Every home has a Mother
Waiting with open arms at the door.
And a Dad in his armchair,
As the tradition goes.

Welcome to the lounge
Where we can huddle by the fire.
TV in the corner
And - if you have them –
Dogs and cats to stroke.

Then there’s Sunday Lunch
And those daily aromas of baking.
Memories of scooping out the bowl
And eating most of the peas you shelled.

Home – a place of refuge
Where you can bring all your troubles
And have them resolved.

Our Mum kept a beautiful garden,
Resplendent with colourful flowers.
An oasis on a council estate.

As Dorothy Gale of Oz fame said before me:
There’s no place like Home.

Paul Butters

© PB 20\11\2017.

Life clings on
In deserts, ice sheets and hot acid pools.
Those selfish genes persist:
Batons in a Marathon relay race.
Generation follows generation.
Clone adds to clone.

So life spreads:
The mightiest empire,
Covering all the globe.
A world full of living wonders.
All manner of plants, insects and animals.
Oceans teeming with fish.
From tropical paradise
To awesome glaciers.

We must be mindful
Of this glorious beauty.
Mother Nature reigns supreme.
Sing and rejoice,
Party hard
And put aside
The awful truth -
That in the end
Everyone dies.

Paul Butters

© PB 26\7\2018.

In the final analysis
We are but colonies of bacteria
Swimming about in our own primordial soup.
Who knows what pacts and treaties
Have been made within our very bodies?

Aeons and aeons of evolution
Have led to this:
The human being.

So much mindless life,
Following instinct,
Building and building
To produce intelligence.

Natural Selection,
Seen by Darwin,
Such a beautiful thing –
Presented by Attenborough on a silver screen –
God’s Formula:
The mark of Genius.

Paul Butters

© PB 22\1\2019.

My head feels dull.
Not even “comfortably numb”.
No mood for rhyme
Yet must cast my soul
Back through time.

No.
No more rhyme.
Just cast my mind back.
Seek that spark.
Call out my Muse.
Be inspired.
Excited.
Yes.

Excitement shines
Like a billion suns.
The merest touch
Explodes
My every nerve.

Magical mysteries
Unveil themselves.
Brilliant, fluttering butterflies
Flash and flicker
Those rainbow colours and more.

Deep inspiration.
Adrenaline rush.
Electrical discharge.
Cascading sweat.

Thunder-drummed tornadoes.
Lightning storms.
Rose tinged dawns,
And silver-ghosted Moons.

Inspirational volcanoes
Of Muse-blown delight.
That’s how it was,
To be in Love.

Nothing is not black
It has no colour.
The blackness of space is black
But nothing is nothing.
No light or dark,
No taste or smell
Or touch.

Nothing cannot know it is nothing
No more than we can know
When we are gone.

Our transient existence is a blessing
Here on Earth, beneath the Sun.
Sunshine shining, blindingly bright
Upon the foliage
Of Paradise bathed in light.

Paul Butters

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

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

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

Existence
That’s The Thing
Not The Universe:
A mere detail,
If somewhat huge!

Logic dictates that Existence
Just came into Existence!
Or always Existed.
Eternal Existence.
I cannot see how a sophisticated God
Could exist
Before Existence.

You may call this an Accident
But what’s in a name?
Existence either sprang into Existence
Or Existed
Always.

Does God exist?
Irrelevant.
What matters is that Existence
Exists.

And for me
What matters
Is that I Exist.
For only I can live my life.
And only my life is what I know
To be so.
Even the Queen, or Putin or Trump cannot
Know what it is
To live my life.
Only I can know that,
Which makes me The King
Of Existence.

Paul Butters

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

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

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

© PB 7\12\2021.

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.

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

© PB 23\8\2018.

Call it “Faith” or call it “Hope”,
Whatever it is, it helps us cope.
Scientist say we live then die:
Death brings Nothing, no reason Why.
We’re made of matter which doesn’t last,
So soon we’ll be a thing of the past.

