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

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

The rain keeps pouring down,
Pounding on the ground.
The rain keeps falling down,
Those ******* clouds make us frown.
The rain keeps tumbling down,
It started with some drizzle.
The rain keeps scything down,
Striking like a chisel.
The rain keeps sleeting down,
Causing local flooding.
The rain keeps belting down,
Plants droop instead of budding.
The rain keeps showering down,
No time for any stanzas,
The rain keeps teeming down,
From Scotland down to Kansas.
The rain keeps arrowing down,
Whenever will it stop?
The rain keeps swirling down,
Yes, I’m hating every drop.

Paul Butters

It might well be that the cosmos exists
Only because we do too
And we sense the universe around us.
It’s like Schrodinger’s Cat:
Only existing for sure when we
Open The Box.
Or that Double Slit Quantum Particle Thing
By Thomas Young
Where Quanta seem to know
When we are watching.

Those glorious sunrises and sunsets
What we live for
Only appear
Because we are here.

Without us there is soulless light
Shining upon indifferent clouds
In a realm of lifeless gas, dust
And rock.

We are the ones who see
The awesome beauty of the sky
And all beneath it.
The ugly stuff too.
It is ourselves who decide what is beautiful
And what is but a scar on the landscape.

It’s a shame that we are here
For such a fleeting moment
In the wider scope of things:
This eternity.
So we must pass the baton on
To the next generation.

Our only hope is that the children
Will love the world
Better than we have done.

Paul Butters

© PB 30\5\2023.

Britain is a battle ground for global weather.
Sometimes four seasons per hour!
An endless variety of cloud formations
But occasionally clear blue skies.

I love all those clouds.
Seeing faces, castles and who knows what
In all those shapes.
Gloriously colourful dawns and sunsets
That make life worth living.
Oh those reds, oranges, yellows, blacks and blues!
You can’t beat a sunset.

Hate the wind
And the snow.
But snow does look pretty.
Those crystalline flakes
Gently floating to the ground.

But then we have thunderstorms too!
Lashing lightning, striking from black sky.
Rumbling thunder exploding all around.

Such endless variety.
Rain and hail pounding down the chimney stack.
Relentless sun scorching crack-ridden earth.
Every extreme.
All manner of disturbance
And beauty.
An accompaniment to being Alive.

Paul Butters

© PB 2\6\2022

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

Paul Butters

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

A poem can be a statement,
A poem can be a song.
It can be a piece of music,
Playing all night long.

First we have to go up,
Then we must go down.
Then we have to go all around
To find this ****** town.

Poetry is music,
Singing us a song.
Any way you choose it,
Bing, bang, ****.

Assonant sounds assemble,
Alliteration lilts our lyres.
Raps and rhymes are pulsing,
Kindling all those fires.

An orchestra is playing
On this very page.
Letters and words are strumming:
It’s a Golden Age.

Choirs of Angels Singing,
Guitars with a twang.
Ear that piano playing,
This may or may not scan.

If a pawn’s the soul of chess,
As Philidor did say,
Then letters and the sounds they show
Are what brighten the poet’s day.

So get those letters running,
All along the page.
Those sounds are our chess pieces,
Ready to engage.

Paul Butters

Oh for a world without wars!
Free of terrorists.
Where each and every one of us
Can go about our daily lives
Without any fear.

But I read somewhere
That there may be a price to pay:
Loss of Freedom.

Think of the USSR, or better still, Yugoslavia.
Ruled by rods of iron
These counties showed us facades
Of calm.

But once those dictatorships disappeared then
Those underlying differences emerged.
The Balkan States were a case in point:
When Yugoslavia went
All hell broke out!

So when I suggested that
A benevolent world government
Might cure our ills,
A warning was shot across my bows:
“Be careful what you wish for!”

For what good is “Peace”
When no one dare speak out
Or act in a “different” way?
“1984” soon springs to mind:
Droves of mindless clones
Dumbed down by drugs
And Media driven hypnosis.
Totalitarianism at its worst.

