I see a pattern Everywhere:
Circles and globes (three dimensional circles);
Shiny rings of fire.
Countless manifestations of this same shape.

Star-spangled galaxies wheeling through the sky:
That half-globe dome.
Earth, in circular orbit (more or less) around the Sun,
Escorted by the Moon.

Days give way to seasons,
Repeating every year.
Groundhog Days becoming
Groundhog Creations
Perhaps.

The list seems endless:
Hopkins’ dapples,
Planets, craters, cyclones, anti-cyclones, sea currents,
*****, apples, oranges, nuts, potatoes,
Teardrops, heads, faces, eyes, mouths,
Holes!

Coins, bin lids, and plates;
Sunflowers, daisies, pansies,
Rings of mushrooms,
Circling birds of prey,
A cat curled in a circle,
Like a foetus.

Life as we know it
Is a circle
And a cycle too.
Birth, Death, Blossom, Wilt.
Reincarnation?
Renewal?
Clock-faced Time itself.

Eternity might be a circle,
Infinity the same.
Maybe even God,
Some way.

Perhaps we still are building God,
For Him or Her to travel back through time
Like Doctor Who
To Create The Big Bang,
And form this expanding Universe,
Thus taking us full circle.

Or maybe the Universe will fold back in upon itself,
Producing yet one more Big Bang,
In an endless cycle,
Of Big Bangs,
Amongst this ever circling
Multiverse.

Paul Butters

© PB, 14th February, 2011 at 14.00, in Humberside.

Open your legs and show your class.
Haha.
Sing like Elvis,
Freddie, Pavarotti
Or Shirley Bassey.
Belt out Lennon-McCartney tunes
With Beach Boys Harmonies
And Eric’s Slow Hand Guitar.

Be as Magical as Messi,
Supremely Shakespeare with your plays and poems,
Better still. Hopkins and Keats.
Show the genius of Brian Wilson
And Oscar Wilde.
Not forgetting the Table Tennis Kings
Waldner and Ma Long.  

Oh Yes
Be Champion
Be Real Madrid
Or Barca if you prefer.
1970 Brazil
Federer, Navratilova
Or Lewis Hamilton.

Be simply the best,
Like Ali,
Or better still,
Be better than yourself
Day after day.
Just keep improving,
That’s the way.

Let this poem be tagged
“Motivational”
To get you off your backside.
There’s nothing like Achieving
To fill us full of Pride.

Paul Butters

© PB 11\5\2020. Hopkins, Keats and Ali added 14\5.

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

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

On the East Coast of England there’s a small resort
Called Cleethorpes, where I happen to reside.
And out towards the Pleasure Park
A short way from the shore
There is The Boating Lake.

I love to go there on a still, sundowning evening
When the parking is free.
To walk those walkways around the lake,
Dreaming I’m on Starfleet Academy Campus.
Walkways flanked by lawned hillocks and shrubs.

The lake is fringed by red-flowered reeds
And punctuated by ducks and geese.
Families and couples roam about
As I sit in meditation
Watching and listening
To the central fountain play.

Such a tranquil scene,
Far from the madding crowd.
Go over the bridge and cross the mini-railway line:
Before you reach the saltmarsh and the sea
You’ll find a stretch of shrubbery and trees
A haven for the birds
And for me,
As I walk my favourite path.

The lake is thus a prelude
To some splendid growth
As nature does its thing.

Serene and tranquil everything
A spiritual feeling
As I meditate
Beneath multi-layered clouds
Under endless sky.

Paul Butters

Write a Clerihew:
It’s easy to do.
Two rhyming couplets of any length:
Short and simple, that’s its strength.

Remember Johnny Giles
A player with all the wiles.
In midfield he did scheme:
For Leeds he was a dream.

Nicole Scherzinger,
What a messenger.
A Friend so loyal,
Regally royal.

Oh Nick Clegg,
Why did you have to beg
For a Tory-led Coalition,
Sending the Lib-Dems into Perdition?

(PS) All hail be to great Don Newton,
Always had a winning solution.
Played table tennis with flashing blade,
A Legend that will never fade.

Paul Butters

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

© PB 9\7\2018.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

© PB 28\7\2001.

For seventy or more years TV
And radio ruled the world,
Along with telephones.
But then computers made their mark,
Soon followed by mobiles, Smartphones,
Ipads, Bluetooth, Wifi and who knows what?
In no particular order.