Religions offer an afterlife,
With just reward for all our strife.
We hope there will be more than this:
A spiritual world, even heavenly bliss.

We pray those boffins are all wrong,
That God (or Whoever) will summon us with his gong.
Physical reality really *****,
Even if you’ve lots of bucks.
Our common prayer I can’t conceal:
That simply put,
THIS isn’t REAL.

Paul Butters

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.

Don’t fear your fear
Or even anxiety –
Nagging Neurosis:
Even if it makes you pour with sweat
And tremble.

Don’t fight your fear,
Or seek to suppress it.
Don’t dumb it down
With tranquilisers and the like.

No need to be Superman,
Nor Wonder Woman.
No need for Spock-like Volcan
Emotional mind-control.

You aint a wimp
Because you are afraid.

Don’t bury your fear
Or shake it off.
Just Listen to it!
For Fear’s a Warning.
It’s doing a job.
A Red or Yellow Alert.
Warning You
About what?

Through fear we survive
To thrive.

In bygone days it saved us
From dinosaurs and sabre-toothed
Tigers.

What is the danger now?
What are you doing wrong?
How are you putting yourself
At risk?

What terrors lie along this path?
What are your instincts whispering
In your ear?

Intuition tells you what?
What is there to fear?
Just listen
And feel.
Embrace your fear.

Survive
To thrive.

Paul Butters

Feel free to mourn me when I’m gone,
When I will not be back again.
It’s natural to grieve at death
For those who miss you so, I know.

But don’t forget to celebrate my life
And all I’ve done on this fair earth.
Be full of joy about these things:
Immortalise me for my deeds.

I hope to live for many a long year:
If possible cheat Death immortally,
Perhaps by going somewhere safe
From the Grim Reaper’s deadly scythe.

I hope for many table tennis wins
And trending poems, before I leave this mortal coil.
Iambic rhythms throughout cyber space,
Free verse expressing a greater vision.

I’ve planned ahead by writing this,
And might have jumped the gun maybe.
But when you read this out perhaps,
I might by now be Free.

Paul Butters

© PB 19\6\2016.

Feelings of fear, anxiety and hate
Served us well
Back in ancient times
When sabre toothed tigers threatened.

Those adrenaline rushes
Meant that we survived
Through taking flight
Or standing to fight
Like demons.

But in modern times
When physical threats are rare
(Though still too many)
We must Avoid
Such negative emotions.

For Fear can make you
A rabbit in the headlights:
Chronically anxious and depressed.
Or it can turn you
Into a snarling animal,
Snapping at everyone.

On both Arrakis and Earth,
Fear is the mind-killer
And little-death,
To be faced down
And then forgotten.

For we must, I repeat, cast aside
These negative feelings
Of fear and hate.

Instead we need
To nurture
Every budding
Of Love
Joy
Excitement.

We must empathise,
Be compassionate
Sympathetic
And Loving.

Above all,
We must Love.

Paul Butters

© PB 13\4\2019.

Feel the Force
Just Feel that Force.
No sign of divorce.
It’ll keep you on course.

It’s everywhere,
Not just a Star Wars fiction.
It may be God out there,
The cure for our affliction.

Whether The Force like us can think
Who knows?
Maybe we’re on the brink
Of its ebbs and flows.

All around there’s a Spiritual World,
Or so some say:
It’s yet unfurled
But we are on our way.

So Feel the Force
I say again.
Time runs its course,
Do ya ken?

As Yoda would say,
Your mind you open
And powerful you will become.

Paul Butters

Film and television cameras:
Roving eyes for many of us.
But are We the cameras on the world
For an audience somewhere out there
Beyond the stars?

Our world: a studio for countless films.
The animal race a production crew
For programmes watched by spirit beings.

And who collects these reels of Life?
Where is The Director?
What Company employs us all?

Those with feelings of Déjà vu do ask:
Which Take are we doing now?
And Minds of Science claim
We can Forward Fast or Rewind.

