All that emotion
What a commotion.
Sadness, hate and love
Heavens above!

So much yearning
Not much earning.
Floods of tears,
Constant fears.
Jumps of joy,
Boy oh boy!

Feelings deep
That make you weep.
Time to fashion
Love and passion.

We love our lovers, friends and pets,
Our siblings and cousins too.
Not forgetting Mum and Dad,
For without them, what would we do?

So keep on loving, that’s what I say –
Love all living things
Every day.

Paul Butters

© PB 28\1\2021.

We watch from space
Safe in our spaceship
As a small rock planet,
That has orbited it’s star
Over seven and a half billion times –
All those billions of its years –
Is peeled away
And eaten
By that very sun
That gave it birth.

Two and a half billion years before,
This star ran dry of hydrogen
And grew
From yellow dwarf to red giant.

Now, nothing is left of three of its worlds,
All engulfed by flame
As the sun grew
Into a giant ball of death.
All history is gone.
Nothing to show
For countless civilisations
That adorned the third planet.

But oh what’s this?
We spot a tiny spacecraft!
Must reel it in.
Examine it.

It has a name:
“Voyager 1”
Inside: a Golden Disc!
A Golden Record.
We can play it.
Images of hairless bipeds.
Ancestors from that third planet.
Sounds of animals and someone laughing.
Images of bipeds taking sustenance.
And best of all
More sounds
Of something called “Rock Music”:
A being called “Chuck Berry”
“Singing a song” called “Johnny B. Goode”.
For we have feet too
And it makes them tap.

Paul Butters

© PB 12\12\2019.

Forget our inglorious isolation,
Hiding away from terrors unseen.
I see a golden Forsythia
Outside my window.
Sunny daffodils and little blue flowers
Of  unknown name.
Bushes are budding
And turning green.

Bluebottles and bees have been buzzing
As birds flock about
Flipper flapping everywhere.

A barren, frozen desert
Is being transformed
Little by little.
We still have biting winds
Just now
But in the fullness of time
Warmer climes will re-assert themselves.

For summer is coming
As it always does.
No worldly woes will stop it,
Nor they ever will.
Nature has endless patience
And determination.
Sudden Spring is but the start
Of better days.
Believe it.

Paul Butters

© PB 29\3\2020.

We love our balmy summer days
But you can have too much of a good thing.
The sun can ****
But even in England
It can get oppressive.

Until a storm last night
It was relentlessly hot
Humid and stuffy
Under a sultry sun.
Hard to breathe and
So difficult to sleep.

Now it starts again
As the cloud burns back
So the sun shines bright once more.

They say it won’t last this time
As Atlantic Weather sweeps in from The West.
They’d better be right
For enough is enough.

Paul Butters

© PB 28\8\2019.

Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go.
Let’s have a really great show.
Let’s fly just like an arrow,
Faster than a sparrow.

We know we are the best.
Let’s put it to the test.
Prove we are worthy champions
From The South Pole to the Grampians.

Just see our motivation:
Our hope is our foundation.
We’re full of self belief
And going to cause some grief.

We know we are so great.
To play we cannot wait.
Once more unto the breach:
A win’s within our reach.

Paul Butters

© PB 13\1\2020. From a diary jotting 7\1.

We pray for salvation
To a Supreme Being
We hope exists.
But how is God possible
In an infinite number of infinite multiverses
Lasting forever?

We find our God
(We think)
Only to discover there is a Bigger One.
Then another!

Beyond is followed by beyond
Age by age by age
Light year by light year
Never ending.

Due reverence to every god,
But does each god have a god in turn?
Something tells me there are bound to be
Greater powers and intellects than us.

Yet, as the proverb says
We are all in the same boat:
A ship that sails a boundless ocean
Of space and time.

We can steam ahead
In a straight line
Only to eventually find ourselves
Back where we began.

All of us are lost.
But the good news is:
We are all lost together.

Paul Butters

© PB 22\4\2020.

Many take Faith in God
Or The Spiritual World
Or other Power.
It gives them Purpose
And makes them feel good.

I smile for them
In their Positive View
And wish them luck with that.

I hope they are right
In their beliefs
For I may benefit too.

But, let’s face it,
Science shows
That when we die,
Each one of us,
Our flame is totally
Extinguished.
No-one lives forever.
Everyone dies.

We are reduced to skeletons
Or scattered ashes
(Unless kept in an urn)
Or in some other form
Of “preservation”.

These are the facts
From which
We cannot escape.

All the more important then
That as the cliché goes
We make the most
Of what remains
Of our Life.

