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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

© PB 30\3\2019.

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

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

“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

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

Some say we all live in a “Multiverse” –
A myriad of universes
All parallel to one another
Invisible to us
Apart from our own universe
Wondrous as it is.

So in some other universe there is
Another version of yourself,
Where you turned right at some junction
Instead of left
And had a serious accident
Instead of winning the lottery.
Or nothing much happened
Or Everything.

Even my own fertile imagination
Is floored
By the endless possibilities here.
My mind is truly boggled
Fit to explode.

For every tiny insect in our universe
Might fly right
Or left
Or not at all
To thus create another universe.

I could write an epic poem on this.
To think that somewhere out there
I may be Immortal, or a King, or Rock Star
Or even about to be Executed
If not already dead.
And you might be these things too.

Versions of ourselves might live in universes
That echo those of fiction
In worlds such as Narnia, Middle Earth
And that of Star Trek, Star Wars
And Stargate SG One
To name but a few.

Oh to have a TV Remote
Like the fictional “Sliders”
To take us from this realm
To any other of our choice.
Or a “Uniscape”:
A machine like a Tardis
Which can take us to any place
Or time
Or universe
Or Other Multiverse???

My head is aching now.
My mind explodes
Like The Universe
And The Multiverse
Or Multiverse of Multiverses.
So I’d better stop
Before this becomes an epic
And my head explodes.

But, meanwhile, in another universe
I didn’t stop!!!

Paul Butters

© PB 18\9\2023.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

© PB 2\8\2019

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

Cats are cool,
They regally rule.
You think you own them,
But they own you.

Born as kittens they are so cute.
Before you know it, off they scoot.
Baby faces and big blue eyes,
Dopamine surges, what a surprise.

Pouncing on you as you walk through the door,
Kitty is lightning over that floor.
How we love to watch them play,
Brightening up an otherwise dull day.

The older cats look on with disdain:
They’d much rather use their brain.
More to the point cats love to sleep,
Waking only to take the odd peep.

So independent yet love a stroke:
Lots of purring you’ll invoke.
I’m not too sure of their table manners
But they’ve just got to be fans of canners.

I’m not too keen on them bringing a present,
Even though they might think that it’s a pheasant.
They can be cruel when they hunt,
But that’s their job, let’s be blunt.

Most popular pets, that’s for sure.
Feeling stressed? A cat is your cure.

Paul Butters

Existence
That’s The Thing
Not The Universe:
A mere detail,
If somewhat huge!

Logic dictates that Existence
Just came into Existence!
Or always Existed.
Eternal Existence.
I cannot see how a sophisticated God
Could exist
Before Existence.

You may call this an Accident
But what’s in a name?
Existence either sprang into Existence
Or Existed
Always.

Does God exist?
Irrelevant.
What matters is that Existence
Exists.

And for me
What matters
Is that I Exist.
For only I can live my life.
And only my life is what I know
To be so.
Even the Queen, or Putin or Trump cannot
Know what it is
To live my life.
Only I can know that,
Which makes me The King
Of Existence.

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

Who needs terrorists?
They are redundant
When over 60 poor people
Can perish
In a raging inferno
Caused by their own council.

For years the resident action group
Were poo pooed by the authorities
With, “Don’t worry your pretty heads!”
When they warned about fire safety regulations
Being ignored
Just like them.

No sprinklers and only one fire escape
In a twenty four storey building.
Only last year the tower was refurbished
With cheap plastic cladding that’s
Banned in the USA.

Our prime minister has been accused
Of failing to show humanity
By only visiting the Emergency Services
To avoid the angry public.

All this has happened
Not in some God forsaken third world country
But in the fifth or sixth richest economy
In the world.

For sure, that all engulfing tower-fire
Has made the blood of the people
Boil.
Let’s hope this volcano does not erupt
Like the one that caused
The London Riots of 2011.
Let’s hope our administration
At all its levels
Learns something from this:
To Care for its People.

Paul Butters

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

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

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

From nation to nation
All around the world
The Ruling Class
Though many times outnumbered
By the rest
Sit bathing in the sun
In their Ivory Towers:
Born to Richness
Whilst millions of Poor
Just starve to death.

Hordes and hordes of people,
Without clean water
Or food
Or a stable roof over their heads.
No medicine, or Education, or Anything
That Costs.

