Rejoice at Morning’s Miracle,
For We are here again.
The Grim Reaper
Has let us live another day.

God’s Grandeur shines upon us
As, again, the clichéd golden sun
Pokes her head through the Eastern clouds.

An orchestra of chiming birds
Greets the day
As again I say
Rejoice!
I repeat: Rejoice.

Time to check the temperature outside
And scatter some wild birdseed.
Time for breakfast
And the early news.

Time to have a pub-lunch,
Then a game of tennis
Or table tennis
Or snooker.

Morning’s time to meet my Muse,
And listen to her lyrical tunes.
To get composing,
No more dozing:
Broadcasting words
Throughout The Milky Way.

Enjoying the day
I look forward to
Some cloudless skies
So I can sit
And watch the stars.

Paul Butters

Soldiers of Peace march on
Have no enemies
Just hearts and souls to win over.
See no divisions
Between race or creed
Or whatever.

Engage with people.
Listen and understand
Where they are coming from.

Unite us all:
The human race –
Life Forms everyone.

Have that discipline
Of the best army
In the world
But channel everything
Into peace
And Love.

Stand together
For The Common Good.

Paul Butters

Thank Goodness Santa was exempted
From Covid Travel Rules,
So he could go and deliver
All those presents and shimmering jewels.
My great nephew and niece all smiles:
Look at their happy faces.
Santa did all those miles
And got to so, so many places.

He even brought me mine
Disguised as mail delivery.
Giving his reindeers time
To rest, for a while,
In their Lapland livery.

Top of the Pops at noon.
It was on so very soon.
Some nice tunes and jingles
Like a box full of Pringles.

Not quite Rock and Roll,
But still a hint of Soul.
Meaningful lyrics
And some atmospherics.

The Queen gave us Hope
With her speech at three.
No time to mope
Here in the land of the Free.

Trust you all enjoyed this festive day some way.
And let us all pray
That things get better
From New Year’s Day.

It’s time to conquer Covid:
About time I hear you shout.
It’s DNA decoded,
Vaccinations all about.

So twenty-twenty-one
Is coming very soon.
When this year is all done,
Let’s fly up to the moon.

Let’s fill the world with Love,
Holding hands again.
Goodbye to twenty-twenty,
Goodbye to all the pain.

Paul Butters

© PB 25\12\2020.

(Last two lines changed at the suggestion of Norman Stevens 27\12)

(Original final two lines were:
“It’s not a matter of whether,
Only a matter of when.” ).

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

I was brought up in Western Leeds,
Almost two miles from the nearest cow or sheep.
In sprawling suburbs:
Row after row of smoke stained redbrick slums.
We had our fields:
Jungles of Rose Bay Willow Herb
(Fireweed to the Americans)
On former demolition sites.
Our childhood spears were honed
From fireweed spears.

Our house was in a terrace
On “School Street”,
Where we took baths in the sink
And crept to outside toilets
In the dark of the “back yard”.

Those days were punctuated
By the “Yie Yie” blare
From the local factory siren.
A deafening sound.
And by endless hammering
From the scrapyard nearby.

But we loved our dripping and bread,
And our walks to the sweet shop.
Playing hopscotch on those stone “flags”
Along the sides of the cobbled street
Under old Victorian gas lamps
Straight from Narnia.

I recall crying on our return from the coast
At a dismal scene
Of soot shrouded trains
On tortured railway lines.

But I also feel nostalgia
For those heady days
Of childhood innocence.
Wearing a cardboard box as a space suit,
And running around
During a “New Year’s Revolution”.
Happy Days.

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

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

Ease your way into the day.
Being Mindful is the way they say.
Focus on Now, we don’t have long.
Meditate or sing a song.
For ten long years it’s been pipe and slippers (without the pipe),
And Ages have passed since we were nippers.

Slowly we all fade away,
For time cannot be held at bay.
I wonder what it’s all about,
There has to be another way out.
We die like flowers according to science,
There is no alternative to our compliance.
We may or may not be ruled by God,
But so long as I live I don’t give a sod.

Easy days and a set routine.
Do my best to keep my house clean.
Nice pub lunches four days per week,
A peaceful living is all I seek.
You may say I’m set in my ways,
But I’m contented in my twilight days.