Important that we Love all living things
And do our best
To Achieve all that we can,
Aspire and Succeed
For a better world
And for The Common Good.

Paul Butters

© PB 3\11\2019.

(Two more lines added to 4th stanza 4\11).

Husken, Wendy:
Ever trendy,
Always knitting
Something fitting.

Hudson, Simon
Working on his rhyming.
Not got it right yet,
Graphics is a better bet.

A Littlefair called Gail,
Often goes beyond the pale.
A canny Glesga lass,
Always as bold as brass.

That massive hulk Chris Bygott
Would make a ****** good pirate.
But he loves table tennis and fishing:
For success he’s always wishing.
He hasn’t done too bad,
Done even better than Dad.

Paul Butters

© PB 9\4\2020.

As I walk out of my door
A clichéd cacophony of birdsong
Surrounds me with beauty
And uplifts my soul.

Yet we humans too love to sing
And play those instruments:
Creating lullabies, arias, symphonies,
Serenades and rock and roll shows.
To name but a few.

Angelic choirs in lofty minsters,
Lifting us up to the stars,
Embracing God in Heaven.
Heavy metal bands
Thrashing out thunder
In stadia seething with singing fans.
Brass bands too: trumpeting and rumpeting
In a crescendo of sound.

Hear those trembling triangles and sublime wind chimes.
Feel those bouncing drums.
Twanging, sweeping, swooning
Plucking, soaring, crying
Guitar.
Tinkling pianos and weeping violins.
Whole orchestras of mind-blowing sound,
Welsh rugby crowds
And the Liverpool Kop.

Magical music:
From spiritually haunting
To simply getting laid.
Bringing out the animal in us:
Passion and desire
Raw emotion
Or else the supernatural
Ethereal skyscapes
Sometimes sheer dread
And horror.

Watch any good film:
The musical score is everything:
“Star Wars”, “Gone with the Wind”, “******”
“Battlestar Gallactica”, “Ben Hur”…
Beethoven, Mozart, The Beatles
The Stones, Queen, Genesis…
So much to love
Chuck Berry and Elvis
Rocking and rolling and reeling
And stealing our minds away.

So let’s get singing
And dancing
And banging those drums,
Flexing our plectrums
To make one helluva
Noise.
Let that magical music play
For Ever.

Paul Butters

© PB 10\4\2020.

I wake early in the morning
And start to play with words
In my head
Again.

Can’t help myself:
It just happens.

Words are instruments in my orchestra.
Let composition commence!

Alliteration adds to my message
As assonance drops a sonic ****.
Let’s add an occasional rhyme
To help the verse along.

Music from the Muses
Makes me swoon,
Then I click my cursor
And sound-like words
On a mat appear.
Please don’t groan
Or even murmur.
I hear the sparrows
As they twitter and chirp,
While I just sit here
And belch and burp.

I must be addicted
To poetry.
But all I can say is,
That suits me.

Paul Butters

© PB 31\3\2019.

It’s a well-known thing
That I worship Mother Nature
Like many more.
For her works adorn the sweeping panorama
Of our world.

From the mountain tops
To unfathomable ocean floors,
Lush rain forests
To polar ice caps
And boiling hot geysers
Her empire almost has no bounds.

Yet our planet is but a blue speck
On an endless beach
That spans the universe
And maybe multiverse.

For Mother Nature began her work
Long before our “Earth” was born.
She began from Nothing:
Some “Singularity” expanding
To form our Universe.
Clusters of galaxies were formed,
Swathed in clouds of dust and gas
Nebulae nurseries, birthing stars.
Light stars lived and died
To reform as heavy stars
With planets and moons.

So now we have a realm of worlds,
Nestled in the Goldilocks Zones of their suns
Teeming with water
And possibly Life.

The formula is everywhere:
Worlds, water, warmth, minerals
Carbon, Oxygen perhaps
With other well known building blocks of life.
Of life almost inevitable.

So we see
That the realm of Mother Nature
May well be infinite
And eternal.
We must help her as best we can,
Guarding our own health first of all
Then always seeking
To make her garden grow.

Paul Butters

© PB 2\5\2020.

They say this Covid Plague came from bats.
I picture a great black cave
Filled with bats
Crammed into the crannies –
Locust swarm sardines,
Those Covid spike-*****
Rubbing their hands with glee.

So what happens when Lockdown Eases?
Swarms of sheeples
Dancing in the streets
Squeezing together
In a ***** fuelled frenzy
Just like those bats.

