Covid 19 is shockingly lethal,
Killing thousands all over the world.
We are imprisoned in Pandemic Lockdown,
Confined to our homes for seemingly endless days.

Yet these clouds have silver linings.
No more daily social drinking for me.
Complete control of what I eat.
Time, oceans of time, to get my house in order.
Time to reflect and write.
I might even get
Into good shape.

The skies are clearing too.
Much less pollution
From factories and cars.
China can be seen from space
Free from smog.
Animals are returning.
We saw a squirrel in our close the other day
For the first time in twenty odd years.
And the gulls have come inland
For more food.
Chaffinches and robins on my lawns
And foxes even bolder than they were before.

All this is showing us:
There is another way.
We don’t have to ravage Mother Earth
Chop down the trees
Or fill the air with smoke.

Nor do we need to classify us all
As Patricians or Plebs:
Iniquitous inequality.
Or make Money our God
Like modern Midases.

There is indeed a better way.
Which begs the question:
What will it take to make the human race
See sense?

Paul Butters

© PB 27\4\2020. (Slightly amended 28\4).

Steve Green (with extra verses)
Stephen Green
Who knows where he’s been?
Out on that bike
Sometimes taking a hike.
Loves Rugby League and ale
And Cider by the pale.

Ryan Jagger
Look at Ryan Jagger
Dancing with a swagger.
Full of jokes and taking the ****
Pours a beer-glass very quick.

Charles Lumley
Charles Lumley’s on full throttle:
He’s the owner of “Message in a Bottle”.
Stacks cans and bottles with precision
Never afraid to make a decision.

Jenny
You just can’t beat that lovely Jenny
She surely is worth every penny.
Hearing music, she has to dance
Enchanting with that cheeky glance.

Nigel
Doing his crossword, there is Nigel!
He knows everything from here to Rigel.
Need a proof-reader? He’s your man.
Want it in Latin? Nigel can.
Nuff Fer Now

Paul Butters

© PB 28\12\2022.

Just take your mind beyond our time and space
Continuum.

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

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

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

Paul Butters

I say again –
Fear has a vital function.
Without it our ancestors would have been eaten
By lions or sabre-toothed tigers.
We need it so survive
A terror attack
Or any physical threat.

Yet in modern days even mild anxiety
Has little use:
Filling us with Cortisol and Stress.
We are like rabbits in headlights,
Paralysed with worry
Over those exams and other tasks.

We must not Fear or fret.
As Frank Herbert said in “Dune”
We have to face our fears
And let them pass over and through.
For only we will remain.
We must stay Mindful
Of the here and now
And let the future take care of itself.

So I will not do Fear
Of any kind
Unless that **** or terrorist appears
And even then
I will try my best
To keep my cool.

Be clinical
Rather than angry
For Anger is the cousin of Fear
And only any use
When you rationally decide
To attack.

In short
Do not Do Fear
Or Anger
Unless you really have to.

Paul Butters

© PB 18\6\2018.

People playing out time.
They work all day
Doing mundane jobs.
Passively watch the telly
And play on their mobile phones.
Week in week out:
Same routine,
With the odd break.

So what is The Purpose
Of all this?
We have our struggles and strifes,
Our glorious wins –
All forgotten once we go.
Generation follows generation,
Each an essay
At the game of Life.
So I ask again,
What is The Purpose?
I've asked this most of my life.

All I can say,
Scratching my head,
Is that we are here just
To Appreciate
The Beauty
Of our Universe,
This World we call “Earth”
And all that Mother Nature
Creates.

We must meditate on this
And make more music.
Listen to our Muses
Then sing, paint, write, sculpt
Or whatever Art
We care
To flow
From our souls.
Amen.

Paul Butters

© PB 1\4\2018.

The high shining,
Dazzling from the sky.
Hurting the eye with that piercing glare.
Reflecting from sparkling seas
Which shimmer in the gentle breeze.

Reflecting and reflecting
From diamantine spires.
Echoed on the blackest night
By radiant cities
Lit by glimmering lights.

Our Gods hover over us,
Incandescent in their glory.
Their bright wings shimmer and shine,
Inspiring us to greater things.

Yet let us not forget
That all this blazing brilliance
Is everywhere:
Even in those shadow lands
Where ordinary people
Go about their daily grind.

Even though we sit in sheltered rooms
Bathed only by some television light
Or laptop luminescence,
If we but open our inner eyes
We can see
That the world is not as prosaic
As it seems.

Paul Butters

© PB 20\8\2018.

Have you ever woken up, got washed and dressed
Started you morning routine then…
Something’s not right!
Wrong place or feature
Or whatever.
You are still dreaming!
You shake yourself
And at last
You truly are awake!??

They say that Life as such
Is also but a dream.
So imagine, when you die
You find yourself on another bed
And remember the “Earth” in which you fell asleep.
A lifetime’s experience
All packed into a few hours of dreams
In a room that resides
At a higher level.
A higher level that too
Might be a dream within a dream.
An infinity of levels of dreams,
Life upon life.
Imagine that.
Boggle that mind of yours
With infinite dreams
For eternity.