Paul Butters

Feel free to mourn me when I’m gone,
When I will not be back again.
It’s natural to grieve at death
For those who miss you so, I know.

But don’t forget to celebrate my life
And all I’ve done on this fair earth.
Be full of joy about these things:
Immortalise me for my deeds.

I hope to live for many a long year:
If possible cheat Death immortally,
Perhaps by going somewhere safe
From the Grim Reaper’s deadly scythe.

I hope for many table tennis wins
And trending poems, before I leave this mortal coil.
Iambic rhythms throughout cyber space,
Free verse expressing a greater vision.

I’ve planned ahead by writing this,
And might have jumped the gun maybe.
But when you read this out perhaps,
I might by now be Free.

Paul Butters

© PB 19\6\2016.

I am king of the world, universe and everywhere,
But I have only a hint of power.
So all I can give you is attitude.
Just pointing out injustice
Where I see it.

Classes and castes and religious divides
I see as evils
To be opposed
With all my might.

For sure I’ve little might
Of course,
But I still have the right
To say that it’s all wrong.

Classless society is what we want:
Well anyone who’s worth his, or her salt wants that.
Religious discrimination is another thing
We need to remove
From our way of life.

There are many more evils in our world,
So we must do
All we can
To obliterate them
At every opportunity.

I can’t put this any other way,
Poetic or not,
We have to stand
And fight
Against all that we see
As bad.
For the Common Good.

Paul Butters

Perhaps someone thought of an Existence:
A Cosmos so arranged
That its skies would be adorned with stars
Full of worlds
Where sentient life was
Inevitable.

Just an inkling of a thought,
A singularity
That dreamed of a singularity
From which Everything emerged.
All imaginable good and evil,
Making Pandora’s Box look trivial.
Evolving intelligence
From primordial slime.
Wonders everywhere that we
Will never see.

All from just a thought.
But better think on this:
We are that thought.

Paul Butters

© PB 20\8\2021.

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

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).

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

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

Paul Butters

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

Simon “Hurricane” Hudson prowls the snooker table
Like any good mixed metaphor would.
A modern day Pythagoras
He triangulates his shots.

Meanwhile his rival, lion-heart "Rocket" Richard,
Not to be confused with Lionel Richie,
Is on his mobile Googling
How to play the perfect “snooker”.
And the two Perfect Pauls
Discuss the latest football,
While “Whirlwind” Wendy sits in judgement,
Knitting the night away.

At long last Simon plays a stroke!!!
And rattles those unrelenting jaws
Of that elusive pocket yet again.

The game rolls on.
But where the hell is Simon?
The clock on the electricity is running down
But where is Simon?
Where is he?
He’s at the bar
Telling barman Nick how Rochdale
Will win The Cup one day.

Hurray, he’s back to play again.
Cascading planets collide into new orbits
As they did in the Primeval Solar System.

We play on,
Safely keeping those precious *****
Away from those black holes
They call the “pockets”.
We try to pick our shots
(At those pockets lol)
But all we keep potting
Is that white one.
Maybe we should switch to Billiards,
Or *** some plants instead.

Paul Butters

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

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.

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.

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

There’s a group called “Madness”,
Play a thing called “Ska”.
Though their music’s jerky,
Suggsy is a star.
Started in the seventies,
Still are going strong.
Suggs is their lead singer,
They just can't go wrong.

Would you Adam and Eve it,
That they done so well.
If you do not like them,
You can go to Hell.

They had fifteen top tens,
In their fine career.
Cheer them on I tell you,
I’ll just have a beer.

This poem’s written in their style,
That you must have seen.
If you hadn’t noticed,
Just where have you been?

Saw them on the telly,
Just the other day.
Was a golden oldie,
Hip hip, hip, hurray!

Oh where is that policeman,
To make that cardiac arrest?
Oh I’d better not hurry,
Being peaceful is the best.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

© PB 1\2\2018.

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

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

Yesterday morning I woke at 4AM again
And once more my mind got churning.
I juggled with some words in my head,
Composing free verse on how I write my poems.

I wondered whether I should grab a pad
And write.
Or even get on my laptop.
But I made myself go back to sleep,
Forgetting it all.