Except the bats remain sober:
They only do what they do
Knowing no other.
But We have no excuse.
We have the intelligence
To see
That this is wrong.
Yet we choose NOT
To act smart.

No, we risk all –
Risk a lonely breathless death
And anonymous incineration
Away from our friends and kin
Just for a ***** lash
Out on the crowded town.  

Will We ever Learn?
I’m afraid
It might be a long time coming.

Paul Butters

© PB 5\7\2020.

Butterflies flutter and flitter
As wasps and bees zip about.
Yet sloths hang heavy
From lofty trees
As languid lions siesta in the shade.

Parched, hot deserts boil like iron in a furnace
Under a merciless sun
While glaciers freeze at the poles
In the black cold dark.

Soft breezes whisper amongst the grass and trees
But on another day the wind howls
Like a Banshee
Tearing those trees up by the roots
In a whirling chaos.

A tiny ant scuttles along the ground
Unaware of the towering Giraffe above
As it stretches its head into clouds of high leaves.

A day of angry black clouds
Is soon followed by a clear blue ocean sky.
For anything that can happen, will happen.
So expect the unexpected.
And glory in it all.

Paul Butters

© PB 3\4\2023.

The wind and wild hounds of hell
Howl in unison
Over a desolate landscape.
Only a handful of us
Remain
Survivors of a cataclysm
That almost wiped out
The whole human race.

Now grand lady nature is taking back
Everything she ever lost
Or was robbed of.
Ivy, vines and other creepers
Clamber over the crumbling concrete castles
That once were our homes.

Roads crack asunder:
Cleaving city ravines where subways
Have collapsed –
New rivers for new times.

Angkor Wat has nothing on this:
City after city
Lost in tangled jungle.
Animal pets run wild,
Mating with wolves and wildcats
And God knows what,
To add to their strength.

Where nuclear power plants exploded
Unattended by humankind,
All is winter desolation,
Yet even there Nature is fighting back,
Reclaiming her grounds
Inch by inch.

Take a closer look at all these lands:
Nature is now flourishing:
Free of pollution
Carbon emissions
And Global Warming
Caused by “Man”.

The world has lost its top predator
And destroyer.
Meerkats and monkeys are the brightest now
Or maybe dolphins.
Dogs and cats are quite smart too.
But all in all
The world is so much better:
A vernal Paradise
For all
Except Humanity.

Paul Butters

© PB 21\12\2020. For Norman Stevens.

Vic Davies
That Davies bloke called Vic
He showed he isn't thick.
His table tennis can get bad,
Especially when he gets mad.

Liz Conolly
Mrs. Conolly, first name Liz,
Really, really is the biz.
Loves a seat at the front table,
Always gets there if she’s able.

**** Staples
Ah, here is **** Staples:
Loves his football from Grimsby to Naples.
Could be a pundit on the telly,
Always gives it plenty of welly.

Phil Sharpe
Mister Sharpe, first name Phil:
At table tennis he knows the drill.
Master of defensive ploys,
Wins his matches with lots of poise.

Ron Dawson (added 9\1\23)
Cider and Ale to Ron Dawson known as Rocket.
He has the whole World in his pocket.
Knows the routes of all the trains:
Lots of knowledge (on brewing and trains) fills his brains.

Paul Butters

© PB 6\1\23.

Let your mind’s eye fly forward
Right out the window
Through that faint reflection
Of your lounge.
Let it fly
Over those regulated blocks
We call estates
The ant city landscape
Then over the plains
To the sea.

Head to the far horizon,
Over the curve
Of The Earth
And on
Into blackest space.
Out by Pluto
Through Orion’s Belt
And The Milky Way.
Beyond Andromeda
And countless galaxy clusters.

Then look back
Towards our tiny blue marble.
Look back
At everything we know.
See how trivial
We humans
Really are.

Our world,
A tiny speck
Upon the canvas
Of the cosmos.
One grain of sand
Upon an infinite beach.

Then fly back home
But still remember
That the Glory of Existence
Is Everywhere
To be enjoyed
And cherished
While ever we live.

Paul Butters

© PB 21\7\2020.

I’m Autistic Adam.
Sorry for not looking at you.
I cannot stand seeing stares.
Just cannot look.
Sorry too for playing my electric guitar
As you try to talk to me.
But if I didn’t like you
I would have the speaker switched on.

Please don’t talk too long,
As I must have my tea
At seventeen hundred hours:
That’s set in stone.

And then I must attend
To my collection
Of football cards
And memorabilia.

After that I’ll read my maps
And study facts
In peace.