Paul Butters

© PB 11\2\2018.

That faithful dog is waiting at your door,
Bursting with unconditional Love.
He (or she) is pining
For your arrival.
Whining and crying,
All ashake.

At last you are here!
Forward he leaps,
Almost losing balance with the shake
Of his tail.
Ready to lick you
Into oblivion.

So you ruffle his ears
And pat him on the head.
“Good Boy!”

Meanwhile The Cat sits
In haughty isolation
Watching coolly
Indifferent to all.

But you still go to her
As she rolls over
And bears her furry tummy
For you to scratch
And her to purr.

I love these pets
Or rather
Family Members.
While they are with us,
There is nothing better.

Paul Butters

© PB 7\1\2018.

Time to wax lyrical,
Time to shout from the rooftops,
My words rolling like thunder
Across the whole wide world.

No mardy moods
Or negative vibes.
Time to replace killing with care
Hatred with love
Tree chopping and ploughing
With planting and wild growth.

Let emotion sing as music
Love and care
Musical words
Called poems.

What are we doing?
What are we doing with our planet
And it’s folk?
Aliens from other worlds might ask
And wonder whether to intervene.

Re-education is required
Getting us back to the ways
Of Mother Earth.
Teaching us to let go
Of our egos
Our lust for mere goods
And territorial land-grabbing.
It’s not what you have
But what you make of it

We only live once
And not for very long
So I say again
Love life
All life
From the tiniest ant
To the loftiest tree.
Enjoy a giraffe
And savour the aroma
Of a bower surrounded by flowers.

Let’s grow more forests
Teeming with life
Clothed in mysterious mists.

Unite together
To end poverty
And strife
Cease all wars
Treat everyone with respect
As equals
All free
All loved equally.

Paul Butters

© PB 29\11\2023.

Keep getting "Forbidden 303" when I press "Save"
On a new poem.
"CSRF Verification Failed".....
The Fake Geek dot com says
Put "about:config" in your address bar.
Did this.
Got Warning to go no further.
(Later I went on but it didn't fully resolve the issue).

Went back to my poem:
Saved as a draft!!!
What's this all about?
Same on all browsers.
Paul Butters

PS See The Comments Below and elsewhere on this. Thanks All.
Later I found my pieces were getting saved as drafts which I could "make public" and post. Then Eliot announced it was Fixed - which it was for me at any rate.....

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

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

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

Well,
What are you waiting for?

Paul Butters

In Cyberland, Microsoft is King
And we all pray to Google.
There is an Apple Resistance,
And Yahoo keeps on yelling,
But Microsoft is King.

Where did Jeeves go?
Remember him, you oldies?
A smiling Hitchcock fatty
You could ask things.

Remember Bebo and MySpace too.
But now we Snapchat through the day
And ask folk WhatsApp.
All in an Instagram.
(My Custom Dictionary
Is filling with new words).

So now it’s time for Tik Tok.
(See what I did there?)
That’s if the Americans allow it!
And much more no doubt.
Instagram Gratification
Flashing images
And clips.
No time for tedious talking
On landline phones
Or, heaven forbid,
Face to face conversation.

Writing – or rather typing – too is clipped
With lols & rofls & tbfs.
Lazy language
Tweets in textese
Fast and fleeting.
Facebook Funnies
With bouncy banter.

As a loyal subject of Cyberland
I do confess
To many an hour
Sifting through Facebook Memories
Even improving old posts
With coloured backgrounds
And sharper edits.
Addictive Internet indeed.

Yet
In years to come
Will we laugh loudly
At the mention of Google
And all the names I’ve said
Like we snigger at Bebo, MySpace
And Nokia Mobiles now?

The tsunami of technological change
Sweeps over our heads
Smashing the past:
Leading us
To who knows where.
For better or worse
Who can say?
Wherever we are going,
We are well on the way.

Paul Butters

© PB 17\9\2020.

Death, afterlife?
Sorry
But I think we are **ed.

Paul Butters

© PB 25\3\2019.

There probably IS a “God”:
Some supreme power and intellect
Who rules the Realms.
Define your God, if you will.

There may be many gods around
Throughout the vastness of the universe
For us to pray to too.

Did God Create our Universe?
Who knows?

But what do I care?
All I want to know
Is what’s in it for me?
Will I get but a pittance
Of a few decades of Life?
Or will I live on in some afterlife,
Reincarnation or whatever?

This may sound selfish
But as I say,
I don’t care.

I resent the certainty of Death,
With every fibre of my soul.
Atheists give me no comfort here:
Only Religion gives some Hope,
Despite our history of “Holy Wars”.

So what can I Believe in now?
What Faith can sooth my soul?
Only Hope.

Paul Butters

When I sleep and dream
All laws of Physics go right out of the window.
At once
I’m in a room
Yet out in the open streets.