Governments give “Aid” to other governments
To “feed the poor”,
But we all know what happens…

What we need is a “Government of The World”,
Or some Benevolent Despot to Rule us all.
Anything must be better
Than the impotent UN
Or these shambolic “nations” –
Puppets of Globalisation.

Revolution threatens –
It often does –
Until the rulers appease us
With token concessions
And brainwash us
Though The Media,
So called “Education”
And Religious Dogma.

When will we learn?
Where is Democracy and Love?
But, bound by Political Correctness,
Woe betide if we Complain.
The Cold War continues,
So all we can do
Is soldier on
For The Common Good.

Paul Butters

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

Sun-blushed mugginess mothers us,
With the promise of a storm.
Swarms of bumble bees do buzz
Amongst Cotoneasters bathed in warm.

It’s proper summer,
That’s for sure.
No more ice and snow
For us to endure.

The Longest Day will soon be gone,
But here, right now, the sun has won.
Time to fiesta, how I love it.
More of this I truly covet.

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

They’re really rockin’ in Bradford,
Off the Pennine Way.
Deep in the heart of Yorkshire
And all round Robin Hood’s Bay.
All over South Ossett
Down there to New Farnley.
Roast beef and Yorkie Puddings,
God’s County Yay!

Yull see ‘em rambling near Ilkley,
Right to the county line,
Sheffield steel and Wednesday –
A football team so fine.
Better still, Leeds United,
Greatest club of all time.

Yorkshire, Kings of Cricket,
Oh what a boon!
Get down that wicket,
We’ll be champs by June.
Down a ginnel or snicket,
See our Olympic Champs.
Coal Miner Picket,
Relight those lamps.

Racing pigeons and ferrets,
Stereotypes tha knows.
Over t’top in Lancashire,
Them there’s our foes.
We’re the greatest county,
Our pride really glows.
We know you all do hate us,
It keeps us on our toes.

So we’ll be rockin’ in Yorkshire,
What more can I say?
Us Tykes're as barmy as Barnsley,
So I’ll be on my way.

Paul Butters

(With due thanks to Chuck Berry and also The Beach Boys)
© PB 2\5\2016.  Slightly Amended 14\4\2023.

They say that before every step
You take in life,
You flick a mental coin
Then go left or right
Turn or keep straight on.

In your own universe you go left,
Pop into a café,
Go home and have a nap.
Then carry on those humdrum days.

But that was close!
So close that in an alternative realm
You go right,
Go into a shop,
Buy a lottery ticket
And Win Millions!

For every possibility, the scientists claim,
Is played out
In an Infinite Multiverse.

Somewhere you are King or Queen,
And somewhere else you are about to be shot!
Somewhere you are a fly
Or a bear.

Somewhere my parents are still alive
And everyone is free of ill.
That tuneful Rainbow springs to mind.
Maybe there’s even a Universe
Where everyone is Immortal.
Where God calls in for a cup of tea.
And what we’ve read as fiction
Is all true.

These possibilities are endless and
My imagination strains to picture
All that might just happen.
Somewhere.
We can but Hope.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

© PB 23\11\2018.

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

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

No life or death
Pain or pleasure
Galaxy
Or Universe
No more beautiful dawns or dusks
No world of wonders
Or anything
Once we are gone.

So it’s Now Boys!
Attention!
As Huxley said
On “Island”.
Live for Now.
For this very moment.

Stop.
Let your mind go blank.
Listen to your body
And all that surrounds you.

Breathe in the oxygen
That gives us life.
Admire the sky
And all beneath it.

Join with nature:
Sapping grass and foliage
The song of birds
As Mummy Sparrow feeds her fluffy chick
Its beak open wide
Clamouring for food.

Enjoy it all
While it lasts.

Paul Butters

Dream on, my friend,
Like me.
Of a future Heaven on Earth,
Or even just a Heaven.

Peace to all Men,
And Women.
Nor more starvation,
Disease
Or Death.

A Paradise in full bloom.
Endless forest, savannas and parklands
Ringed by towering mounts.
Habitats for countless species:
Humanity united with Mother Nature.

Trivial pleasures too.
Leeds United World Champions.
British wins at Wimbledon.
Another World Cup win.

Girls Aloud joining me,
For a fish and chip tea.
More medals in Rio,
Than we got in twenty twelve.

Crank up that warp drive,
Or better still,
Open up that Uniscape
So we can go
Into a parallel universe
Of our choice.

A realm where fiction becomes fact.
Where Captain Kirk is real
And Shatner just a character
On TV.