No!
I will not change my schedule!
The mere thought of that
Fills me with dread
And terror.

Sorry.
I cannot come to the party
You have arranged for me.
Just don’t do parties
Or “social events”
Or people
Period.

I’m very much the lone wolf,
Which reminds me:
Dogs and other animals
I love
With a passion
And obsession.

Give me a walk with a dog
Any time,
Or a cat to stroke.
But never
Ever
Try to make me change
My day
In any way.

Paul Butters

© PB 30\9\2019 (2).

We have to talk,
Talk right now
While the time is ripe.

It will be difficult
For both of us,
But we have to grab
The bull by the proverbial horns.

We’ve let things drift,
You and I.
We’re in a rut,
I hear you sigh.

We keep our secrets,
Both of us;
From one another,
There’s the rub.

A relationship stuck
In the mud.
Your loyalty questionable
I have to say.

Sorry if I’m wrong
But I must declare
I’m pretty sure
Your eyes are elsewhere.

I don’t know where to go with this.
If only we could “kiss
And make up” as they say.
But it’s not as easy as that.

We must come clean
With one another,
For what’s a relationship
Without trust
And honesty.

So
My friend
Just what is going on
Between us?
Or have we reached
The End?

Paul Butters

NB this poem is pure fiction, from my imagination.

© PB 30\9\2019.

In teenage years I and others dreamt
Of hover cars,
Moving pavements
And endless star treks.

But what did we get?
People shuffling along with heads in mobiles.
All transfixed by a Virtual World.
A seemingly endless forest of digital pages
As they scroll down through a teeming waterfall
Of so-called comments, images and memes.

But in the real world
Buildings crumble
People freeze and starve
Because some computer says
They don’t have the “Money”
To maintain anything or
Even feed themselves
Or their children.

Where did that image of a glorious future go?
You don’t need telling that
We have war in Europe
As mighty Superpowers and International Corporations
Jostle with one another
To control our lives.
World ******* is what they seek.

Their factories pour clouds of black smoke
Into the sky
While they appease us with Climate Conferences
And blame Mister and Missus Everyone
For polluting the planet.

But as I say, you don’t need me to tell you this
Or sooth you with a Moon in June.
As the Americans say, Reality *****
Which is why
All those heads are stuck in all those phones.

Paul Butters

© PB 9\11\2022.

The sun shines into my lounge:
Golden reflection
Making me feel good.
I glimpse blue skies
Through front and back
Windows.

There is something beyond all this.
Something going on.
I sense an atmosphere,
Smell the aroma of
A universal force:
An energy
Subtle
Surreal.

An all pervading mist
That permeates my life:
A haunting sense
Of spirit.
Something beyond.

We are but tiny chicks,
Covered and warmed
By mother’s wings
Soothed by ethereal music
And songs from heavenly choirs.
Whispers winnowed through those windows
While a hazy sun shines through.

For now I bask
Under the glow
Of that warming orb.
High thin swirling clouds
Tempering the heat.
All is peaceful
And serene today
As life’s long mystery
Drifts on.

Paul Butters

© PB 16\9\2019.

I told you so!
It must have been a blow
When she let you go.

I said from the start
She was a wicked ****
With an icy heart.

When will we learn?
Please don’t think I’m stern:
She should go to hell and burn.

It’s time to move on,
Sing a different song
Onto pastures new -
You know
What you have to do.

Right now you feel broken –
You know I ain’t joking.
Time will heal,
No matter how bad you feel.

Be more careful next time,
Don’t be the victim of crime.
Sure, you must risk being hurt
Before you can wear the shirt
Of someone loved so true
Just for being you.

Yes, I told you so,
But now you have to let go
And continue the show.

But please listen next time
We see any bad sign
And all should be fine.

Never give up –
You can drink from that cup.
She’s out there for you
And you know what to do.
Just do it.
As though you never blew it.
Rise as high as you can,
There’s a good man.

Paul Butters

© PB 10\6\2020.

He lounges in his armchair
******* on a ***
And quaffing beer.
His eyes are glued to the telly,
Watching Corrie
Then footie
Before heading off to the pub.

He feels he’s earned his basic pleasures
As he checks his mobile
For emails and Tweets
And Facebook posts.

Comforts earned by slaving away
All day
For some faceless bureaucrat
Hidden away in his company’s
Ivory tower.

For this is Joe Public.
Ignore him at your peril.
He has lots and lots of mates.
And he is fed up of the “Nanny State”
With it’s, “You shouldn’t do this”
And , “You shouldn’t (or should) do that”.