Turn my back on the house
And it is gone
No matter where I search.

There is Mum and Dad
And many more
No longer with us now.

Sometimes I recall they are dead
And ask them of their afterlife
But their answers make no sense.

At other times
People change from one to another
Or even morph into objects
Or animals
Or anything.

While dreaming
Stories and memories pop into my head
Often false
From nowhere.

I set out to do something
Only to get frustrated and lost.
Stress dreams just before I wake.
Dreams of jobs I hated
And piles of paperwork.

Dreams of the past, present and future.
No Tardis required.
All space and time
Thrown together
In the whirlwinds of my mind.

Yet the good news is
That sometimes I can fly.

Paul Butters

© PB 17\9\2018.

I am The King of All Existence.
Only I can Live this Life of mine.
So I have to be King.

Yet I choose to treat Everyone as an Equal.
That includes Kings and Queens and Presidents of State
Animals and Humans,
Rich and Poor.
Anyone Sentient.

I would like to be treated as an Equal in return
But know that could be
A Big Ask.

All I can do
Is work on People
To try to get them to be like me:
Assertively dealing with everyone else
As Equals.

We have to Work Together
As a Team
For The Common Good
The Wellbeing of All.

Is this too much to ask?
We will see.

Paul Butters

PB 1\1\2022.

Over thirty thousand years ago a pregnant she-wolf
And her mate lay hidden in the grass
Watching some of our human ancestors
Hunt with spears, bows and arrows.
They were very impressed
But more than that so hungry
That they followed those humans home
Hoping to steal some meat.

They were just about to ****** that food
When a humans appeared
All around them.
They were caught!
All they could do was look up with pleading eyes:
“Please don’t **** us! We just want food.”
Seeing one of them was heavily pregnant
Those humans presumed them starving
And threw them meat
Then let them go!

Hungry again, they went back for more
And the humans fed them
And even stroked them.
This was so much better
Than having to search for prey
So often without reward.

And as time passed they took to accompanying these humans
On their hunts
Then ferreting out some prey for them to shoot
Rounding animals up
And retrieving those shot down by arrows.

Soon the rest of their pack joined them
And the female wolf had her pups
Near the human camp
Where it was safe.
She taught her pups
To plead for food and care
With their eyes and whines.

Those wolves remained forever,
Generation after generation
Each litter getting cuter
And softer
And more loving
Towards mankind.

And so they evolved
Into a seemingly endless variety
Of “Dogs”.
From Rottweilers to tiny Poodles,
German Shepherds and Collies to Chihuahuas.
They became known as “Man’s Best Friend”,
Showing us unconditional Love
And loyalty:
A bond like no other.
Even evolving raised eyebrows
And deeply sad eyes
To attract our love and care.
Domesticating themselves
Yet begging the question
Who is really “the master”?
My money is on
Them.

Paul Butters

© PB 20\3\2021.

Whoah! A stinky ****
In an enclosed room!
Out we go…
To pure fresh air
Ozonal
With a hint of salty sea.

Smell that fresh-cut sappy grass,
Those rustic woods
An acrid hint of fox
Dog and cat
Someone’s perfume lingering in the air.

Things are cooking:
Bacon to **** for,
Baking bread,
Spicy curries
And glorious fish and chips.
Roast beef and lamb
Fast fried food
And coffee
Pervades the air.

Garden blossoms
Traditional roses.
I finger a mint-leaf…

But something is burning!
Ah!
Not the same as the smell of rain.

But don’t ask me.
Ask instead those dogs and cats
With their super-sense of smell.
For Max the Labrador Collie
Always inspects my feet
And heaven knows
What he makes of
That.

Paul Butters

© PB 14\4\2020. ("Fast fried food And coffee" added 18\4).

I say again:
There may well be a Higher Power
Or Powers
Out there
Somewhere.
Even a Higher Intelligence.

If there is,
I have a Message
For Him, Her, Them, You:

SOS.

Paul Butters

Where life exists
You often find a carpet
Of grass or moss or whatever.
And in sacred groves and forests
You will find
The tree.

The tree: nature’s skyscraper,
Deep roots, hard bark and leafy canopy:
Linking the Underworld to The Heavens.
Looming beauty my words can but strive
To describe.

A tree can live for many an age,
Legends about it, even longer.
Since ancient times the tree has been revered.
The Norse People had Yggdrasil:
A cosmic tree linking many worlds.
Comprehend the Eastern Indian Kalpavriksha –
A jewel of a wish fulfilling tree.
The Peace Tree of the American Iroquois,
And many more.

In West Africa the Oubangui People plant a tree
Whenever a child is born.
The Bible tells of the Tree of Life
And the Tree of Knowledge
Growing there
In The Garden of Eden.

Bow to the Tree Goddess.
Bow to The Tree
Bow to its sturdy bough.

Our tree is home
To many a creature
Nymphs and Dryads too
Maybe.

A skyscraper indeed,
Full of life
Safe in its shade
Some behind walls
Of solid wood.