What we really need is an end to violence
And every other form of Abuse.
Free thought
Married with respect and tolerance
To our fellow men
And women.

World Peace only comes free
When the people are free too.
Freedom of the individual
Based on mutual respect
And better still
On Love.

Paul Butters

Science suggests that when we die
We become no more than skeletons and dust.
But The Bible says we will end up
With God in Heaven.
Others believe in Reincarnation:
That we promptly return
As another being –
A person, animal or whatever.

But what if God lives in each of us
One at a time
For Eternity?
What if He or She (or Whatever) foregoes those “Super Powers”
To experience Mortal living
In these frail bodies of ours?
Over and Over
Without End.

Which raises the possibility –
A reminder of “Matrix”
And just a fleeting thought
That right now I could be “The One”:
I could be God.

Paul Butters

© PB 4\1\2022.

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

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

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

Mirrors!


Paul Butters

It’s over, all over.
Our dreams have faded away.
Blackest January sadness blights July.
England beaten by Croatia
In The World Cup.

We reached the semi final
For the first time since 1990
Only to lose in extra-time:
Failing to see the danger
With our very youthful eyes.

So much to be proud of.
So much better than before.
We should have scored a hat-full,
But see the final score:
(One – two).

I really do hate losing
Whatever I watch or play.
It really will be ages
Before this pain fades away.

My defeats I long remember,
It’s from these things I learn.
Seeking to be a winner,
My inner passions burn.

We’re building to the Euros,
On in two year’s time.
Well ahead of schedule,
So losing’s not a crime.

The World Cup stays way out there,
Hopefully just on loan,
For in the hearts of England
Football has come home.

Paul Butters

© PB 12\7\2018.

This is not poetry.
No embracing the wonders of the universe
Or deafening you with rhetoric.
No apple blossom aromas
Or vistas wide and clear.
No Romance or wisdom,
Just a pint of beer.

My small talent for words
Came from Mum and Dad,
And I take no credit for that.
If only I had read more,
Instead of being a brat.

My ego is exploding,
I’m ever the bighead.
Couldn’t care less about my critics
And sleep easy in my bed.

For once I’ve started rhyming,
That’s a change for me.
Prefer to be unshackled,
My verse just running free.

It’s time to hit the pub now.
I’m only here for beer.
But I’ll be back again to type,
Never have a fear.

Paul Butters

See the grandeur of our universe:
Flocks of far-flung galaxies,
Shrouded by clouds of swirling gas.

A vastness too great to comprehend,
Filled with solar systems
That defy imagination.

Yet none of this is as wondrous
As a tiny bug:
A “lickle life form”
That can look around
And say to itself
(In a language of its own):
I am here.
This is my world.
No idea what is beyond
What I can sense,
But I know I’m here.
And even the greatest galaxy
Cannot do that.

Paul Butters

© PB 19\3\2018.

When I’m in The Land of Nod
Why do I misunderstand the characters there?
How am I constantly surprised
By what they do?
And shocked at the things that happen?
For they are all creations of my own Subconscious Mind.

It seems the “Conscious” Me is at the mercy
Of the Subconscious Id.
But how can this be?
The Id is part of me
Supposedly.
Yet it’s as if The Id
Is another person
Residing within myself,
Toying with the Conscious Me.
(Is this why some get voices in their heads?).

So is this “waking” Life of ours
But a more orderly, clearer Dream?
A dream created by some Super Id
From which we will awaken soon,
To rise into an even clearer Realm
Called Heaven?

Reality is the strangest thing
When viewed this way.
Yet maybe some day
We’ll understand.

Paul Butters

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

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

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

Paul Butters

Enjoy your cuppa tea and coffee.
Sit back and relax.
The world is full of strife and corruption:
Untold Evil.
Yet it’s Paradise Earth.

We take for granted
Our timeless oceans,
Mountains and plains
Teeming with Life:
Forests and savannahs
Herds of Wildebeest
And prides of Lions.

