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.

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.

Dilly dally ****
Ranieri has now gone.
Sacked by the Leicester board:
Watch them wield that deadly sword.

He won the league last year,
Then made Leicester disappear.
Should have been given a chance
To win the Relegation Dance.

Vardy grabs an away goal at Seville
Then next news the manager is nil.
It was a very nasty shock,
So early in the turning of the clock.

Ungrateful and disloyal too,
Those owners haven’t got a clue.
Hard-nosed business it may be,
Whatever happened to that word “We”?

They should have built a statue in Claudio’s name:
He’ll still be blessed with endless fame.
I’ll leave you with this sorry thought:
Football’s no longer a proper sport.

Paul Butters

I wonder if I can write a poem with two voices?
Don’t know mate, maybe you can.
Who the hell are you?
I’m your second voice, you muppet.
Ah. But will they be able to tell?
Well, skim readers might miss it.
Oh.
But if they read “vocally” like you do,
It should be okay.
What, even when I go
Onto a new line?
Reckon so, just about. In any case,
Some websites will format it differently,
But we’ll get away with it.

Is it still poetry though?
Could be, mate.
Really?
Well, it depends on the wording I guess.
So we need some flowery language?
Yes, like the dogs of war are gathering,
As two adversaries square up,
For gladiatorial combat.

MMM. Well, I’d prefer to write things like:
The sun is streaming over snow-capped mountains,
To greet the summer
As we awaken from our wintry slumbers.
That’s okay too mate: it’s all poetry.

But should I really be seen,
Talking to myself?
They know you’re mad already, friend,
No worries there.
That’s okay then:
Let’s get this thing posted.
Yes, go ahead.

Paul Butters

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

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

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

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

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

Paul Butters

Here shines the loyal light,
Reminding us of Boxer Manson.
Still standing guard o’er us in Doggy Heaven,
Keeping his family safe throughout the night.

Paul Butters

Back in the twenty first century
The world was in chaos.
There was no World Gov.
Democracy was limited to certain “Nations”
As such territories were called.
(We were so territorial then).

Millions died of malnutrition
In places called “Asia”, “Africa” and elsewhere.
Factions fought for land, resources
And “Religious” beliefs
That I will describe to you later.

In those days people were persecuted
For their race, gender
And any way in which they differed from “the norm”.

Anyone who spoke up against injustice
And countless other wrongs
Was branded “Un-PC”
Humiliated
Before his (or her) peers.

Those were troubled times,
Back in those “frontier days”.
Be thankful we are now civilised:
United Human Race,
Worldwide Democracy,
People Loving,
Compassionate
For the Good of All.

Welcome to my history class.
Let us learn from our mistakes,
And never repeat them.

Paul Butters

They crawl along the streets like zombies:
Heads cowed over Androids and iPhones.
Busily pressing buttons,
Risking life and limb
As they cross the road.

It reminds me of “Star Trek Next Generation”
When young Wesley and the rest
Were hypnotised
By some alien “game”.

Sometimes they sit in huddles,
Messaging one another
Or playing, yes,
An addictive game.

All lost in a dream world
On Facebook or Twitter-Chat Whatever.
Soon we will no longer “fall out” with anyone:
We will “Unfriend” or “Unfollow” them.

I still prefer my laptop.
But how long before I too
Succumb to this addiction?
How long before my “Facebook Morning Splurge”
Becomes a day-long trawl?

Before I know it I will be like the others:
Lost in panic –
Frantic
Because I forgot to bring
My mobile.

Paul Butters

© PB 25\12\2017.

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

For single, retired folk like me
Christmas and Bank Holidays are a bind.
Everything is closed,
No buses running,
Friends, like me, are staying home.

No pub for me today.
No squeezing through hordes
Of once a year drinkers
To get to the bar.
I’d rather enjoy my armchair
At home.

But the peace is pleasant,
A nice winter break.
Right now it’s all about
That baby in a manger
Being visited by three wise men.

I have a Christmas Dinner
Ready to microwave
And stocks of beer, whisky
Plus crisps
To keep me going.

Plenty of time to reflect
On another year gone
As seventy looms large for me.
Another year of Coronavirus Variants
As we work our way through
The Greek Alphabet.

Another year of stops and starts
Having to adapt
To whatever monster rears
Its ugly head.

I’ve kept playing table tennis
When the hall’s open
And walked to pub or café
When they’re not closed.
Doing well for a veteran
Can’t complain.

It’s peaceful at Christmas
That’s my refrain.

Paul Butters

© PB 25\12\2021.