He’s fed up too with the PC Brigade
Having already escaped the “God Squad”.
But he’s ****** angry
At simply being ignored.

You can keep Joe happy
With Celebrity and Social Media
And sport
And even “Pointless Quizzes”.
He avoids Education
To maintain his “Street Cred”.
But there will come a point
When he’s had enough.
And once that happens
His festering grievances
Will surface
Like killer sharks.

And if he joins a mob of like-minded souls
Who knows where that may lead?
Perhaps to Revolution.

So think on, my friend.
Take care of Joe.
Indeed of Every Joe.
For Joe could be
The Most Important Person
In The World.

Paul Butters

© PB 30\11\2019.

Maybe there must be Existence
For Non-Existence to exist,
Life for Death,
Death for Life,
Finiteness for Infinity,
You can work out the rest.

Love and hate, pain and pleasure,
All a continuum,
All inevitable.

Existence cannot be denied
Even if we live in a virtual world:
A fantasy penned
By who knows who?
For thinking is being,
We all know that.

So enjoy while you can
Before you get written
Out of the script.
Spring turns to summer now
In a seemingly endless circle
Even a globe.
Make the most of it
And party on
As best you can
In your own unique way.

Paul Butters

© PB 25\4\2020.

Poetry is word-music
Word, word music.
Is soul, spirit, magical mystery
Quintessential essence
Of love and beauty.

Iambic and other rhythms and rhymes
Are optional
For, again, poetry is soul.
The Word is King.
Any word.

***
A singular word of double meaning:
Lickle bird and ******
No waxing lyrical here
Just a bit of lit that’s bound to fit
Uninterrupted
Brief word
Amongst sesquipedalian articulations
And rapturous birdsong that echoes through the forests.

So leave that doggerel alone.
Let your heart sing
Freely
Your spirit and soul
Shining like a supernova
Resonating through our minds.
A concerto of verbal sounds
Played with our inner voices.
Literary art
Expressed in musical notes.
Poetry.

Paul Butters

© PB 22\5\2024.

Is The Purpose of Life
Just to be the first
To beat or cheat Death?

For The Grim Reaper stands supreme.
Some trees have endured
For nearly five thousand years.
And so-called immortal jellyfish
Can regenerate
Back to childhood
Sort of like Doctor Who.

But no-one has achieved mortality.
All we can do is pass the baton
Of Life
To the next generation.
On and on.

Smart science may yet allow us
To modify our genes
And make Regeneration
Real.
Or maybe transfer
Our Consciousness
Into some computer
Or Virtual World.
Who knows what our technology
Might do for us?

The Spiritual Way
Remains our only hope
Of Salvation from Death
Unless…

Paul Butters

© PB 23\10\2020 (2).

Skeggy Lee, Skeggy Lee,
Oh what, oh, you do to me
My Skeggy
My Skeggy Lee hee-hee.
Well, I love that place
And that’s why I love you.

Skeggy Sea, Skeggy Sea
Sandy, sandy, sandy, sandy Skeggy (by the) Sea
Oh Skeggy, my Skeggy free
Oh well I love that place
So I need you Skeggy Lee.

I love you, Skeggy Lee
With a love so rare and true
Oh, Skeggy, Skeggy Lee
Well, I love you so
And I really do mean you.

Yes I love you so
And I want you Skeggy Lee.

Paul Butters

© PB 7\6\2020 (2).

(With due Credit to Buddy Holly’s “Peggy Sue”).

Whatever you write, make it memorable.
Just as memorable as Ivan the Terrible.
No need to be incredible
Just make those words indelible
From that mind of yours
And also theirs of course.

I used to think that rap
Was not very good.
Haha.
But now I see
Those rhymes so right for me,
And even raps that scan.
Yeah Man!

There’s always time
For a rhyme
Sublime.
Just let them chime.

These rhymes they staple things to your brain
To help you remember every refrain.
Things passed on by word of mouth
From Arctic regions right down to The South.

Remember, remember
That month of November.
Something that sticks
With each dying ember.

Keep aware of the power of words,
As musical as a flock of birds.
Do give in to the urge to write,
To make our day so gloriously bright.

Paul Butters

© PB 13\1\2020 (2). From jottings of 7\1.

I love to tell a story
Factual or made up.
And I love to type free verse,
Even the occasional rhyme
From time to time.

Love making conversation
Watching telly
Playing on Facebook
And surfing that ocean called The Worldwide Web.

In the nineteen sixties or seventies or whenever
I read a book in Pudsey Library
About a teacher who encouraged his students
To express themselves fully in free verse.