Quaff that beer and lager,
Let your Whisky burn your breast.
See those panoramic views
On your television.
Get your mobile out
And check what’s going on
In Social Media Land.

Wallow in a bar of chocolate
And dream of stroking dogs and cats.
Indulge in Romantic Fantasy,
If you know what I mean,
And be mindful of everything
That gives you joy.

Make Life a Celebration:
Party Time,
Full of sporting
Laps of Honour
And harmonious choirs.

Smell that cooking:
Roasts, fries, breads and cakes.
Taste it in your mind.
To the sound of birdsong
And Eric Clapton.

After all,
You only live once.

Paul Butters

© PB 14\1\2018.

We all carry Guilt.
Things we did
Or should have done.
Actions taken when red mist descended,
Hot blackness deep inside,
Or when we ran scared
Like a startled rabbit.

Sometimes we were just plain mean:
Doing things
Too bad to confess.
At times we “did our job”,
Knowing full well
That it was wrong.

We hate ourselves for what we did:
Adrenaline taking over
As we exploded and lashed out.
Cruel acts and gutting dumpings:
Things best unsaid.

But no good beating ourselves up.
No point blaming ourselves
For things we did as callow youths.
We cannot always help
What we do.
To err is human,
As they say.

We all have our flaws and demons:
Personality defects and fears.
Some have  anger issues
And autistic traits.
Fear of commitment,
Emotional dimness
And many other such things.
Stuff of heartbreak
And sorrow.

I, for one, never did relationships –
Just didn’t understand
What they were about.
So I was bound to do wrong
Sometime.

All stuff for lyrics of songs:
Songs of drifting apart
And breaking up.
Material mounting into Everests
Of angst.

But worry not.
We are not alone.
For evil acts,
Trouble and strife,
Division and violent clashes:
They all seem to be the general way
In these trying
Modern times.

Plenty to work on
In our collective quest
For Peace,
Including peace of mind.

Paul Butters

© PB 17\1\2021.

In this quiet corner of Cleethorpes
Serene somnolence soothes my soul.
Growling dark clouds make it feel like night
Lying above the whispering mists
On this dank dreary day,
Though mild this year.

The sun rose at eight fourteen
And will fall at three forty two.
For it is indeed the shortest day
Of 2017.

Tomorrow will be
A whole Two Seconds
Longer.

So by around the twenty fifth
Of this December month
We’ll reach that time
When the Ancients saw it getting lighter
And chose to Celebrate
Big Time.
For so the Festive Season
Began
All to Enjoy.

Many a religion has latched onto this
Annual Event.
So it’s Party Time
All over the World.
Time to reflect
And turn our eyes
Towards the Future.
Hoping again for Peace and Love
To Everyone.

Paul Butters

© PB 21\12\2017.

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

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

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

I write,
You read.
I sow
The seed.

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

Sunshine!
Life’s lingering flashlight.
Too bright to stare at the sun.
Don’t stay out in it too long.
Suffocating heat sometimes.
My porch gets like a baking oven.
Get burnt and it will peel your skin.

Visions of desert dunes,
Camel trails:
A searing sun that sends you delirious,
Mirage-seas shimmering hypnotically above the sands.

I love the sun.
My memories of buckets and spades,
Golden sandcastles along the esplanades.
Delicious ice-cream.
A cooling breeze.
Grass and pollen
Making you sneeze.

A mini-heatwave we have now,
But storms will come
Over that brow.

British weather I have to say:
Sunshine now
For which we’ll pay.

Paul Butters

On the eve of twenty-twenty-two
We are ready to celebrate
Another New Year.

But throughout The Milky Way,
Eighty five percent of stars are red dwarves
Which nestle worlds that are tidally locked.

Such planets have no days or seasons
Nothing to show the passage of Time.
Half of each world faces its sun,
And the other half remains in eternal night.
For anyone on the ground
The sun never moves across the sky.
It stays perfectly still.
Always midday, twilight or whatever.