We lose ourselves
Just looking
At that tangle
Of twisting branches
Spiny twigs and clouds of leaves.
Will it stoop over
And pick us up
With its enormous
Hands?

Or will it just keep playing us
A lullaby
With that whistling wind?  

Oh Tree,
You show such grandeur,
Goddess-like indeed:
Shaken by gales
Yet not disturbed
We trust.

Long Live The Tree –
Even giving us
The air we breathe.
Let your branches spread
While you reach ever upward –
A towering spire.

Paul Butters

© PB 26\5\2020. With due credit to Wikipedia.

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

Into a new dimensional realm
I sprang:
Into a world so vast.

A planet out there somewhere,
In icy space so lost
A Universe not crossed.

A world so full of life,
Of sweeping seas
And towering trees.

A place so beautiful,
Beyond compare.
We stand and stare.

All peopled by
Multi-coloured multitudes.
From which the radiance of sentient life exudes.

To where had I escaped?
You may well ask.
So let’s unmask:

The loveliest world of all,
For what it’s worth.
A heaven of the heavens:
Our planet Earth.

Paul Butters

We watch our mobiles and our tellies,
TV on the internet,
Internet on the TV,
On the mobile.

Our lives are spent
Immersed in soaps
And reality TV.
Hours and hours
Of subsidised sport
And fake news.

Daily quizzes
And Jeremy Kyle
To keep us occupied
And Boredom at bay.

Like zombies we stare at our mobiles
Almost colliding
With people on the street.
Oh yes we chat
And message and text
With folk we’ve never met
Presuming they are real.

We play out time,
Betting and scheming:
Fantasy Leagues
And Facebook,
Snapchat and God knows what.

Occupying our addictive minds
Until the Grim Reaper comes.
“Comfortably numb” until the end.

Paul Butters

8\9\2018.

They drop from branch to branch
Of my Cotoneasters:
An extended family of lickle spuggy sparrows.
Their aerial scouts are flitting
From shrub to shrub
While the main party flies up and down
Up and down.

For they have spotted the wild bird seed
That I have scattered
All along the bottom of my back lawn.
So now they make their way
In regimented fashion,
Up and down,
In and out,
Ever wary of those murderous cats.

Now and then they are joined by **** or robins
Or other lickle birds unknown
To this city suburb lubber from Leeds.
Not forgetting those massive fat pigeons
And delicate doves
Who all join in the frenzied feeding
Without a care in the world.

Meanwhile a couple of blackbirds
Patrol their territories
Ignoring the seed
In preference for some scraps of meat or fish.

Later on the foxes will spring forth,
Sneaking around the streets.
So all we need is a commentary
From Sir David Attenborough
With his “Dominant Males”
And “Courting Rituals”
For all to be complete.

Mother Nature loves our little seaside town,
Patrolled by gulls
And guarded by our dogs.
I must get walking in the Spring
When the flowers reappear.
Look forward to that.

Paul Butters

© PB 20\12\2018.

Busy humble bumble bees buzz and hum amongst my geraniums.
I squeeze past them as they hover
From flower to flower,
On my way into my electric blue
Kia Rio car.

At last the sun is out here,
Brightening up my garden vista.
Most days we have wallowed
Under a sea fret,
Feeling cold and damp
And annoyed
By news of record high-temperatures
Inland.

But now it’s warm and sunny,
With Red Admiral butterflies
And my back-garden Abelia Shrub –
“Beauty Bush or Pink Cloud” –
Bedecked with light pink flowers
With their subtle aroma.

My days of sport have gone well
And I can sit back in my armchair
And relax.

Paul Butters

© PB 8\6\2018.

Mike Bee
Likes a fast read.
The End.

Paul Butters

© PB 1\2\2018 (2).

Deep within the labyrinthine recesses of my mind
Lies my Id.
Or Subconscious
Or whatever you will.
So when I sleep and dream
My Id presents me with scenes
Full of seemingly incredible detail:
Countless objects set before me
In a wonderfully vivid landscape.

How on Earth does my Id store and display
All these amazing things?
Or is it conning me somehow?

For my Id loves to taunt and tease me.
With dreams of finding myself undressed
In public.
Stressful nightmares of being given impossible mental
And practical challenges to complete.
Of being lost and unable to find my way
Home.
Endless journeys by train and bus
Travelling the country in my quest
To get back in the *****
Of my loving family.
Bee swarms and nasty infestations of bugs.

The Forbidden Planet had its “Monsters of the Id”
And on rare occasions I have woken to continued dreams
Of snakes and people who shouldn’t be there.
And that Giant Eye!
God forbid my sleeping dreams should invade reality,
In the Twilight Zone.

But on the plus side, my dreams can be filled
With seemingly original music
And pleasantries I’d better leave
To your imagination.
Wink, wink.

Paul Butters

© PB 29\1\2024.