He wrote of short lines that
Shock!
And longer lines that linger in their elucidation of logical algorithms.
But otherwise there were no rules,
No doggerel-metres to follow,
Just freedom of expression.
So now I write this way myself.
Or rather, type.

And I keep typing.
Always typing.
One thing or another.
Constantly compelled to type
Something or other
Whether it’s a piece like this
Or not.

I keep on posting
And sharing
On the internet
Posting and sharing.
Hoping of course
That you will heed my words
And maybe have a go
Yourself.

Paul Butters

© PB 22\2\2023.

In our Beginning God created this Universe.
It was during an Eterninfinity,
But old Moses didn’t go into that.

Now space was formless and empty,
Darkness reigned.
And God said
“Let there be matter”
And there was matter:
A singularity
Expanding faster and faster
To create material, movement and Time.

The early universe was a cloud
Of gas and dust
Enveloped in blackness.
So God said
“Let there be light”
And there was light
As the first star was born.

The universe expanded.
First generation stars
Made light elements
And later generations of stars
Produced heavier ones.

And the star we call The Sun
Was born
Mothering The Earth
Amongst other worlds.
The Earth:
A small ball of iron
And rock
Attended by a Moon.

The die was cast
Right at the start
The Formula was set
So Inevitably life appeared
Here on Earth
And here we are!

Evolution would not be possible
Without The Formula
Formed by God
Wherever S\he is.

Evolution is part of The Equation
I feel.
But what came before Genesis?
And how did God come to Be?
Does God have a God?
And that God his or her God?
For we just might be Lost
In a Multiverse
Within an Eterninfinity:
Courtesy of Lady Luck
And the roll of some Ethereal, Divine
Dice.

Paul Butters

© PB 20\8\2020.

A tree to me:
A swaying palm, towering oak, a yew.
But what for you?
Some weeping willow,
Or a monkey puzzle tree?

My sweeping plains,
Lush meadows, in my mind's eye.
For you -
A dusty desert under a sun-seared sky?

My visions are reshaped
By every different viewer,
From paradise-landscapes,
To something from the sewer.

Paul Butters

© Paul Butters

The breathtaking wonders of the universe
Orgasmically explode:
Trillions of stars,
Blindingly bright
With black light.

Black?
Yes, as we can see
But a glimpse
Of their light.
So without US,
All is black
And might as well
Not exist.

We are Vital.
With Us at least
Some light is seen
And admired.
The wonders of our world
And sky
Are acknowledged
And felt
And thought about.

Yet who are “We”?
We are all sentient beings –
Not just humans:
All living things with brains
From ants to whales.

It’s worth remembering that.

Paul Butters

© PB 25\6\2020.

Every year now:
First it’s those trumpeting Daffodils,
Bluebells and Crocuses.
Forsythia Time too.
All manner of colourful blossoms
On trees and shrubs.
Cherry Blossoms abound.

Then a succession of buds
And flowerings.
In my garden alone
We have tall
Some leaning
Pye Plants (as I call them):
Rustic red, pink and white.
Beds of Geraniums,
Some Purple or Blue
Or wide-spreading pink.

My lawn
Decorated with daisies
And buttercups
And unknown bright orange flowers
So orange…
And not forgetting
Those bright yellow Dandelions:
Officially weeds (like Pye Plants)
Yet full of sun.

I take pictures of these each year
But the come out the same
Just about.
More wild Lavateras this time
Maybe
With fewer ferns
(White flowered).
But my trusty roses
Keep coming up with
The goods.
Petal curled within petal.

My beautiful Weigela
Or maybe Abelia
Stands proud
In my back garden
Beneath the Cotoneasters.
A kaleidoscope of blossoming flowers
All attended by swarms
Of humming bees –
An orchestral murmur
Punctuated often
By squabbling sparrow twitterings
And blackbird badgerings.
Sacred gardens
To slumber down in.

Paul Butters

© PB 6\6\2020.

Please don’t view me as white
Or working class
Maybe middle class
Or straight or gay
(I happen to be straight)
Or Leaver or Remainer
Believer or Non-Believer
Aristocrat or Commoner
Patrician or Pleb
Or Anything else.

Don’t put me in a box
Or file
Or stereotype.

I’d rather be Unclassified
Or seen simply as
A Human Being.

Paul Butters

© PB 18\1\2020.

Life is a journey through an infinite universe.
Even before we die,
We pass the baton to the next generation,
For Them to continue the race.