Don’t read this.
Scroll down from it like you usually do.
Well, most of you.
Unless you are one of the faithful few.

But the words keep coming.
My Voice will not be stilled.
Free verse keeps pouring
A persistent stream.

Now, though, I am haunted by this thought:
That nearing seventy I have but twenty years to live,
Thirty if I’m lucky,
God willing.

And like everyone else I hide in distraction,
Eating and drinking,
Finding entertainment,
Indulging in meaningless competition
Pointless projects
And generally playing out time.

Others do likewise,
Building great empires
Or just idling away
Those passing hours.

Yet my mind reaches out
Beyond the Time-Space Continuum
To a place where everything has already happened
Our lives have already been and gone.
The Universe as such has lived and died.

And when my brain returns
Back into this Realm
It encounters the sheer Science
Of an endless Cosmos
Endless in all dimensions
All directions
All times.

The mind is boggled
By Existence
Bringing substance, time, infinity and eternity
All impossible
Yet inevitable
Once something happens to Be.

Wherever you go
There is something further
Always a here and there.
Always a past, present and future.

Indeed, all impossible.
But I have to concede
There must be some Ultimate Intelligence somewhere
Even Sentience
That we might call God.

And maybe what The Ancients called “God”
Was but the nearest “god” we know of!

Yet don’t expect Him or Her or It
To come running
To our aid
Especially as
There may be no such thing
As an “Ultimate”
And no way to escape
From the Space-Time Continuum.

We are lost in the impossible,
So maybe all we can do
After all,
Is make the most
Of what we’ve got.

Paul Butters

© PB 12\4\2022.

The beach sweeps to the horizon.
Black specks:
They’re people there!
Insignificant
In vastness.
Tiny dots
Enveloped
By sand and sea and cloud-flecked sky.

Paul Butters

“Nothing” is so hard to imagine,
For even empty space is something.
Nothing means “no thing”,
Which means it cannot exist
Without Existence.

There must be Something
For there to be a Nothing.
And then we have the anomaly
Of sub-atomic particles
Winking in and out of existence:
Something then nothing then something then…

We are partly made of such particles,
So we too are winking……

The wonder of it all, of course,
Is that I sit here
Scratching my head about “Nothing”,
A sentient being trying to make sense
Of the miracle that is Life.

Paul Butters

A gigantic, great giraffe thrusts his head
With that incredibly long neck,
Up into the high trees
To kiss the canopy.

He nibbles at those leaves,
Swirling them into his mouth
With that enormous tongue.

With his mottled, mosaic-patterned hide
He looks like a leopard on stilts
As he towers over all he surveys.

He’s not the most stylish of runners
With those spindly legs
But with that ever so long neck
This Giraffe is the king of the sky.

Only birds like Eagles can look down
On the Giraffe.
He is the highest mammal around
Tall and proud
Seemingly miles above the ground.

Paul Butters

© PB 21\2\2022.

Our so-called “Universe” is an erupting volcano
Spewing out gas and solid matter
To form a cosmic web
Of incandescent galaxies full of stars
Rushing away from us
Ever faster
Until we see them no more.

We tiny mice men gaze up at the sky
To make out next to nothing
Of the wider landscape
On which our universe-volcano
Sends out its plumes.

Us mice we sit, idly supping our pints of ale:
Taking a break from “shopping”
For the better half.
Blithely taking for granted
The wonder that lies above our heads.

A cosmos riddled with black holes –
Places where Time has stopped.
Where if you somehow survived
You would be frozen solid
With no knowledge that Time keeps moving
Out there beyond the Event Horizon.

If Time has stopped
How can anything exist?
How can Hawking Radiation seep out
When there simply isn’t time?

Even Brian *** doesn’t know,
As he sits and sups his pint.
None of us know.
And as my glass empties,
Just as the universe will eventually empty,
All I can say is
Let’s have another one.

Paul Butters

© PB 7\12\2021.

The sea has gone to sleep:
Become a mirror of the sky.
Lapping onto the land
With subtle churnings.

It’s a brightly sunny day,
Uplifting the spirits.
Hardly a hint of breeze
As the tide creeps out.

I slumber in the languidness of *****’s beer.
All angst buried as I settle down to sleep.
That mighty, massive ocean is so still now.
Its monsters have been well and truly put to bed.

Blue sky
With lightly painted clouds upon the horizon.
My porch is warm today
In the golden sun.

Paul Butters

Whatever did we do,
Before we entered the Facebook Wonderland?
Oh, we played in the streets
And went to pubs and socialised.
But who needs Reality
When we can chat with folk
From far away places,
Whom we’ve never met?