What can I say about Queen?
A band who superseded The Beatles
And maybe even bettered them.
That Voice of Super Freddie
The Sun King indeed.
Brian May’s soaring guitar
Backed up by the typically quiet Bass Man
John Deacon
With Roger Taylor
Pounding those drums.

They were the complete package.
Even their lyrics were great.
Songs ranging from hard rock
To slow songs that ****** the soul.
Songs that will live forever.
Some that make me cry
And others that later make me
Get up and shadow-box
A heavier version of Freddie himself.

For Freddie Mercury was larger than life,
So cruelly taken from us
Too soon,
As John Lennon was.
And Elvis of course.
Too many bite the dust.

Bee dop bop bee dee bop
Bee bop, bee bop
Dee da day
With these immortal words
Freddie sends us
On our way.

Paul Butters

© PB 23\5\2020.

Welcome to the Timeless Zone,
Vast as space and timeless as infinity.
A surreal dimension
Located somewhere between
A normal New Year 2020
And the imagined end
Of the Coronavirus Lockdown.

A dimension of sight, sound and mind
Taking us from the pit of superstition and fear,
To the sunlight of scientific knowledge.

The days pass endlessly
As we look for something to do
Again and again.
No meetings to go to,
Our year-planners and diaries
Consigned to being buried in dust.

Here we sit
In twilight:
Idly watching TV
Or catching up on household chores.
We take a daily walk
Even jog
And occasionally pop to the shops.

Shops that is, where you have to follow the arrows
Keep in your own little zone
Do Not Pass Go
Go straight to Jail –
I mean The Counter:
Once you have followed the maze
Of often empty shelves
Ransacked by Panic Buyers.

And at the counter you are served
By workers in gloves and plastic visors.
You must stay behind that line!

But mainly we sit like zombies,
Passing away the time.
At least the pressure is off:
Nowhere to go
Nothing to do.

But look!
A sign up ahead.
Maybe a crossing.
I hope it says
“The End”.

Paul Butters

© PB 19\4\2020. With due credit to “The Twilight Zone” TV series.

What is left to say
About our humdrum daily lives?
Monday to Sunday all year round
In time manufactured by mankind.
Monotonous mazes of standardised building blocks.
Daytime TV all timetabled and scheduled
The Interweb
Media meditation
For brainwashed, mindless zombies:
Heads immersed in mobile phones
Or faces bathed in television light.

Crime ridden streets await us
When we venture forth
To pre-appointed places
In a world we call “Routine”.

Little wonder then
That Imagination soon takes over
At least for me.
Heading off to Planet Paul
For flights of fancy
Fuelled by Star Trek
And Battlestar Gallactica to name but two
Of my favourite shows.
For I love Space
And anything else that lies beyond
The dreariness
Of the Here and Now.

Why do you write?
They ask as if Confession is required.
I stumble on my words
Trying to explain
How I simply have to write.
For I never can stop dreaming
And once I dream
Then I simply have to share
Whatever I’ve dreamt
With all of you.

Paul Butters

© PB 18\12\2018.

In bitter winds the little Pipistrelle bats
Flitter hither and thither
Into the hills,
Around tree-timber limbs
With brittle twigs.
They wing their way
In thrills
Of twists
And turns.

Meanwhile, deep down below
The cows moan,
Roaming through the range.
They moo while they chew the cud,
Ruminating their food
Grazed earlier from prairie meadows.

Through the long day
They are accompanied
By flocks of birds
Twittering and tweeting,
Much noisier than the bats.
A feather flung chorus
Singing operas and arias
Amongst the misty trees.

Word composers love these things:
Mother Nature wrapping us
In her arms
And filling the air
With sights and sounds
That sooth the soul,
Sending us soundly to sleep
While those bats
Come out to play.

Paul Butters

© PB 26\11\2020.

Shapely steaming trees make clouds of their own:
Raining daily on the rainforest.
Rumbling jungles serenaded by a clichéd cacophony of birdsong.

I love all trees wherever they are:
Pinewoods in temperate zones,
Palms on tropical isles,
Ancient oaks full of magic.

See breeze kissed canopies high in the sky,
Forests deep in mysterious gloom.
Let Attenborough portray the rest.
Tarzan and Robin Hood to reign forever.
Keep your axes and saws away.
Let’s plant as many trees as we can
And watch them grow.

Paul Butters

© PB 18\3\2021.

Did The Universe exist
Before it was seen
By us?

Some say you Are the universe
Looking at itself.

Chicken or egg,
Egg or chicken?

That mystery
Called Consciousness.
Macrocosm in a Microcosm,
Solar System in an atom.

We imagine all
So everything exists
Within us.

Miraculous.

Paul Butters

© PB 6\11\2019.

Smooth pools lull me to slumber.
Tinkling streams play musical tunes
Under sun or moon.
Red sunsets and dawns warm my soul
As birdsong accompanies that sweet
Smell of mowed-lawn grass.

No better time to Celebrate
The Joys of Life.
Let’s celebrate celestial sentience,
Whatever that might be.
Let’s party, laugh and smile.