So here I am,
A day later at 10.30AM,
Pouring out these verses:
A sort of Stream of Consciousness.

No thought of structure
Or metre
Or rhyme.
Just emphasising certain words and phrases
By giving them separate verses
Of their own.

Something I learnt once
When reading a book in Pudsey Library
About how to teach kids to write poetry
An easy way.

Unfettered by considerations of metre or form,
You can express yourself freely,
As deep as you wish.

Just let your emotion
Or Philosophy
Run free.
Let your words cascade
Over those shiny pebbles.
Babbling along through winding willows,
To crash over waterfalls
In a crescendo of sound.

A stream that sparkles in the light
Of sun or moon (and stars),
Wafted by scents of abundant flowers
And sappy cut grass.
God's Grandeur radiating all around.
Enjoy.

Paul Butters

Sun streaming
Brightly beaming
Into my lounge.

Golden dawning
Lovely morning
I’m still alive!

My heart sings
My soul has wings
Happy day.

Streams of photons light may be
Scientists tell us factually
Still beautiful to see.

Meerkats gather in early sun
Gazing in awe at the powerful one
Knowing the day has just begun.

Time to walk down to the pub
Ready for some lovely grub
And still the sun is shining.

Paul Butters

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

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

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

I walk to the pub or club,
Talk with folks,
Go play table tennis
Or shop.
But apart from all that chat,
Where do I get my “World View”?

How do I know what’s going on
Outside my little comfort zone?
I could even be another Jim Carrey
In some “Truman Show”,
Being filmed for some TV soap
That I’ve never seen
By Big Brother cameras everywhere;
Feeding off fake news
About the universe outside.

For everything we “know”
Comes from TV
And our mobiles
And PCs.

It could all be as false
As Trump says it is,
If he really exists!!!
Where is the Truth?

Will a No Deal Brexit be a catastrophe
Or a breeze in the park?
Are our “Enemies” really in the wrong?
Is the wider world anything like
It’s painted
On TV???

The con men, and women
Probably have us
In their pockets.
So all we can do
Is be as vigilant
As we can
And hope
That true Reality
Will be detected
At last.

Paul Butters

© PB 19\8\2019.

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

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

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

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

Black hole kisses
******* me out of myself.
Kisses wrapped in hugs.
Intimate moments at intimate times.
Memories to treasure
On a cold winter night.

We once played a New Year Game
In which you kissed a girl
Then swopped her with another:
Twenty or so kisses
To compare.

One kiss so wide
I could hardly stretch
To meet it.
Ending up
Trust me,
With the big fat unresponsive one
Too drunk
To even know
She was being kissed.

Recall one time being coolly kissed
Politely:
A kiss that said
In no uncertain terms –
If you want passion
You’d better go elsewhere
My dear.

For kisses are like handshakes:
Some firm and friendly;
Others too hard
Or too limp.
The young don’t always get it:
Lettuce limp
With their customary hands.
Physical expression
A dying art
Like conversation
In this digital age
Of mobile phones
Snapchats
And Insta-Images.

Time to rekindle the past,
Go back to playing out –
And away!
Get mud ****** mucky
All gloves off.
Back to Basics,
That’s The Way.

Paul Butters

© PB 5\2\2019.

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

It doesn’t really matter to me
How the universe came to be
Or whether God even exists.
I care nothing about kings and queens
Or anyone “in power”.

For I’m “The One”
Who leads this Life.
No-one else but me.
However impressive you are
You still are not Myself.

All that counts are the people and things I Love,
Even Like.
So if you’ve got nothing to offer me
Get on your bike.

No man is an island, so they say.
Yes, I’m not independent in every way.
But I’m an individual who is true to my soul.
To remain unbrainwashed is always my goal.

They try to make us run with the crowd,
Like sheep or lemmings led into the cloud.
It’s Media Hypnosis
Through that gleaming TV.
Only by being ourselves
Will we ever be Free.

Paul Butters

The World is all forlorn
As New Covid is born.
Time to frown,
We are getting locked down.

Vaccine, vaccine, vaccine, vaccine
We hear your cavalry bugle call.
Vaccine, vaccine, vaccine, vaccine
If you don’t work, the writing’s on the wall.