My mates are there too
Or some of them
And many of my blood line.
All together
In a kaleidoscopic land
Of “memes”, images and jokes.

We “Like” and “Comment”
“Reply” and “Share”.
It’s you scratch my back…
While the “Facebook Foundation” encourages us
With “Memories” and prompts
And “What’s on your Mind?”

For this is the land
Of the “Loving Community”,
Caring and Sharing together.
Though if truth be told,
At times,
It’s more like the old Wild West.

Paul Butters

© PB 23\8\2018.

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)

A swish carpet of summer flowers sweeps across the plains.
Blossoms deck the mountains all around.
My skin is swathed in humid southern air
As aromas of fresh-cut grass and lavender
Lounge around the lazy gardens.
Flowers of every hue
Are guarded by sentinel trees.
Red, white, orange, purple, pink….
Every nuance of colour represented here.
Taste that grass, that floating pollen.
**** that nectar under summer skies.
A blackbird twitters,
Those bees they buzz.
All birds are singing
Heavenly chorus,
From God above.

Paul Butters

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

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

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

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.

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

Paul Butters

© PB 13\8\2015.

The shires bask serenely in the summer sun.
Streams flow smoothly down the green hillsides.
All is well with the world
As apple blossoms bloom.

Such peaceful scenes are soothing to the soul.
Spiritually uplifting: a sensual seduction
Of sight, sound and aromatic smells.

Snakes may hiss and stoats may snarl,
But nothing reduces this sense of peace and calm.
Assonance and sibilance flows as I scribe
My idle dreams upon this page.

It’s good to let your imagination loose
To planets out there amongst the stars
Or simply let it roam over the slumbering countryside.
Good to escape the struggles and strife
Of daily life.
Good to sleep easy
After meditating at our leisure
Refreshing ourselves with Mother Nature’s
Soothing Love.

Paul Butters

© PB 8\1\2022.

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

Paul Butters

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

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

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

Paul Butters

This little world is like most worlds
Throughout the Cosmos.
Here the sun never moves
From its place in the sky:
Seemingly endless morning or eve,
Take your choice.

No concept of time.
No seasons.
Nothing to show the passing of the years.
Just that sun.
Moons optional.

The plants are black
Under a dark red sky
All sombre
All still
Apart from the odd cold wind
From this planet’s “Dark Side”.

For, like most planets,
This world resides in the Goldilocks Zone
Of a Red Dwarf Star
A zone where water may flow
Under the glow of a star
Like the vast majority of stars
Throughout the universe.

This world’s residents might well look out
Into space
With envy at our golden sun
With its blue Earth
Adorned with a coat of green
And its seasons
And days and nights.

They may learn from us about time
About our freedom to roam a long way
Without meeting tropical desert
And eternal frost on the dark side.

They may gasp in wonder
At this Paradise of ours
As they ponder their black grass
And hide from solar flares.
No respite from that relentless red sun,
No sense of time
Apart from monotony.

And they might wonder at us,
As we fail to care
For our glorious world
As it basks in our golden sun.

Paul Butters

© PB 28\7\2001.

We seek The Purpose of Life,
Or just some Meaning;
A Philosophy,
As we stare through the formless mists of time.
Yet Existence simply Is,
As is Life:
Wondrous phenomenon
That happens.

We are taught to give each thing a function:
The wheel that rolls us on,
A pen which writes.
But Life is Life
Nothing more.
Generations take turns to live,
Passing on the baton.

Trying to breed ever greater Minds,
We yearn to be Immortal.
Studying those regenerating jellyfish,
The search is on
For The Fountain of Youth.

Yet maybe it’s time to stop trying
To make sense of it all.
Perhaps it’s time to spring into action,
And Get On With It.

Paul Butters

Alliteration and assonance
Are what we need to make words dance.
Pretty poetic practices percolate the page,
As apples happily meet our approval and appreciation.
Words have music
As surely as the sun
Gives light.
And all these things
Are older than the hills.

Paul Butters

You know the song
So bring it on.
Football is the theme,
And England is our team.

We invented the modern game,
So losing is a shame.
But we are going to win.
Let the celebrations begin.

Bring on Croatia,
We know we can outpace ya.
As for France,
We’ll lead them a merry dance.

If it’s Belgium we’re happy too,
They always let you through.
Though nothing is ever certain,
Until the final curtain.

We’re owed (a lot) from Lady Luck,
But so long as we win, I don’t give a…
It’s time we won again,
Making boys into men.