Where Telletubbies really watch us,
And Father Christmas truly shows his face.
Golden pavements are mere trifles,
And God gives us his grace.

We have to keep on dreaming.
Our hopes must never die.
Just simply keep on dreaming,
No need to reason why.

Paul Butters

© Paul Butters 27\10\2012 (2) in Yorkshire.

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

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

© PB 16\11\2018.

Bruised and battered egos:
Retaliations –
Flaming tornadoes spiral up to stormy skies.
Mixed metaphors of caviar and custard
Maelstrom mightily around the mountains of Hell.

Trolling is appalling
And flaming burns.

Let go of that ego
Is my advice.

Be humble from the start.
No-one is great enough
To be beyond reproach
Or criticism.

Who cares how good or otherwise I am?
Who cares what anyone says
About my work?

I am what I am,
End of story.
To Describe what I am is fine:
See those metres, verses, rhymes
And metaphors.
Dismantle me if you wish,
But (please) put me back together.

No-one should stand in judgement,
Except maybe God,
With His bright wide wings.

So stop the abuse,
And sourceless insults.
Cease the condemnation,
Or stand to be IGNORED.

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

Wordsong, wordsong,
Lovely as birdsong.
Could be a Pop Song,
But never a Swansong.

Could be a rap,
And all that *******.
For Rap is easy,
Lemon squeezy.
But rap has beat
And words that repeat.
Rap has rhyme
Nearly every time.
Rap even has metre –
Who can beat her?

Yet wordsong is melodious too,
Giving us a worldly view.
Poems of love and dedication
Even human emancipation.
Whoops I’m slipping back -
Back into that addictive rap.

You must remember to read out loud –
Silver lining on every cloud.
Poetic landscapes catch our gaze,
Brightening up our mundane days.

The river of life keeps flowing on,
Iambic metre our beating heart.
Read it like you’re singing a song,
Write it whether or not it’s Art.

So play those words
So full of feeling
Just like the birds
And so appealing.

Paul Butters

© PB 27\1\2021.

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

© PB 5\10\2018.

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

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

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

The generations rumble on,
I know no reason why.
We build our countless tower-blocks,
Reaching to the sky.

Jacob is our newest one.
He’s only two years old.
Who knows what things he’s going to see?
Great nephew who’ll have…great stories to be told.

We saw men land upon The Moon,
For him it will be Mars.
His kids may go much further,
Even to the Stars.

He’s such a cheery chappie,
Chapman his mum’s maiden name!
I hope he will stay cheerful,
Though Life’s a funny old game.

I hope the world gets better,
For him and all his peers.
I’m sure he’ll be a pacesetter,
And not too many tears.

So here’s to futures bright,
For Jacob and the rest.
May there always be plenty of light,
Let’s wish them all the best.

Paul Butters

Human skin pigment ranges from pale yellow, cream, pink to dark brown.
There is no black or white.
Some African tribes are charcoal grey, but not black.
There is but one race, the human race.
Beware anything that Divides us.
We must Unite for the Common Good.
Welcome to Planet Paul.

The fictional “Prisoner” of the sixties said,
“I am not a number, I am a person.”
He also claimed he was a “free man”.
He shouted defiantly that he would not be pushed,
Filed, stamped, indexed, briefed, debriefed
Or numbered.

I couldn’t agree more.
Nor will I be labelled or classified.
“My life is my own”.
I’m an individual human being.
Not Working or Middle Class,
Nor white nor religious nor atheist,
Nor racist, sexist, feminist, chauvinist
No Tory, Liberal. Labourite, Corbynista,
Remainer, Brexiteer, Remainiac, Remoaner
Or whatever.
I don’t do labels.

We are each born as single living entities,
Without asking to be who we are.
All in the same “boat”:
A tiny planet on the far edge
Of a spiral galaxy.

My bowels work like everyone else’s.
I belch and ****.
From time to time I’m ill
Or injured.
A man of many moods.
I’ll live and die like everyone else.
For the bottom line is,
We need to Unite,
As We are All the Same.

Paul Butters

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

© PB 28\7\2018.

When slapped by raving rants
Or flamed with insults.
When slurred by sarcastic sneers.
I know your blood will boil,
And someone will say,
“Are you going to stand for that?”

Ignore that person.
Calm yourself.
Smile (if face to face)
Or take up Poker Mode.
Show annoyance and the enemy has scored.
Do not respond with anger.

