pentium processor has broadbanded me
Into this wondrous realm.
A pixel powered virtual landscape
Peopled by avatars
Speaking Internet Slang.
FFS, *** are you talking about?
She asks.
In so many words.
I **** and ROFL at her incredulity.

It’s full of danger, that Internet, says Mum.
That’s true.
It’s full of paedophiles,
Spammers and trolls.
Hackers.
Chat-rooms and forums
Plagued by flame-wars
And spam enough to fill a trillion tins.
Sites full of viruses, Trojans, malware and spyware.
Cyber-bullies and loons abound.
But I just Love it.
A ****** addiction
Needing every fix.
A realm indeed of quantum singularities,
And imploding nebulae.

Paul Butters

(C) PB 3\9\2011 in Yorkshire.

They say there is a world that stands beside our own.
We cannot see it ‘til we pass on through that wall
‘Tween Life and Death.
Once there we are restored to what we were
At twenty five.
All ills removed to leave us all in perfect health.
There is no hell nor heaven waiting there for us,
No punishment for sins committed through our lives.
Nor golden pavements flanking diamond streets
For those who have been “good”.

Yet call this Heaven if you will.
What’s in a name I have to ask.
Let’s call them Angels who live there.
They watch our struggles through this Earthly life.
On passing some will even go
To their own funeral.
It’s said this nether-world is made of spheres
One atop the other
Through which you rise as you “mature”
In a spiritual sense.
All Angels work together
Just learning what they can:
And growing to a higher plane.

All this is said,
By many round the world.
My Hope
Is that
They’re right.

I see a pattern Everywhere:
Circles and globes (three dimensional circles);
Shiny rings of fire.
Countless manifestations of this same shape.

Star-spangled galaxies wheeling through the sky:
That half-globe dome.
Earth, in circular orbit (more or less) around the Sun,
Escorted by the Moon.

Days give way to seasons,
Repeating every year.
Groundhog Days becoming
Groundhog Creations
Perhaps.

The list seems endless:
Hopkins’ dapples,
Planets, craters, cyclones, anti-cyclones, sea currents,
*****, apples, oranges, nuts, potatoes,
Teardrops, heads, faces, eyes, mouths,
Holes!

Coins, bin lids, and plates;
Sunflowers, daisies, pansies,
Rings of mushrooms,
Circling birds of prey,
A cat curled in a circle,
Like a foetus.

Life as we know it
Is a circle
And a cycle too.
Birth, Death, Blossom, Wilt.
Reincarnation?
Renewal?
Clock-faced Time itself.

Eternity might be a circle,
Infinity the same.
Maybe even God,
Some way.

Perhaps we still are building God,
For Him or Her to travel back through time
Like Doctor Who
To Create The Big Bang,
And form this expanding Universe,
Thus taking us full circle.

Or maybe the Universe will fold back in upon itself,
Producing yet one more Big Bang,
In an endless cycle,
Of Big Bangs,
Amongst this ever circling
Multiverse.

Paul Butters

© PB, 14th February, 2011 at 14.00, in Humberside.

Delicious eyes of magic fire,
Warm shafts that finger forth a touch
Of Love;
Enticing my desire
To surge through lancing beams
As rolling waves o’erride the ebb,
Which sheens, a mirror of the sky,
Leaves pools of cool tranquillity,
Enriched by sprinkled stars of pollen-
That fell from flowers, that hug the heaven:
Hidden beyond the misty trees,
Which blossom founts of rustling leaves.
   These forks of light lash through the woods,
   From dawning suns that melt the ocean floods.

PAUL BUTTERS

Does a mirror show the truth?
I could be a girl for all I know,
Or look like one at least.
Might be so ugly,
Or very handsome.
A monster
Or Tom Cruise.

That mirror
Like a television
May have a life
Of its own.

So if that glare
Should ever be switched off
(For any reason)
Then my real image
May resurface:
A scabby, gargoyle horror
Mutated
From atomic war.
Or, some radiant beauty,
Freed from the mirror’s
Shining cell.

Mirrors!