I really hope we win:
Prepare for quite a din.
History could be made
That will never ever fade.

Paul Butters

© PB 9\7\2018.

Nothingness:
Nothing,
Non-Existence,
Infinite, Eternal black space stretching out
Beyond imagination.

Yet even Nothing is a Something
That Exists.
Even Nothing could create
The Big Bang.

Everywhere we look
Subatomic particles wink and blink
Into Being
Then vanish
To reappear.

We are never stable
Ever changing
In tune
With mathematical equations.

The wonder of it all.
Force, energy, matter
Incredible piles of rock
And clouds of gas.
Supersuns and bottomless black holes.
All indifferent to the fact of their own existence
Until Life appears
Perhaps inevitably
With minds to witness
These incredible happenings
That happen
Until the end of time
If time can end.

Paul Butters

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

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

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

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.

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

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

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

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

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

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

The bigger you are
The easier target you become.

Paranoia will annoy you,
But traitors will do worse.

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

Paul Butters

Trees are inevitable,
For something must grow higher than the rest.
Grass is inevitable too:
To carpet the world.
So are fish, to swim the seas,
Birds to fly the skies
And human beings to walk the plains.

All Life is inevitable
Springing from a chemical formula or two.
The Universe has Rules
Which make it so.

So, is God inevitable?
I have to ask.
Is there bound to be an Overlord
Responsible for All?
Or is it all an Accident?
Chance Happening?
A spin of some Super-Galactic Wheel?

It’s Logical to have some Being
Who’s Omnipresent, Omnipotent, Omniscient –
However many Omnis there may be.
Or even a Race of Gods
As the Greeks and Romans surmised.

Some say that We invented God
And that is very possible.
Some claim there simply is No God,
Which is quite possible too.

All I know is that I’m here right now,
Living in the Hope
That somehow I’ll survive
My Final Demise
A certain thing that is
For all
Inevitable.

Paul Butters

Good old Norman,
Thank goodness he’s normal.
Unlike many a friend,
He hasn’t gone round the bend.
Stevens is his surname:
He never plays the Blame Game.

Such a decent chap
And never utters *******.
Whoops, I had to miss that rhyme,
To avoid committing a bit of a crime.

Norm is quite the hero,
And something of a Shakespearo.
He’s maybe my biggest fan,
From England to Japan.

Reading poems from me,
Right there on his Smart TV.
So Norman enjoy your beer,
As I will always be here.

Paul Butters

© PB 1\12\2018.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Think friends
And soon they’ll all appear.

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

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

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

Paul Butters

Don’t cut all your food up before you eat it:
Slice as you go.
And don’t mix up your curry and rice first:
Take some curry, add some rice…
“But I can eat it all at once this way”.

Cut your box hedge only once or twice per year.
“That will let it grow six foot high instead of four though”.
Do all your shopping at once.
Plan ahead so you don’t have to nip out for things.
“Hate shopping. Rather buy as and when.”

Put your Geraniums in pots over winter.
“I’ll need hell of a lot of pots!
Will break the roots
Digging them out
Of that claggy soil.”

Your Artex could have Asbestos in it:
That could be dangerous.
“I’m not about to drill into it
And breathe in the dust am I?”

What you don’t know when your car MOT and tax are due?
“My garage knows and they look after me.
But I checked them on the internet now.
The garage is right.”

You didn’t know you’d paid off your mortgage
And you claimed for a moat?
“I’m a politician”.

Why do you put all that ******* on Facebook?
“Because my friends Love my posts and say so.”

You are supposed to…
You shouldn’t…
You should…
You mustn’t…
You Must!

"People!"

Paul Butters

© PB 26\3\2018.

Before the UK Election
Those Tory Trolls slagged off
The Labour Leader
Jeremy Corbyn
Unmercifully –
Dredging up his distant past,
Turning his heroic quest for Peace in Northern Ireland
Into an act of alleged “treason”
And much more.
They painted a grim grey scene.

But like King Arthur and his gallant knights,
Corbyn unsheathed his own Excalibur:
That mighty thing called “Hope”.
He offered us all a brighter future,
Except perhaps for the greedy rich,
To sweep through the enemy ranks
Upon his horse, “Momentum”.
Once more to the breach…

And as the opinion polls swing
More and more in his favour,
Victory for Labour
Is only a matter of time.

Paul Butters

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

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

World Peace!
Are you an idealist’s dream
Never to be achieved?
Were the Beatles’ Loving words
In vain?