Here there is no New Year.
Or Christmas
Or Winter or Summer Solstice
Or Seasons.
Not even a single Day.
Imagine living like that.

Time happens
But the measurement of Time
Is manufactured
By Mankind.
Let’s not forget that
As we celebrate
And as we navigate
Our Days throughout The Year.

Paul Butters

© PB 31\12\2021.

I was a Communist kid back in the fifties
And a seventeen-year old Socialist.
The Americans made me laugh even then:
Afraid of “Commies”
When they really meant Soviets.

For me Socialism meant
Equal Shares
And humanitarian Christianity,
With the fall-back of a Welfare State.
All Good.

But as I’ve got older I’ve come to appreciate
The other side of the coin.
Not Fascism as such,
But with Socialism
Where is Aspiration?
Where is the Incentive to do more
And better?

We don’t want a society of clones,
Sitting on their backsides
Living on the dole.

But then again, what should we aspire to?
Should I have aimed to be a mega-rich dictator
Of some parasitic world empire?

I’m all for developing talent to the full,
Encouraging people to make a positive contribution
To the wellbeing of all.

And there’s the rub.
There doesn’t seem to be a political system – yet,
That is just and fair
Whilst helping us all to blossom.

Until we invent something better,
A bubbling cauldron of Socialism and Free Enterprise
Is the best we have to work with.
Unless you know better.

Paul Butters

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

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

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

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

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

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

If you think of suicide,
Talk to us instead.

Paul Butters

© PB 25\9\2015.

It’s just after 5AM but I am up,
Compelled to write and share with you
Bad images
From video and TV.

I gave you a newborn calf being killed by a lion or something.
But there are countless more.
Young seals being swallowed by killer whales.
A young queen bee stabbing its rivals to death before or after they hatch.

An unlucky wildebeest is pushed by a panicked herd
Back into the river
And into the jaws of a crocodile.
Survival of the fittest
Or luckiest.

Animals running about some abattoirs
Trying to escape death.
Fighting for their lives.
Watching their siblings die.
Enter Man.

A groggy man has survived being shot by a firing squad
So a soldier walks up to him
Puts a pistol to his head and fires
So the man falls
Fountains of blood pumping up from his head
To Beatles music.

Rows of orange shirted men kneeling
A hooded man behind each one
With sword ready at the throat…

So many horrors.
No fiction.
I wonder what God thinks….

Paul Butters

I’m a geographer who doesn’t much like to travel,
A writer who reads slow,
Artistic scientist,
With not a lot to show.

An enigmatic person
With strengths and foibles too.
For I am only human,
Very much like you.

A historian with a bad memory,
That just sums me up.
I have my limitations,
Yet still a half-full cup.

I may be self-effacing,
But have the strength to be honest.
I’ll get there in the end,
To fulfil what I’ve promised.

I know that isn’t a lot,
But I do have my talents.
When all is said and done,
My books do more or less balance.

I’m happy with myself I have to say,
So if you are a critic
Get on your way.

Paul Butters

Garden aromas
Indescribable
Yet taken for granted
Amongst a spiritual haven
Of sacred trees
Resplendently coloured flowers
And glorious grass.

Aromas of blossoms and dew,
Cut savannahs
Rain and drought
Foxes and cats.
Doggy Paradise
Where they can sniff
And scuffle,
Dreaming of truffle.

A Summer retreat
You cannot beat,
Better for a pond
To strengthen that bond.
Just sit or stroll
And soak it all in.
There is plenty of time.
You can only win.

Paul Butters

© PB 25\5\2021.

Under a mocking Sun,
I may be The Only One.
Or very close to that.
Yes, here I am again,
Back on this theme.
For all I know is that
I feel and think right now.

As for others,
I can but surmise
From what I see and hear.

Yet who provides this World
In which I live:
A many splendoured Universe?
Human builders built these streets:
Residences flanked by cars.
But Someone must be Dreaming all this
And it can’t be little me.