Paul Butters

Genetic engineering’s here to stay
Possibilities are endless, scientists say:
Men mixed with anything we can find:
Oak trees, wasps, ants and elephants combined.
Satanic horror armies sweep their enemies away
And Frankenstein’s monster’s little but child’s play
Compared with these.

Yet with Good intent,
And wisdom heaven sent,
Utopia or Paradise could be on its way:
Bumper bug-free harvests every day,
Giant fruit and docile, friendly beasts.
Food for all, and endless feasts.

All manner of
Good
Or Evil
Is within
Our grasp.

It’s down to us.

A poem, to me:
A statement, speech, a view.
Onomatopoeic metaphor
About me and you.
Plotted and planned,
Or just a thing I do.

From instress to inscape,
Hopkins-like,
So very, very true.

A riotous myriad of colours,
Scented roses,
Touches new.

In verses and stanzas,
Pocket pictures you see;
Iambic rhythms and pulses,
Traditional verses,
Or free.
Time for tea.

Above our Earth so high
The Hubble telescope now hangs
Beyond our vault-like sky:
An all embracing eye;
Now showing us the universe
In all her glory.
Those swirling galaxies give way to seemingly endless
Tracts of quasars, dust and gas.

Through Hubble we look back through time,
At remnants of the Big Bang:
The Birth, they tell us, of Creation,
That might be repeated,
Over and over again.

Yet, before this satellite was launched,
Or telescopes invented,
Just what did humans know?
What did the Aztecs know of England,
Or fourteenth century English folk know of America?
As technological advances have
Been swift, so our state of ignorance
Has been revealed for all to see.
For no-one knows The Purpose of Life.

     Why?
   Oh Why!
Do We Live
   To Die
     Why?

For we will Die
Not Knowing Why.

Ask Christ they say,
He’ll show The Way.
Ask God and He will too.
Ask Allah, Buddha,
Anyone you like;
And Me, I’ll tell you just to Hope,
For Love will see us through.

Life-Death Forgotten, Never Was;
Time, matter whirling, empty Space.
Love, merely hunger, drives us On;      
Self, ever lonely, rots apace.
God, faintly ruling, far away,
Sees sinful, ***** liars pray.
Vague faceless ocean,
Blackest Light;
Nothing tells us What is Right.
Life is but a Game we Play;
Death no more than End of Day,
Forgotten.

(Yet Remembered,
With Hope).

Paul Butters

(First Drafted and (C) 22\4\1971)

(13\6\97: "Yet Remembered... added)

My dearest reader, seconds ago, before your
Decision to turn the page, there was nothing.

These very words were hidden away and thus
Unseen, to all intents did not exist:
Just like the beauty of the Jovian Moons
'Til “Voyager” beamed those pictures back to Earth.

For you have brought this page to life - yes you and only you!
You bring along a wealth of memories of your own,
Your feelings, thoughts, regrets and sorrows, joys
And fears, your hopes and fantasies.

You have the mountains of your mind:
Your personal rivers, clouds and suns: flowers and gasometers!
Landscapes, dreams and nightmares of your very own.
And me, as you sit reading this, I might be dead and buried,
Or with you right now, or maybe miles away.

To you I give the role of God: to breathe your life upon this page.
Take you away, dear reader, and there’s nothing: formless void.
Yet now, together, you may join me, in a realm
Where Life, though challenged by evil,
Is warded by our Love.

Paul Butters

(C) PB 1997.

My head feels dull.
Not even “comfortably numb”.
No mood for rhyme
Yet must cast my soul
Back through time.

No.
No more rhyme.
Just cast my mind back.
Seek that spark.
Call out my Muse.
Be inspired.
Excited.
Yes.

Excitement shines
Like a billion suns.
The merest touch
Explodes
My every nerve.

Magical mysteries
Unveil themselves.
Brilliant, fluttering butterflies
Flash and flicker
Those rainbow colours and more.

Deep inspiration.
Adrenaline rush.
Electrical discharge.
Cascading sweat.

Thunder-drummed tornadoes.
Lightning storms.
Rose tinged dawns,
And silver-ghosted Moons.

Inspirational volcanoes
Of Muse-blown delight.
That’s how it was,
To be in Love.