Paul Butters

Stand back outside space and time
And you will see
That we are dead
Through most of Eternity.

Our lives are twinkling little stars
Lost in the void
Of blackest space.

Look closer now
At any star
To be amazed
At a Solar System
Too much to put
Into words.

For every living thing
Creates a Universe
In its own right.
So every death
Extinguishes
A universe too.
And every birth
Creates
A universe anew.

I cannot express
How wondrous it is
That we can think and feel
The way we do.

All I can say
Right now
This day
Is
Let’s make the most of it.

Paul Butters

© PB 27\12\2018.

Big Bang, Universe, Sun and Earth
Life and Death follows Birth.
All over in an instant
Before we become non-existent.

Nothing doesn’t have a colour
Have to ask why we bother.
Maybe I shouldn’t be so cryptic
Making things so Apocalyptic.

The Earth will fry
When the sun fills the sky.
Into a red giant swollen
All history stolen.

So better not think about this,
Just fill our lives with bliss.
Enjoy every day,
That’s the only way.

Paul Butters

© PB 1\7\2023.

Wot’s this ****** Poetry stuff?
It’s all Gobbledygook to me!
As far as I’m concerned you can just stick
Your iamb up your fat pentameter.
Wink.
And I don’t care whether some of it
Is like common speech.
Or clever for being slightly incorrect.
Wink.

So why do lilies have to mean death
When they are nothing but fracking flowers?
What’s with all these virile horses
And apples that are supposed to be bosoms?
They are bladdy animals and fruit
For heaven’s sake!
Nothing more, nothing less.

All this Moon in June stuff.
All these bladdy feelings about your dog dying
And unrequited love.
All sentimental words
And Repetition.
I’d rather read a tome like a car manual:
At least it tells you something
You can use in real life.

Yes, it’s all Vogon Poetry to me.
All pretanticulary epticism from egogargantoid
Arsenburgers who see themtegglers as the interferonical
Ellicopters of the bladdy cosmeticus.
And then there’s TS bladdy Elliot
With his cruel Aprils and his
Hoc ideo non potes legere quia lingua peregrina est.
Vita illius.

And while I’m at it.
Who needs history when we live in the present?
Art is no use whatsoever.
Give me a hammer and a spanner
Any day.
Leave those luvvies to their childlike play
And ballet dancers to their pillockettes.
Opera? Pah. Humpa dumpa.
Leave them Odious Odes to Cleverclogs Keats.
Poetry? No bladdy thanks.
(Written for some Friends.
Winks.
At too great a length
For most).

Paul Butters

© PB 13\7\2023.

Legend says that during the last Ice Age
There was a worldwide civilisation
Quite advanced
Which built magnificent pyramids in Egypt,
South America and South East Asia
And great cities
Some deep underground.

But at the end of that Ice Age
There was a cataclysm
As snaking comet-shards showered on The Earth
So the ice sheets melted
Causing a Great Flood
And almost all was lost.

Which begs the question
How far back do we really go?
Were those mythical dragons
So bravely fought by noble knights
Actually Dinosaurs?

Have We been around for many millions of years?
Oh for a Time Machine
So we could go back
To discover The Truth.
Scientists insist there would be nothing to find
As their theories and constructs are all
They can see
Or wish to see.
But Intuition tells me otherwise
So the search for facts
Must go on.

Paul Butters

© PB 25\12\2022.

Spoon me some soothing sounds.
Make me swoon though it’s not even June.
Croon beneath the moon
Amongst flowers in bloom.
For summer soon will loom.
Heat will hit us:
Boom!

No more gloom and doom.
See the Peacock’s plume.
Toast the bride and groom.
People passing from womb to tomb.
A Spring-cleaning broom
To clean the room.

What a boon.
A beach with many a dune,
Behind a cool lagoon.
Time to play another soothing tune.

Let dormant corms awaken
In the warm
Before the storm
While insects swarm.

Let babes be born
To fields of corn
In the early morn.

Blow your horn,
Your hair all shorn
Wearing nothing torn or worn.

Such fun to play with words like this.
For me it’s like a blissful kiss.
Not a thing to find remiss,
Or lightly dismiss,
Miss.

Well that’s the end of all my play.
So that will do,
At least for today.

Paul Butters

© PB 27\4\2018.

Out of blackest space
The starship “Discovery” emerges from the abyss
To orbit around a beautiful blue world
Just like Earth.
Its captain decides to land
And the view gets better as it descends.

Continents and oceans are plain to see,
But so much more:
Futuristic cities –
Great civilisations –
The crew cannot wait for that moment
Of First Contact.

And so it happens:
The captain and his officers
Stand at last before an emissary
Of a planet light years away from Earth.

Before them is an alien
Humanoid indeed
Though with Leaves of all things
Decorating its head.
It’s neither male or female
As far as they can tell
And has a long tail
With of all things
A plant *** at the end.
Yes, a tail stuck in a plant ***!