So herds of sheep migrated
Into Cyberspace
Even Myspace!
Then on to Planet Facebook
And Terratwitter.

We talk with people we’ve never met,
And meet folk with whom we’ve never talked.
It keeps us occupied I guess,
And gives relief from stress.

These images that yet fresh images beget,
I’m sure Yeats would agree.
I tolerate these adverts flashing in my face
And soak up knowledge to my solid mental grace.

A world of wonders beckons in
The depths of Cyberspace,
And as a Nerd before they were invented,
I have to say I’ve truly found my place.

Paul Butters

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

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

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

© PB 9\3\2018.

Scientists say that everyone dies,
Having a set lifespan,
With the only possible exception being
Some unique jellyfish
Who regenerate like Doctor Who.

Yet religious folk claim
We will have eternal life
So long as we believe
In Their God (whoever).

So who can we believe?
Are any of them right
At all?

Is death the same for all?
The same for a man or woman
As for a blade of grass or withering rose?
The same for all men and women?
For humans and animals alike?

Have we been told the truth
About this and other matters?
The questions go on:
Conundrums whirling around our minds
As we inwardly crave Salvation.

All we have now,
To cling on to,
Is good old Hope.
Faith has no certainty
For me.
I never kidded myself
About that.
There’s only Hope, Hope,
Hope.

Paul Butters

© PB 10\5\2021.

Assonance was ensconced in my bonce once.
It puts me in the mood for a muse.
Love those cool peaceful pools under a Moon in June.
Or to croon about dunes and oasis blooms.
Such a lovely tune,
It’ll make you swoon.

Enjoy my runes,
No matter how crude.
I can be a goon
Or even a loon.
Sometimes a fool.
Poems strewn with clichés
For want of a better phrase.

Words hewn before noon,
To give you a boon.

Bad days may loom,
Injustices done.
Cruelty that’s is fuel for a duel and may ruin a life.
We may be doomed.

But I must stay upbeat,
Give you a treat
And make you fall at my feet.
Quite a feat!

Every dog has his day,
Another cliché you’ll say.
But I don’t get any pay,
So soon be on my way.

Love to play with words,
Writing songs for the birds.
These words are a tool
For making me cool.

We’re back to those pools:
They are shimmering jewels.

Paul Butters

Mist drifts amidst tall trees -
Above cool, clear blue pools
And grass splattered with dew.

We too should stay so cool:
Composed and rational even in a duel.
Forget adrenaline
And lose that Cortisol.
Ever see a dog or cat work out
Or do press-ups?
Watch those animals relax
And sleep:
Only springing up when something happens.

Avoid those fiery rages
As much as you can.
Steer clear of hell
With all its fury and flames
And violent eruptions.

Give me a golden pint
Of ice-cold brew.
Any beer will do.
Even without such help
Let us calm our hearts,
Lay back and relax
Even fall asleep for a while.
For we have earned
Our quiet hours
Amongst those misty trees.

Paul Butters

© PB 26\6\2018.

In every “Poetry Place”
There is a Copycat Corner.
We know it’s a disgrace
So here’s another “Warner”.

Why they do it I’ll never know,
Those Copier and Pasters.
Their words they seem to glow,
But they’re a bunch of Wasters.

Taking all that praise,
For stuff they haven’t written,
It seems to be a craze,
And many do get bitten.

Just Google their “fine words” or use those plagiarism sites,
And you will find the original poems
Bedecked with copyrights.

I’m sure this place just isn’t free
Of people like this,
Just look and see!!!

The Admins must get their fingers out,
And give these villainous rogues a massive clout.
Me, I will show all due diligence,
But my job here,
Is to show My brilliance.
(NOT someone else’s!).

Paul Butters

Forests of coral adorn the rocky ocean floor,
Sheltered here in this sky-blue lagoon.
See the golden sand, shining through the still waters,
Fringed by plumes of palm.
The warming sun is smiling,
Flanked by fluffy white clouds.
Gulls are calling
Over the whispering sea.
A tropical paradise
Punctuated only
By impromptu showers.
Those colourful corals
Swarmed with teeming fish
Of every hue.
This is the place
To be.

Paul Butters

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

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

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.

Where are you Paul?
I'm in Cyberspace Mum.
My Pentium processor has broadbanded me
Into this wondrous realm.
A pixel powered virtual landscape
Peopled by avatars
Speaking Internet Slang.
FFS, *** are you talking about?
She asks.
In so many words.
I **** and ROFL at her incredulity.