Or can we get there?
Can we build a world
Where no-one Hates?

For that’s the first step:
Stop Hating!

Abandon your lust for land
Wealth and Power.
Learn to love those different from
Yourself.

We need a new approach.
We maybe need a Government of The World,
Democratically elected.
I’ve no idea who might set this up.
But we need it badly.

We need someone to share the world’s resources
So that no-one has to fight
Just to get a drink or bite to eat.

I search my soul,
To find that I myself am wanting.
Old hates still burn my brain.
I recall some people I would hurt
For what they did to me
In days gone by.

So I meditate,
Seeking to soothe my troubled soul.
For, if I can find some peace within myself,
Well, that’s a start.

Paul Butters

Succulent, seductive floral displays please my senses no end.
Spring is here!
Promise of countless flowers
As Summer surrounds us with scorching sun.
Before long those Daffodil buds will trumpet out
And cherry blossoms will brighten each lengthening day.

Birdsong serenades us
In a twittering chorus.
Nature’s Jazz wakes me up
With every blushing dawn.

We live in Paradise
Yet keep our senses closed.
Immersed in mobiles and social media
The wealth of nature is ignored.

So open your eyes and listen with those ears.
Stop bombing neighbours
And robbing the poor.
Love Life
Embrace Mother Nature
And make the most
Of what Providence has provided
For us all.

Paul Butters

© PB 4\3\2022.

Repetition is the best petition.
Drive that refrain into your brain.
It’s my mission.
Driven on by Stewart Copeland the musician.
Drums and dance
Send me into a trance.
Transcendental music
Any way you choose it.

Repetition, repetition, repetition
Just as potent as nuclear fission.
Sometimes, for me, it’s just too much.
As crazy as Screaming Lord Sutch.
Yet here I make a telling submission
About the power of repetition
As beautiful as a painting by Titian.
A composition to appeal to your cognition
To get you into a better condition
Without transition.

There are four hundred and ninety rhymes
Of repetition
And that’s not something from superstition.
But I’d better avoid a war of attrition
Even with your kindly permission.
It’s great to prance
And have a dance.
I’m glad you’ve given
This poem a glance
To give its rhythms every chance.
My aim is to enhance
And cut through the boredom like a lance.

Poems are music
Poems are Romance
So let’s advance
Then make a stance.
That’s my position.

Paul Butters

© PB 2\2\2020 (first line written 31\1 then notes made 1\2). Final line added 3\2.

Deep within the spacial abyss that is my brain
There lies a little blue planet called “Paul”.
Hidden away from most of reality
This world is full of wondrous dreams.

Its drifting continents are full of sporting arenas,
Traditional pubs and inns
And swarms of gorgeous women.
Lofty mountains overlook sandy beaches
Fringed by sun kissed palms.
Endless vistas of hill and dale
Teeming with Life.

There is a Dark Side too:
I have my “Mordor” for sure
And my own Sauron.
Who doesn’t?
Lands full of man eating wasps
Fearful ghouls and witches
And torture chambers
Full of dental equipment.
Giant eyes
And Mirrors
Which take on a life
Of their own.

But let’s focus on the Brightness here:
The music and poetry
And even dance
And romance!
A place where we can “Get Around”
To Beach Boys harmonies,
Rock to Chuck Berry
And enjoy whatever delights Carlsberg can conjure up,
If not a pint of “*****’s Beer”
From Cleethorpes.

Paul Butters

© PB 10\5\2018.

I’m in a sleeping dream again:
Some bloke takes me into a nearby empty room
And asks me why I’ve done what I’ve done.
I’m so surprised.
A colleague says she had to tell him
What I’d done.
Another shock
Before I awake.

Now I see this dream is rooted in memory, real.
Yet how could my Id surprise me yet again?
Did I tap into a source
External?
Was it God
Or Aliens
Or someone or something
Else
Who sprang these shocks on me?

Am I two people
Rolled into one?
Or but a radio receiver
Picking up some telepathic waves?

I cannot help but ask these things.
For, when I die, will I
Fall
To
Deeper
Sleep
And Dream.

Paul Butters

Being the softy that I am,
I feel sympathy for all those prisoners
On Death Row,
No matter what they’ve done.

But then I reflect that every one of us
Is also on Death Row.
Unless perhaps you are an ancient tree,
Or one of those jellyfish
Who regenerates like Doctor Who.

For Death is inevitable
The moment we are conceived.
I look for ways around this
And only see
An ocean
Of Religious and Spiritual
Speculation.

Paul Butters

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

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

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

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.