The alien swishes its tail to bring
The plant *** into its leafy hands.

“Welcome to our world,” smiles the Alien,
“It is called Earth just like yours.
Just like countless other Earths
Around the Cosmos.
And yes
I am what you would call a ‘Plant’.
For most worlds of our universe did not
Evolve carnivores like you.
If I want a proper feed
I find some soil beds
And search for food with
My tap root.

But worry not,
You are what you are.
You cannot help the hand that Evolution
Has given you
No more than any of us can change
Whatever our ancestors did in historical times.
We welcome you in Peace and Love,
At least in the hope
That you don’t Eat Us.”

The captain and his crew hang their heads
In shame
Until the captain replies:
“Thank you for your welcome.
We too come in peace.
And rest assured
Our intentions are good:
Whatever happens
We will not eat you.”

“Good” says the alien, with a nod,
“That’s just as well,
For we have giant bees here,
And you wouldn’t want
To make them angry with you.
But come,
It’s time for you to see
Our enormous butterflies.”

And with that,
First Contact
Was concluded
And a new relationship
Began.

Paul Butters

© PB 27\12\2020.

Things that bother me:
Here on Planet Paul
In my sunshine bubble,
With its tempering, shielding clouds.
Where do I start?

Well, let’s begin with half-empty glass people.
For them the world is but a wicked place,
Full of evil and corruption
Crime and drugs
Like Milton’s bottomless perdition.

So then they wonder why they suffer
From depression
As they whinge about every little thing
From plastic beer glasses
To the tint of my sunglasses
To everything I do
Or anybody else
Who seeks to see
That glass:
Half Full.

And then we have The Outraged
Flanked by The Offended:
The PC Brigade –
As sensitive as a swollen red foot,
Suffering from a bout of gout.
Constantly on the lookout
For the slightest smear
Against their race, gender, religion
Or ****** orientation
Or anything else about which
They have the proverbial
Chip on the shoulder.

Outraged, offended, outraged
You bigot, sexist, blah blah phobic
Piece of excrement!

Well sorry you lot,
Whichever clan you’re from
(Maybe both!)
For I refuse to go your way.
I’ll keep seeking all that’s good in this world
And try to keep that glass half full.
I assert my right to freedom of speech:
To express my opinion
And say what I think.
For “harassment” is inevitable
When there are people about
With differing views.
Not forgetting
That some are quite insane.

Each one of us is beautifully unique:
A thing to be respected
If only tolerated
But cherished,
In the name of Love.

Paul Butters

© PB 9\7\2018.

As a typer of what might be
Poetry
I am a football manager
With WORDS as my players.

Words in a Deep W Formation –
Total free verse
Hopefully forming a diamond.
No buses parked here
As my words go winging
Down the page.

Not quite five three two
But maybe the odd Haiku
In syllables of five seven five –
For there are far more than eleven syllables
In Poetry.

All writers are the same:
Our words combining
To make meaning,
Passing our visions
Views and feelings
For a crowd of readers
All being well.

Words to be chanted
By crowds enchanted –
Songs for a stadium
That is our united mind.

Paul Butters

© PB 16\8\2020.

Oh God, whoever and wherever you are,
Do you really want me
To sit and wait for your son Jesus to save me?
Do you want me to just bow down
Before You
In supplication
And leave everything to you?
I think not.

For We are your infantry
If you will
And we are here
To kick the a* of Evil
And make things work
Throughout this Creation of yours.

I’m sure you want us
To be self-reliant
Creative and inventive.
For You have Delegated much
Of Your Work
To Us.
Which is why
We were Created.

So to sit back
And wait for Salvation
From You
Is not
What You
Are looking for.
I’m sure of that.

So let us Believe
In Ourselves
To Achieve
Whatever is required
To make the world
A better place.

We can make God
So proud of us
As His creation
If only we get up
Off our backsides
And show Him – or Her – or Both
What We can do.

Paul Butters

© PB 22\5\2018.

Tall trees swaying in the breeze
As colourful flowers adorn cool bowers.
Sylvan beauty everywhere,
So good to see, so great to share.
Pastoral pallets, if that makes sense.
Lofty mountains, jungles dense.

Mother Nature reigns Supreme,
But all I want is some ice cream.
Scorching Summers, don’t we love them?
All our troubles, let’s rise above them.

You say that all poetry is gobbledygook:
That Art's a waste of time
Elvis was just a Showman
And Freddie Mercury…
(Yes the same first name as you!)
…I’d better not say.

Where is your soul, Philistine Fred?
So many like you around.
Your mind cluttered with clinical facts,
Everything measured
And boxed –
Fastidious and precise.
Emotion killed
By setsquares
Set by Pythagoras
On a geometrical day.

You hate historical dramas
And all things learned.
Admitting any Education
Loses any street cred earned.
Yet you watch hours and hours
Of soaps.

You love supporting football teams
From places you’ve never been near.
But at least you like your pubs
For a lovely pint of beer.