It’s full of danger, that Internet, says Mum.
That’s true.
It’s full of paedophiles,
Spammers and trolls.
Hackers.
Chat-rooms and forums
Plagued by flame-wars
And spam enough to fill a trillion tins.
Sites full of viruses, Trojans, malware and spyware.
Cyber-bullies and loons abound.
But I just Love it.
A ****** addiction
Needing every fix.
A realm indeed of quantum singularities,
And imploding nebulae.

Paul Butters

(C) PB 3\9\2011 in Yorkshire.

Remember David Beckham
The footballing great from Peckham.
He would always bend it
So no-one could defend it.

Paul Butters

Dawn breaks,
Awaking me to our universe:
Ever expanding,
Into infinite space.

Billions of stars,
Planet and moons.
Countless possibilities,
Multiverse or not.
Too vast to comprehend.

Together we are
But a leaf in the forest,
Drop in the ocean,
Grain of sand on the beach.
Lost in orderly chaos.
One sparkle in a firework display.

Logically there should be higher powers
And maybe one supreme being, ruling all.
Call it Gods or God
Whatever you like.
Feel free to choose your own.

Select from the maelstrom of energy and life
That is out there.
Choose from intelligences way beyond our reckoning.

For names are nothing but convenience
For we ants
As we look up at the stars.

Paul Butters

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

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

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

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.

“Praise be to Allah, Lord of the Worlds,
The Beneficent, the Merciful.
Owner of the Day of Judgement,
Thee (alone) we worship;
Thee (alone) we ask for help.
Show us the straight path,
The path of those whom Thou hast favoured.
Not (the path) of those who earn Thine anger
Nor of those who go astray.”

This we said to you, oh Great One, in the Quran
So many years ago.
But Lord your flocks are fleeing from your fields.
We need your Sheepdog to round them up in their confusion.

They do not see you are a God of many names,
“God” being one of them.
Over the ages you have been Zeus, Jupiter, Odin, Mother Earth, Jehovah, God, Allah
And many others.
But always you were The One True One,
Beneficent and Loving.

All men (and women) are equal in your eyes.
All Life to be cherished and preserved.
Thou shalt not ****
Is what you said.

So Allah now’s the time
To correct your children:
Breathe into them
The essence of your thoughts.

Enter their minds as The Holy Ghost,
So many Scrooges there:
Enlighten them
To know what is really Good
And rediscover what it is
To Love.
Amen.

Paul Butters

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

Paul Butters

© PB 25\3\2019.

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

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

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

Paul Butters

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

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

They say that God is omnipotent,
Omniscient, omnipresent:
All the omnis.

An all-powerful, all seeing, all knowing
All place being.
No pressure then, Mr. or Mrs. God.

Paul Butters

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

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

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

© PB 28\4\2020.

Dem phones, dem phones, dem iPhones,
Dem phones, dem phones, dem iPhones,
Dem phones, dem phones, dem iPhones,
Now praise the Lord for the Web.

The Apple phone’s connected to the Vodaphone,
And the Vodaphone’s connected to the Google Zone,
The Google Zone’s connected to the Web Zone,
Oh hear the Lord of the Word.

Well the phone’s connected to a browser
And it fits very neatly in your trouser.
The browser connects you to the Internet
Faster than the fastest speed-jet,
Just the place for a quick bet.
Oh hear the Lord of the Word.

It might get you onto Facebook
Or teach you how to be good cook
Find you some ladies for a good…
Time.

Now Praise the Lord of The Word.

Paul Butters

Whenever people criticise me
They usually don’t know that
I am my Biggest Critic,
Beating myself up
Like Tyson Fury.

It’s how I spur myself on,
Hopefully to better things.
But what things?
I still don’t know.

Oh to have blind faith
And sense of Vocation
As many others do.
A solid set of Values.
A script to follow
Opinions to declare.

Instead I dither
Undecided
Lost in an ocean of ifs and buts.
Too bright and open-minded
For my own good.

Worse still, I’m oh so eager to please.
I think myself incorruptibly honest,
Yet the truth is,
I only tell people what I think
They want to know.
It’s how I was brought up.

But then again
Am I willing to fight
For what I stand for?
Should I really be Devil’s Advocate
Just to “stick up” for my views?

Better methinks to hold my counsel
Or be diplomatic
Which may be okay
So long as I actually decide
What I think and feel
Within myself.