They talk of Big Bang and Evolution,
Like is some form of Revolution.
But Who provided that First Spark,
Light created out of The Dark?

Who is Responsible
For tiny particles
Winking in and out
Of Existence?

My own Id gives me splendid dreams,
But these are nothing
Compared to what springs forth
From some Super Id
Out there somewhere
Or somewhen.

Evolution takes its course,
Following a formula
That transcends
Space and Time.

Many call The Author “God”
Of course,
And why not?
We each have our God,
Defined however we will.
Our Sun has been a “God”,
And maybe still is to some.

Whatever we believe in,
There are Powers around,
Way above our heads.
Whoever or whatever they are
We can but Hope
That they smile upon us
And keep us safe.

Paul Butters

© PB 3\12\2018.

Singularity
Then Big Bang inflating to
Our Universe now

Paul Butters

© PB 17\4\2023.

Those eyes
So sad
So loving, loyal and true.
Who can resist that look
From a dog?

Best family member
Of the animal kind.
So devoted to his Mum and Dad
And even uncle.

No fickleness here:
Unflinchingly faithful.
Loving to run and fetch
For his master or mistress.
Even bring in the ‘paper.

See him jump for joy
As you grab the lead
That he’s brought you.
It’s “That time”…

If you let him,
He’ll lick you all over
Before rolling on his back
For a belly rub.
(And his Missus is just the same)!

But those eyes have it:
Bottomlessly sad
So you just have to give him
Strokes and cuddles.

Paul Butters

© PB 21\1\2018.

The miracle –
To see, to feel, to touch, to hear, to smell
To be
To know I’m me.

A miracle repeated centillions of times over:
From the tiniest bug to the tallest tree.
So many sentient beings
Brimming with thoughts and feelings
Powerful emotion
And boundless imagination.

Evolution is but a continuation
From some timeless beginning
That could have created time itself.

Particles still wink in and out of existence –
Endless miracles beyond our vision.
All animals are just like us,
Seeing, feeling, thinking, wondering.

We take all this for granted
Rushing about
With our petty concerns –
Seldom taking the time
To stop
And look
At the sheer wonder
That is
Now.

Paul Butters

© PB 11\7\2021.

I bought myself a new modern mobile
With Internet and all.
***
Such a leap into the stars
After my “Lappy” Laptop
And old Nokia.

Where do I begin?
Either here or on the phone?
At sixty five I need some kid
To show me.

All this feather-light touching and sweeping,
“Apps” and “Data” and battery preservation.
A bewildering jungle of meaningless symbols
That lead you into chaos.

It can be great:
Taking and sharing lovely vistas
For all your Facebook Friends.
Speaking to Google and getting a nice sounding
Lady reply.

Very handy indeed
Until it all goes wrong
And World War Three breaks out
Or else you are Stuck
As surely
As a Prisoner.

But hey, I can be a Fast Learn
Getting there
As at long last I enter
The Twenty First Century.

Paul Butters

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

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

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

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

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

Donald Trump
Is no chump.
Makes America rich,
Without any hitch.

Says what he thinks,
And never even blinks.
Kowtows to no-one:
Just gets the job done.

Paul Butters

© PB 15\10\2018.

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

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

© PB 18\9\2015.

Sing out long and loud
Feel the joy around
Spring is on the way
Dawning of the day

Dawning of the year
Daffies nearly here
Thrusting through the ground
No longer earthbound

Bluebells and snowdrops too
With crocuses coming through
From bulbs hidden in the soil
Life is on the boil

The rhythm of life is changing
Always re-arranging
Looking to the summer
For winter made us glummer.

Looking forward with hope
Rose tinted telescope
I can hardly wait
For now I just anticipate.

Paul Butters

© PB 21\1\2021.

Beautiful Sylvain valleys and grassy savannas sooth my soul,
As here within my compact brain-cave
My mind wanders
Though a Multiverse
Of Realms.

From unfathomable gorges and deep down oceans
Up to soaring skies,
My inner eyes take in
Vistas of Infinity.