I guess I’ll have to keep trying
To get through to you and your kind.
Yet I know some things ain’t possible
And you may never change your mind.

But yes I’ll keep on trying:
Keep banging out my poems –
Knowing that my pockets
Will never be lined with coins.

I know that you won’t read this,
But I will carry on.
For there are people out there
Who will listen to my song.

Paul Butters

© PB 3\7\2020.

Being or not being,
Existence or no existence:
That is the fifty-fifty question,
The flip of the coin.

Everything is down to this –
Pure chance.
A celestial bet.

Yet can non-existence exist
Without existence?
Was it all inevitable?
Mathematical formulae
Beyond the mortal mind?

There may be some answer here,
To this cosmic riddle.
But it’s way above
My intellectual scope.

We can choose
Or grow
Our Gods
And hope for spiritual
Redemption.

But fully knowing
What it’s all about
May never be achieved
No matter how hard
We try.

All we can do is make the most
Of what Lady Luck
Has spawned
To us.
Thank Goodness
That we are here,
Take care of our world
And hope
That Life will last.

Paul Butters

© PB 24\5\2019.

A spiritual place.
Set amongst ancient mountains
All clothed with timelessly old trees.
Streams and waterfalls gurgling
Down to meandering rivers.

Countless ancestors buried
Or ashes scattered here.
Battered old castles
Haunted mansions
Even the odd old parsonage
Perched upon a bleak northern hill.

You can’t put your finger on it,
But there is something in the air:
More than the howling wind;
Still present even when the thunder
And lightning
Stops.

Ghosts of the past are amongst us
As surely as the aromas of flowers
And cut grass.

The ancient souls are still with us,
No doubt wondering
What the hell we are doing.
For here are civilisations that
Have basked in glory
For many generations
Only to fall and crumble.
Abandoned, lost cities,
Cultures and even languages
That have blossomed and thrived
Only to fade away.

Perhaps the same fate awaits us too.
All things must end.
For even the very universe
Will fade away
Into a misty sea of protons
Leaving no memory of anything
Or anyone.

All that will remain
Is this spiritual backdrop
Countless souls
Refusing to go away
Even in the blackest night.
Dry ice still creeping
Through the gloom,
Never surrendering.

Paul Butters

© PB 25\6\2021.

Inspiration to the nation
That’s what I’m all about.
Inspiration to the world,
That without a doubt.

I’m a Meerkat teaching the kids to forage
Something much juicier than porridge,
But I show everyone how to dream
Of better pastures
Full of honey and whipped cream.

Meerkats may have lookouts, nannies and fighters
But they are smart little blighters
Capable of vision
In spite of facing derision.

Imagination is the key
To shaking off our shackles
(Whatever they may be)
And running free.

Paul Butters

© PB 4\5\2020.

Be careful whom you talk to
And what you say,
For things can be twisted
Any which way.

These are troubled times,
That we all know.
It’s oh so hard to tell
Friend from foe.

I love to be open and express my self,
But some things can’t be said: they are not allowed.
We have to stay silent I’m afraid to say,
And be PC to fit in with the crowd.

Oh to be honest
And tell the truth,
Like it was
In the days of my youth.

Paul Butters

© PB 6\2\2019.

The summer sun soars above the sultry sands…
Sorry your computer hit a problem
We will restart it for you
Error code – Gremlins from your latest Update.

Where was I?
The beach beams with delight…
You have Urgent Email
Your Paypal Account has been hacked
We need your bank details again
To protect you from villains.

Still on a standard gas rate?
You must shop around.
Use our fantastic cheap deal tracking
App.

Your internet provider technical department
Here.
Your computer is under attack
From Trojan Horse Maleficent-Ware.
You will lose internet connection in
Five hours unless…

We don’t provide cover for the drains
Under your house
Unless you take out
Our splendid insurance scheme.

Poetry Moderators here:
The word “Delight” is Not
Allowed here
As it has ****** Connotations
And your style breaches our
Community Rules.
Suggest instead:
The finely grained sandstone
Reflects Sol light
Making my mood
More adequate
By psychological standards.

Sorry your computer hit a problem.
I give up.

(NB No Moderators were hurt
During the typing of this poem,
As they usually act
After
It is posted).

Hehe.

Paul Butters

© PB 15\9\2020.

A blue sky sunny day
To help us work rest and play.
As good as the old Mars bar,
It’s bound to take us far.

There’s nothing like some sunshine,
To put us onto Cloud Nine.
Filling us with glee.
Time for a cuppa tea.

Better still a beer,
I do wish you were here.
Can do the garden too.
Oh so much to do.

But the river keeps on flowing,
On to who knows where.
No idea where we’re going
Whenever we sail down there.

See that ancient ruin
Telling of times long past.
Something worth pursuing,
Longer may it last.

All is better for that sun.
We can have such fun.
Don’t just stand and stare,
Get out in that fresh air.

Paul Butters

© PB 23\10\2020 (3).