And there’s the rub.
What do I stand for?
Do I really think for myself?
Like so many others,
Am I dragged along:
Brainwashed by Media hoo ha
And hype?
Superficial sound bytes
And rallying calls.

I need to search my soul
And find my true feelings
And beliefs.
I know that I Love Life
In most of its forms.
I’m all for Wellbeing
And The Common Good.

I need to focus
On these things:
On making the most of
This Paradise World
We seem bent on ruining.

In short
I must stoke those fires of Love
And enlighten others
To do the same.

Paul Butters

© PB 13\12\2021.

Those eyes so sad
Watch your tail wag

Our Collie Labrador.
My loyal friend,
Love can never end:
We Love you more and more.

You have a mate,
A constant date,
She rolls all over the floor.

A lab and beagle partnership,
Bonnie and Clyde I quip:
Max and Promise at the door.

I take them for long walks,
And Max, he almost talks,
They know the score.

They’re on their way,
They’re here to stay,
They’ll never bore.

Promise prances,
And Max dances
All over that floor.

They lick my face,
Tongue-curled embrace:
That’s just what dogs are for.

Paul Butters

When Rome fell down,
Don Newton with his flashing blade
Took over.

He marched the corridors of Table Tennis power
For more than fifty years.
And graced a multitude of committees with his
Presence.

As Mister NALGO, Don constructed
A glorious empire
Of countless teams
At many a venue:
Down Pasture Street,
In Weelsby, Yarra, Knoll,
Electric Club,
Saint James...
To name a few.

Amassing titles and cups
From every division
Of the Grimsby League:
A roll of honour too long to recall,
Now stretching to the horizon.

No fancy sponge, reversed rubber,
Or long-pimples for our Don.
Give him a plain old Barna bat,
Devoid of sponge, short-pimples out,
To give that ball a mighty clout.

The simple things in life
Were all he wished:
A pint of mild,
Or game of chess,
Would always go down well.

This table tennis granddad knows the score,
And takes his leisure now,
Contented as
The sun goes down.

Paul Butters

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

© PB 12\4\2022.

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’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

Dream on, my friend,
Like me.
Of a future Heaven on Earth,
Or even just a Heaven.

Peace to all Men,
And Women.
Nor more starvation,
Disease
Or Death.

A Paradise in full bloom.
Endless forest, savannas and parklands
Ringed by towering mounts.
Habitats for countless species:
Humanity united with Mother Nature.

Trivial pleasures too.
Leeds United World Champions.
British wins at Wimbledon.
Another World Cup win.

Girls Aloud joining me,
For a fish and chip tea.
More medals in Rio,
Than we got in twenty twelve.

Crank up that warp drive,
Or better still,
Open up that Uniscape
So we can go
Into a parallel universe
Of our choice.

A realm where fiction becomes fact.
Where Captain Kirk is real
And Shatner just a character
On TV.

Where Telletubbies really watch us,
And Father Christmas truly shows his face.
Golden pavements are mere trifles,
And God gives us his grace.

We have to keep on dreaming.
Our hopes must never die.
Just simply keep on dreaming,
No need to reason why.

Paul Butters

© Paul Butters 27\10\2012 (2) in Yorkshire.

It’s an early hour
At least for me.
I’m half asleep yet full of thought.
As if my brain has churned through everything
Throughout the night
And come up with
Some answers.

This happens often
So poems and things emerge
At times like this.

It’s cool and calm right now.
I love this peaceful, early morning time:
No birdsong even.
Yet a pigeon and sparrow on my back lawn.
No sound of cars
Or any of the hustle and bustle
Of a working day.

So serene and soothing to my soul.
Safe as though I’ve hidden
Under the floorboards
Away from the sun’s hot glare
And the turbulence
Of Life.

I suppose I’m mindful now
Of all around me
As I meditate
About nothing in particular.

Even a little spider in my diary this morning
Has not disturbed this serene feeling,
This atmosphere of calm.
Carbon dioxide cools this room.
Ah, wrong kind of atmosphere!
I speak (inside my head) of more soulful emotion
As I said
But I’d better be careful
That I don’t fall back to sleep
Laid back here
In my comfy armchair…

Paul Butters

© PB 16\6\2018.

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.

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.

It’s blue sky brightly sunny
As we await the Easter Bunny.
Still some clouds about
Rain might have a shout.