Imagination has no limits
Being a blessing and a curse.
Endless dreams of gold and honey
Opposed by fears of monstrous evils
Too horrific to ponder here.

My Id keeps churning up all manner of memories
And creations of the brain,
While in the background
Music plays
Punctuated only
By my Inner Voice.

Words, words keep welling up
From subliminal springs
Deep within my head.
Words, images, sounds
Feelings, tastes and smells,
Reality processed and reformed.

Reality recreated indeed
In finest detail,
A confusion of sights and sounds.
Give me those balmy days,
High in the hills
And low on the plains.
Let me bask in glorious sunshine,
Take a slumberous siesta
Then quaff that golden nectar:
Any brew will do.

Lets be kings and queens
Of the poetic landscape
Enjoying all
That The Muses
Will sing.

Paul Butters
© PB 26\6\2019.

The Cosmos:
Our most awesome Universe
Plus whatever lies Beyond
If there is anything.
A sky full of galaxies and stars.
Vast further
Than we can comprehend.

Born of The Big Bang
Allegedly
This Matter Explosion
We call “Universe” –
Eighty Billion Light Years
That we can see,
But more than Fourteen TRILLION Light Years
Across
They say.
All ranged in an orderly fashion,
Perhaps with the footprint of God.

Yet, just as wonderful,
Out in the Mexican Desert
And all down America way
There is a delicate tiny sunflower
Which comes in a range of colours
And is also named
“Cosmos”.

Think on this.
As The Universe spread its wings
After The Big Bang
So these “Cosmos” petals
Spring out
Offering their hands to the sky:
Tiny Cosmos flowers
Offering prayers
To The Cosmos.

Paul Butters

© PB 19\12\2017.

Dazzled!
Blinded by the Sun.
My eyes scream in pain.
But then they ease
And as I soak up the scene
My spirit lifts.

All is brightly lit
In glorious sunshine.
Lush green foliage
Reflecting those golden rays
Provoking images
Of sunny beaches
Swaying palms
On remote tropical isles.

Under the dome of a hazy light-blue sky
Bedecked with fluffy fair-weather clouds
We bask in the sun, sun, sun.

What more can you ask for
On a balmy summer day?
Well, maybe a cool pint of ale.
Amen.

Paul Butters

© PB 13\5\2021.

The UK General Election has run its course.
A “win” for the Conservative Tories
With most votes and seats
Though they lost their parliamentary Majority,
And can only govern
By doing a deal with the Northern Irish DUP
Who oppose the rights of gays and women
And want to bring back hanging.

Yet Labour too are celebrating a win:
Halving the gap between the Tories and themselves
And winning loads of votes and seats.
OK they finished fifty odd seats behind,
But hey!

And then the Libdems “won” four more seats.
Plus The Greens held Brighton by a merry mile.
The Scottish Nationalists still got thirty five seats,
In spite of Nicola Sturgeon calling for
Another referendum on independence.
Sinn Fein in Northern Ireland got more seats too.
And the Welsh limited their damage by Labour.

“Winners” all, except for UKIP.
That’s politics.
Until the next election.
Which might be fairly soon.

Paul Butters

At five in a morning they scavenge about,
Punters at a car boot sale
Searching for bargains with torches.
Why the lights?
Because it’s still dark.
Why dark?
Because it’s SEPTEMBER.

September: the month when the kids go back
To school.
When bowls goes indoors,
Snooker starts;
Cricket draws to a close,
As bad light stops play.
Premiership football into its second month
And Rugby Superleague into the Playoffs.

Telly programmes that have run all summer
Grind to a halt
And Winter TV takes over.
“Question Time” is back
Along with parliament,
Though Boris soon closed it
This year!

The nights get longer,
Minute by minute
And soon those leaves will turn
That lovely golden hue:
Ironically the mark of Death.

Thoughts will soon be turned to Christmas
As we steel ourselves
For another Winter.
Halloween and Bonfire Night
Are coming soon.