Ages ago I read of a teacher
Who taught kids to write free verse.
I cannot find the book he wrote on this,
But he let them express themselves
And play with words,
Completely free.

Since then I’ve written free verse
Myself,
Though from time to time
I like a rhyme,
Iambic verses too.

Or a Clerihew.
What a to do!
May the verses run
So we have some fun.

You want to write?
It is your right.
No need for perfection,
Just build a collection.

I write each piece
For my great nephew and niece.
They may not be poems
Bringing in coins,
But I have the gift,
You get my drift.

Thanks to Mum and Dad
I ain’t all bad.
It’s so exciting
To keep on writing.

Paul Butters

© PB 30\4\20. (New 4th line suggested by Norman Stevens).

(From an idea that came to me while taking a bath).

This poem is dedicated to Jacob and Rosie Gamble.

When I'm in a bad mood
I'm not a poetic dude –
All I can be is rude.

But when I’m in a Good mood
Those blues get ******* –
And I might even get lewd.

For when I feel good
I walk into the wood
Where my dreams are stood.

I love to bring joy
That will never cloy
Oh boy.

I have the vision
No indecision
Or derision.

See all that beauty,
This might get fruity –
Quite a *****.

But now I must go,
It’s the end of this show,
Cue Cupid’s bow.

Paul Butters

© PB 7\6\2020.

Earth – you little blue gem:
Oasis in a great black desert.
Perhaps Unique
With your single Moon –
Queen of The Tides
Or one of millions of Earths
Scattered throughout Space.
Who knows?

Sky blue seas
Draped in cloud curtains
Hints of brown and green
On continents
Teeming with Life.

Paradise Planet
Rich diversity
Of plants
And animals.

Taken for granted
I’m afraid
By people too busy
To appreciate
Her beauty.

All they do is rip down her forests
Bounty hunt for trophies
And make her a greenhouse
Heading towards a Hell
Like Venus.

I hope they soon see sense,
Close down those ugly factories
Allowing our Earth
To cool again.

Does all intelligent life destroy itself
In the end?
Is this why space is silent
When we should be deafened
By radio broadcasts
From other worlds?

I hope not.
The choice is ours.
But first we must open our eyes.
Open them to the sheer beauty
And Splendour
Of our Mother Earth.

Paul Butters

© PB 24\9\2020.

Mummy sparrow leads her chick
Into the garden.
A fluffy baby bird
Shivering
Vulnerable
Beak wide open
Demanding food.

So mother duly catches a grub
To drop it into
That wide open
Clamouring mouth.

Meanwhile, indoors, mamma dog suckles
A crowd of pups
All clambering at her belly,
Grabbing *******
And ******* like there’s no tomorrow.

And in another house
Mother cat is feeding her kittens.
Indeed all around the world
All sorts of animals
Are getting fed by Mum.

But ah, I must stop writing.
My own Mum has called me to lunch:
Glorious stew and dumplings –
Dumplings so soft
With a hint of crust on some.
Followed by her tasty sponge
And custard.
Gran has helped her too
And brought us sweets
For later.

Mums and grandmas:
You can’t beat them.

Paul Butters

© PB 23\10\2020.

It was hard in those trenches.
Cut off from the rest of the world.
Cold and wet
And muddy.

Left without the right equipment:
Brush handles for rifles.
The government sending the right signals
But sadly failing to produce.
We soldiered on,
Following the rules of engagement
Laid down by the top brass.
Keep your head down lad!

We dug in for weeks.
Not knowing what day it was.
No sense of time.
Our old routines long gone.
Nowhere to go
And nothing to do
But hide.

But then we emerged.
Looking forward to victory.
Marching heads aloft
Across the battlefield.
Confident that soon our boffins will come up
With some A Bomb to
Finish them off.

But wait.
The enemy isn’t finished.
Indeed it’s resurgent.
Gathering it’s troops
For a deadly
Counter-attack.

We may be war weary.
Fed up of the carnage
And having to hide
Like rats.

But, “Back to the trenches boys (and girls!)!”
Is the cry
From above.
Our commanders are in a panic.
They steer us to the nearest bolt hole
As Meerkats escaping a bird of prey.
For we may be weary
Of all this
But our enemy is deadly.
Our enemy?
You guessed it:
Covid 19.

Paul Butters

© PB 13\9\2020.

Again I slouch on my couch.
Awake.
Conscious that I am me,
Composing this piece.
I have my memories
And see my lounge –
My Man Cave
With gardens outside.