If appropriate, try to reason with him, her or them.
Should they not reason, say no more.
Turn it into a joke whenever you can,
Even belittling yourself in an ironic way.

Never retaliate in kind.
Never feed the flamers and trolls,
Either online or in real life.

I see around me arguments go on
And on and on and on…
When will the listen?
Don’t feed the trolls!
How many times must folk be told?
When under attack
That old cliché applies:
Silence is Golden
(And so Powerful).

Paul Butters

Those eyes so sad
Watch your tail wag

Our Collie Labrador.
My loyal friend,
Love can never end:
We Love you more and more.

You have a mate,
A constant date,
She rolls all over the floor.

A lab and beagle partnership,
Bonnie and Clyde I quip:
Max and Promise at the door.

I take them for long walks,
And Max, he almost talks,
They know the score.

They’re on their way,
They’re here to stay,
They’ll never bore.

Promise prances,
And Max dances
All over that floor.

They lick my face,
Tongue-curled embrace:
That’s just what dogs are for.

Paul Butters

Whenever people criticise me
They usually don’t know that
I am my Biggest Critic,
Beating myself up
Like Tyson Fury.

It’s how I spur myself on,
Hopefully to better things.
But what things?
I still don’t know.

Oh to have blind faith
And sense of Vocation
As many others do.
A solid set of Values.
A script to follow
Opinions to declare.

Instead I dither
Undecided
Lost in an ocean of ifs and buts.
Too bright and open-minded
For my own good.

Worse still, I’m oh so eager to please.
I think myself incorruptibly honest,
Yet the truth is,
I only tell people what I think
They want to know.
It’s how I was brought up.

But then again
Am I willing to fight
For what I stand for?
Should I really be Devil’s Advocate
Just to “stick up” for my views?

Better methinks to hold my counsel
Or be diplomatic
Which may be okay
So long as I actually decide
What I think and feel
Within myself.

And there’s the rub.
What do I stand for?
Do I really think for myself?
Like so many others,
Am I dragged along:
Brainwashed by Media hoo ha
And hype?
Superficial sound bytes
And rallying calls.

I need to search my soul
And find my true feelings
And beliefs.
I know that I Love Life
In most of its forms.
I’m all for Wellbeing
And The Common Good.

I need to focus
On these things:
On making the most of
This Paradise World
We seem bent on ruining.

In short
I must stoke those fires of Love
And enlighten others
To do the same.

Paul Butters

© PB 13\12\2021.

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

© PB 7\4\2018.

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

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

All these vultures hovering around their prey:
Three golden prizes
Who will get there first?
Cue David Attenborough on commentary!
Coupled and single lions
Prowling about
Waiting for the chance of food and drink.

That coffee takes ages.
Coffee?
Yes, for this is my local
And my pack and I
Are thoroughly enjoying our ale
With our lovely lunches
Served to us by beautiful barmaids.

Those golden prizes are the three front tables
From where you can see the golden sand:
On a beach
Dotted with distant tiny people
As some frolic in the estuary waves
On paddle boards,
Basking in the glorious sun.
Time for another pint.

Paul Butters

© PB 2\9\23.

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

I might have retired from employment
But I haven’t retired from Life.
Nature’s wonders are green for me,
So I still love to write.
For sure I wear those slippers
As I type another poem.
But no pipe for me
Or smoke to fill my home.
I strut the courts of table tennis,
And play the full game too.
Sometimes I’m quite the athlete
Though I always like a brew.

I’m not talking tea here,
I think you get my drift.
A pint or too of draught beer
Will always give me a lift.

I love a game of snooker,
And a night of indoor bowls.
I’m not much of a cooker,
That’s just not one of my roles.

Pub lunches are so yummy,
It’s good to have a chat.
I always fill my tummy,
What more can I say than that?

Yes, retirement is so peaceful,
And I am free from “Work”.
It may not suit all people,
But Life I’ll never shirk.

Paul Butters

Right now bright sunshine blinds us to the sense
That we all live in a nebulous mist of uncertainty
Only knowing that eventually everyone Dies
After witnessing the miraculous wonder of Existence.

Eternal Infinity is impossible
Yet so too are finite boundaries
That only last for seconds.

There must be an Ultimate, All Powerful, Supremely Intelligent Being
Somewhere
We would think.
But is that possible in an Infinite Eternity?
And would any such being really be Omni Everything?

So we soldier on
Keeping ourselves amused.
Watching out for any clues
As to what this is all about.

Paul Butters

© PB 26\12\2022.