Remembering when Jesus died on the cross
Only to beat Death
So no longer a loss.

Let’s throw off our shackles too
Enjoy those Easter eggs,
Quaff a golden brew
And drain the barrel to the dregs.

It might be a crime to tire of rhyme
But give me a minute or two
Rhyme isn’t a favourite of mine
So I might not carry this through.

Forsythias, Daffies and now Mahonias
Gold flowers full of sun
Thinking of Begonias
Adding to the fun.

The Amaryllis must be out
Giving us a mighty shout
Other flowers too
What a lovely view.

**** and Robins are flitting around
Making lots of birdsong sound.
We’ve just sprung forward,
As you know,
So Nature is putting on
A bit of a show.

Symbolic eggs will soon be eaten
That chocky taste just can’t be beaten.
So enjoy Easter everyone.
Let’s hope we’ll be basking in the sun.

Paul Butters

© PB 30\3\2023.

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

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

© PB 1\2\2018.

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.

If you will indulge me, a Story for you:

"Ending"

I’m safely tucked up in bed now. So frail. When I think how fat I used to be. But I’m very, very old. Might even die tonight, in my sleep. Can hear the wind howling outside.
It’s not such a bad place this. The carers look after me well. If I’m lucky they will wheel me into the garden again tomorrow. Hope that wind dies down and the sun shines. Where am I? Can’t recall the name. This Dim Enta thing. So tired now. So tired…
“And wake!”
What? Where am I? On my back! Ceiling. Face! Doctor Sanders!”
“It’s over, Krol, welcome back.”
I remember. Doctor Sanders. I’ve been hypnotised, regressed to a former life. Lived that whole life! And now I’m awake!
Me: “Did I just die there?”
Dr. Sanders: “Yes Krol, in your sleep. Or at least the person you were died in his sleep… But did you get the full life experience this time?”
Me: “Just about, Bob. I can remember back to being about three. My parents, our little dog, a baby sister. Playing with a wooden train or something that you could ride in. But it seems I died in my sleep…”
Bob: “How far back in time was this?”
Me: “I was born mid-twentieth century, not long after the Second World War…”
Bob: “Fascinating. Better get you into Debriefing, before you forget it all.”
Me: “Yeah. It sure was a long life. Lots of history for you. I can’t get over that that was me!”
Bob: “You’ll soon adjust, Krol.”
Me: “That Death thing was scary, Bob. I was afraid of ‘dying’, as they called it, for most of my life. Thank goodness we found a cure.”
Bob: “Yes Krol, things were really rough back then. But come on, let’s get that report of yours done…”

Paul Butters

© PB 13\6\2018.

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

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

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.

Our scientists say that before The Big Bang
There was Nothing
And therefore
No God.

Through red-shifted space they “see”
Back to The Beginning.
Exploding Singularity.
A photon winks into existence
And BOOM.

Yes they are conceited enough to think
That all we see is all there is to know.
Like people pre-Pythagoras
Who thought the Earth was flat
They Lord it
With Confidence.

Yet Eternal Infinity
Beckons us on.

A light year is 5,878,499,810,000 miles.
An estimated 81,000 years Ion-Drive flight to the nearest star.
About 100 thousand million galaxies in the universe:
70 thousand million million million stars.
But we know it all.

Some say our universe is a bubble
Growing within another
Like a baby in a womb.

Some say it will grow forever,
Slowly petering out
‘Til all is cold.
Others that it will stop, shrink
Implode
Then be reborn
With another Big Bang.

Who knows what will happen?
Not me.

Paul Butters

“Who let you in?” jokes Henry the Doorman,
Waving the signing-in book
Like a wanton dervish,
With a glint in his eye.

But in you go,
Into a dimly lit room,
Filled with smoke in yesteryears.
Men in huddles
Hatching plots
Or just playing cards
Or Dominoes.

In the corner those darts are flying,
While blokes stand chatting
At the bar.

Next door you find The Snooker Room,
Where all is silent
As “World League Championships” are underway.
Snooker and billiards to be precise.
Men so serious
Some sitting sternly
Worrying about their match.
The odd breakout of conversation
Over some dispute or debate.

Back at the bar
All is well.
No need to be PC here.
You can say whatever you want.

We drink and drink,
Until the bar closes
At whatever time.
The chat gets louder
As the ***** loosens our tongues.
Then home we roll together.
Every Club.
A place I love.

Paul Butters

© PB 15\11\2017.