But
As I’ve said before
When I fall asleep
Weird things happen.
In my dreams
Amazing stories unfold
As though I’m making films
Or countless TV clips.
Sometimes it’s like I’m on my computer
Again –
Living what I read
Or taking part
In streams of videos.

So many shocks!
Surprises.
With people now living or dead
In the real world.

So once more I have to ask
Who is feeding me these scenes?
Presenting me with crowds
Of people
Known and unknown.

Is it my Id, Subconscious, Unconscious…
What?
Some other person
Within myself?
Putting aside the Spiritual source,
Who is this Other Me
Who can’t be me
Because I am Me.

The Conscious Me is lost
In some Unconscious Realm,
Weirder that Twilight Zone
Every time
I dream.

We take these things for granted
Of course
Putting to the back of our minds
That we have no idea
About that fundamental question:
What is Reality?

Paul Butters

© PB 20\9\2020.

Just think of all that you’ve seen
And experienced
Even forgotten
Throughout your Life.

Not just the Big Things.
The tiny
Seemingly insignificant things too.
Those various TV quizzes
Soaps, sitcoms, adverts
What would Aliens think?

Remember the savoury smell of freshly cut grass
Baking bread
And toilets!
Coffee as well.

See every detail of your table –
Strewn with papers
Objects
Mobile, wallet, medications, books…

Count those leaves on that tree
Stalks of grass
Grains of sand on a beach
Stars in the sky.

Remember all the people
You have met
Or seen
Or heard or read about.
From the rowdy
To the silent ones.
From Good to Evil.
I could go on…
But.

Who knows what our Subconscious Id
Has stored away
In the caverns of our minds?

Things that are with us always
Right until we Die.
And what happens to them then?
A whole universe of things.
Do they vanish
In a “pool of tears”?
Or are they somehow resurrected
Somewhere in Heaven?
We can only Hope…

Paul Butters

© PB 28\5\2020.

I love music
But can only sing flat.
And I can’t play musical instruments
With their baffling array of keys or strings.
So, I try to write music with words.
For I also love to write.

Distant misty hills beckon my soul
To fly amongst banks of swirling clouds
Then up into the stars.

The impossible mystery of infinity intrigues me:
Beyond, beyond, beyond, beyond…
Endless stories unfold before us
(Yes, you can come too!)
Eternity that has no horizon.

I love to love
My love,
For love makes the world go round
Or so I heard.
I love all plants and animals
And people too:
All that Mother Multiverse has spawned
And reared.

Love is all we need
They sang
And they were right.
So let’s get loved up
With lorra loving.
Feel that love.

For that’s why I write.

Paul Butters

© PB 3\2\2020.

How can anyone live for Eternity
When Eternity never ends?
It’s an objective that cannot be achieved
For it’s immeasurable.
Year after year might pass
But we never get there.

Space is the same:
Fly through a galaxy cluster
And you find more space
Then maybe another galaxy cluster,
Another after another, after another
Into Infinity.

Infinite Eternity:
Skies with no end
Never Ending
Teeming with countless stars.
Impossible
Yet here we are
Incredibly marvelling that we can think
That we even exist
To see, hear and feel
A world
That’s nothing short
Of a miracle.
Paul Butters

© PB 16\3\2020.

History is now being made:
One of the greatest plagues
Since Spanish Flu in nineteen-nineteen.
Self-Isolation is imposed
By those in lofty towers of power.

No sport, no pubs, no school, no restaurants…
Supermarket shelves all empty
From panic-buying shop-hoarders.
See that old lady stooping over her zimmer-frame,
Trying to spot any morsel that might be left.
A late-shift nurse cries openly
At the sheer selfishness of those
Who have left our stores a barren emptiness.

Our thoughts go out to all those victims
Of The Virus
And their families.
But also those forced home alone.
Are we not to walk in solitude soon
Even though we keep away from everyone?

Where will I go for Easter,
My kitchen or my bedroom?
We’ve been pushed off a cliff
Into a new lifestyle.
And it might last as long as
A Year.

Paul Butters

© PB 21\3\2020.

Time to rhyme and shine
All will be fine
Give me some wine

I rarely do rhyming lines
Prefer lines of rhymes
Rhymes within those lines
“Internal rhyme”
At least in this time line.

The summer sun has been summoned
So don’t be glum there in your slum
Ignore the ****, have some *** and chat with mum
But don’t be dumb and talk with a plumb
Strum that guitar with your fingers or thumb
Let that music hum
Watch them scrum for a crumb.

Just can’t wait to get into a transcendental state
From words that have some weight
To lead us through the gate
To poetic heaven

Paul Butters

© PB 4\2\2020.