This year we have “The Brexit Deadline”,
A new distraction
Drawing our eyes away
From the eternal passage
Of time.

Paul Butters

© PB 23\9\2019.

The Cosmic Dance
Sends me into a trance.
I do love space
It’s really ace.

What more can I say?
I need more pay!
Speckled stars
Form The Milky Way.

Star Trekking I’d love to do.
Talk about a room with a view.
All those planets, all those stars,
From exoplanets to sandy Mars.

Space they call the final frontier,
Others would rather stay right here.
Sunny Earth is the place to be,
Roaming widely, running free.

See those palm trees,
On those shores.
In that soft breeze
The great outdoors.

Grasp the day,
That’s the thing to do.
Make it pay,
It’s down to you.

Paul Butters

© PB 24\10\2017 (poem 2) – First two lines written 1.20 AM in my paper diary.

Even if we went beyond the bounds
Of space and time
We would see an infinite multiverse
Lasting forever.

For We are lost
So utterly lost
Amongst countless numbers
Of galaxies and stars.

Words cannot do justice
To this miraculous wonder.
Call it a cosmos
Or a universe
What you will
This black vastness
Is beyond human comprehension.

Our own little Earth
May well be replicated
Endless times:
Infinite numbers of rocky worlds
Orbiting their suns
In cosy Goldilocks zones.

Perhaps each universe explodes to life
Then fades
Like some Groundhog Super-Age
Lasting many trillions of years
Each Repeat.

But it matters not
As eternal infinity is time and space enough
For anything to happen.

And it matters not
Unless there is someone around
To witness and experience it all.
And that’s where We come in.
That’s our role.

Paul Butters

© PB 4\3\2021.

There’s nothing greater than the miracle of life,
No matter how fleeting it may be.
Energy and matter
Winking
Into Existence.
Chemical maelstroms and nuclear reactions,
Galaxy formations
Leading to countless worlds.
The formula for life is all around us,
Awaiting the inevitable hand of evolution.

See how we’re surrounded by sentient beings,
From tiny insects to massive whales.
Celebrate the very fact
That we can look in awe
And meditate
Upon the wonders of the world.

We take it all for granted,
Locked in our TV and mobile phones,
Our petty businesses and routines.
We seldom think that thinking is amazing,
As the universe expands:
A miracle indeed.

Paul Butters

I kiss your lips and enter heaven:
Soft as sand and warm as Devon.

I’m taken out of my body
Down a long dark tunnel.
Your lips to me are lingering trunnels.
I go into a bright black hole,
Almost losing my soul:

Just wish this kiss
Would last for ever.
It’s something I
Don’t want to sever.

But there we’ve done.
Oh what a crime.
We’ll have to wait
Until next time.

Paul Butters

© PB 3\9\2017 (2nd poem of the day). 1st stanza split into two and slightly re-arranged 4\9.

It’s just gone midnight,
And I’m full of whisky,
But I must Assert,
That I am Me.

The only one
Who lives THIS life.
Even The Queen cannot do that.
Nor Putin, Nor Trump
Or Whoever.

Only I count.
I’m The One.
Yes I’ve said this before.

When I Go
The World will end
As far as I’m concerned.
And that’s all that matters.

You may think this selfish.
It is.
My only defence is that
I revere All Life.
By choice.

I Loved my Mum
And Dad.
And I love all my relatives
And Friends.
Especially my Sister.

I wouldn’t **** a spider
Or a fly.
I love all animals
And Plants.

Caring is my middle name
In fact.

But in the end,
I’m the one
Who counts
Like I said.

I need no “recognition”
Or fame,
Or even money –
So long as I have enough
To get me by.

My teachers showed me I have some talent:
Lucky genes.
If only I’d done enough homework…
But I count my blessings.

I do not say all this out of aggression.
But rather, I am being Assertive:
Showing Self-Esteem
And saying No
As required.
Expressing what I feel
As me.

Yes it’s me, me, me.
You’ll just have to accept it.

Paul Butters