So many dead, it’s hard to bear,
So much menace in the air.
Everyone tired of this stuff,
So many folk having it rough.

One Lockdown was very tough
Having three is more than enough.
Children getting schooled at home
By parents who are on the dole.

Americans fight amongst themselves,
Instead of putting food on the shelves.
Brits have been distracted by Brexit,
Arguably a mistimed exit.

Last March I asked
Will this last a year?
Well the time is coming –
It’s getting near.

That vaccine surely gives us hope
But where’s our second jab?
No more playing rope a dope,
This chance we have to grab.

No jab at all for me,
As I am sixty eight.
I’ll have to wait and see
But am prepared to wait.

Paul Butters

© PB 8\1\2021. First two lines by Norman Stevens.

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

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

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

And global warming?
Our greatest threat.
A hoax!

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

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

Paul Butters

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

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

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

© PB 27\2\18.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

© PB 9\3\2018.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

How many times can I say
I don’t want to die
Or extol the bountifulness of Mother Nature.
And how many times can I gasp
At the wonder of our ever-expanding universe?
It is what it is
As I’ve said on many occasions before.

Yet that mysterious aura of spirituality still surrounds us.
Perhaps my Muse is having an early Autumn break.
We still are but tiny ants
Looking up and dreaming
About what lies beyond
Our star speckled night-skies.

It took us ages to find that we all come from Africa
That The Earth is not the centre of The Cosmos
And that really we know next to nothing
About anything.

We were so easily ravaged by a tiny virus called Covid
And still struggle against the excesses of Global Warming.
So much more still needs to be done.

It’s The Anniversary of Nine Eleven,
Queen Elizabeth II is dead.
King Charles III has taken the throne.
The kids are back at school now
And in the blink of an eye
It will be Christmas.

Paul Butters

© PB 11\9\2022.

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

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

Television cooks rarely do
Fish, chips and mushy peas
With spotted **** for afters.

No
It’s got to be
Creamy coconut curry
With Balingud Zalud
Soaked in Chimichurri sauce.

Or Jalapena Lime Slaw
Accompanied by spicy Sriracia mayo
And Rachero Sauce.
Plus a side-dish of fluffy soufflés.

The starter is a vibrant veggy ratatouille
With sashimi, tacos and tortillas.

But then there’s always vemuelli noodles,
Pommes frittes
Teriyehi
Thana messala
And Enchilada Casserole
Covered in Romesco Sauce
Or Hollandaise
With Falafels and couscous.
Then Neapolitan Ice Cream souffled Erotica.

All impossible of course.
But don’t we love
The sheer seduction of those Words.

Paul Butters

© PB 28\4\2020.

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

Iambic pentameters are quite old
As poetry fashions go now, I must say.
Tetrameters are sharper, yes,
But both are old I must confess.

Make any speech, with force, you’ll surely find
Iambic rhythms: the power of pulse.
Such things are found in common speech for sure.
And lines of ten syllables must endure.

Poetic structures set in stone are not
My way: variety is key I have
To say. Some use of rhyme is okay too.
So how you write, that’s up to you (my friend).

For I prefer to write free verse,
To steer away from doggerel’s curse.
Longer lines are languid, with gravitas.
Short ones clout,
It’s as simple as that.

Paul Butters

Leeds United on the attack
No sign of holding back
No matter what the score
We keep knocking on that door

Slicing through opposing lines
Creating chances many times
We really should score many more
That would bring us to the fore

Bamford bangs them in of course
Making us a formidable force
Get those shooting boots on, one and all
Let’s get past that defensive wall

Raphinha brings Brazilian magic
His silky skills are so fantastic
Kalvin runs the midfield show
Gives our team a rapid flow

Bielsa’s brain and dedication
Provides us with a firm foundation
He has us marking man for man
Keeping to the pressing plan

People hated us in the past
Now they love us, no more typecast
Strange to be so often praised
Enjoying having our profile raised

So here’s to Leeds, our beloved team
Hoping soon to be the cream
Keep going you men in white
Aiming for a future bright

Paul Butters

© PB 10\3\2021.

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.