It’s one great mystery of course:
The longest journey of them all.
A soap opera to beat all others:
This film called “Life”.

Paul Butters

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.

It started when she said Hello
Over forty years ago.
She was the only one to do so I suppose.
My heart was twanged
And I wanted her so bad.
Still it pains me so today,
I couldn’t find the words to say.

All I got was unrequited-love sick blues.
I couldn’t eat a thing
For weeks on end.

At a party she sat alone,
Seemingly aloof,
‘Til someone else stepped in...

Hindsight says she didn’t like me anyway:
She criticised my teenage spots
And the way I danced.

I wasted so much time on her,
Spurning others for my senseless crush.
Giving up only when her long distance boyfriend appeared.

Since then I’ve always guarded
Against getting emotionally involved
Before being socially involved.

It has been said that I’m aloof,
Staying on the fringe,
Avoiding commitment.

You have to take that risk
They say,
There is no other way.

I’ve seen the pain that “Love” can bring,
Romantic songs I will not sing.
I’d rather stay here on the shelf,
Peacefully living with myself.

Paul Butters

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.

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.

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

Paul Butters

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

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.....

This planet orbits a yellow sun like ours.
It is in the Optimum Zone to support life.
Sure enough it has a wide variety of flora and fauna.
Highly intelligent life has evolved in its seas and oceans.
Its continents, however, are dominated by a species of primates.

Over the past 300 of the planet’s years they have developed
Some fairly high technology.
But they remain carnivores
Who regularly commit genocide.
They cut down swathes of natural forest
To grow chemically protected
Genetically modified nutrition-sources.
And they mine their planet empty
Of its mineral riches.
The planet’s ecosystem is being rapidly destroyed
By them.

Socially and psychologically they remain primitive.
Yet they possess the means to blow their world
To pieces.

With heavy heart I have to advise
We sign this planet
“No Entry”
For the foreseeable future.
“Forbidden” indeed.
A planet we call MW Orion 8478-3
That its natives call
That ever so common name:
“Earth”.

Paul Butters

There is a Force throughout the Universe:
The Mother of Creation shows us so.
Those “Star Wars” writers were spot on:
Their “Force” reflects the truth, I know.

The Force has hidden depths beyond our dreams,
Full of Goodness and a Dark Side too.
Space and Time mean Nothing to this Force,
So we can’t track it to its Source.

All We can do is Hope and Pray
That we do Pass if there’s a Judgement Day.

Paul Butters

I peer into the depths of forest:
A seeming infinity of trees
And undergrowth.
Gnarled branches adorned
By countless butterfly wings.
A sea of green
Above those black-hole shadows.

Who knows what lies beyond those lines?
What friends or foes might well be met
In there.
Monsters may lurk,
Or fairies frolic around mushroom rings.

Yes, an infinity of sheer delight
Or hell.
Maybe I’ll find you a cottage in those woods,
With a garden path to lead you down for more.

I stare
And wonder.
Then I put away my mobile
(And the mayhem is gone again).
LOL.

Paul Butters

When writing poems there is no right or wrong.
It may be plain or sound just like a song.
Heroic couplets aren’t the only way.
Yet people always have to have their say.

It may be perfect, it may be not.
Just lose a syllable
Or go completely
Free.

Read unnamed samples of some classic works and you will see
That often you can add the names yourself.
They are distinctive.

A Shakespeare,
A Keats,
A Milton
Or a Yeats.

What matters is whether a poem works,
In some way,
At least for yourself.

Forsythias flower now,
A shock of yellow petals
Matching my Daffodils.
Pure yellow,
Brighter than the sun.
Galaxies of petal-stars
Hanging from spiral arms.
As numerous as a shoal of fish,
Or flock of birds.
Nature stuns us with its numbers.

Winter hangs on
With chilling grip.
But blossoms like these hold promise
Of warmer days.
My crocuses were first:
Defiant spears thrusting into the frosty air.
And now the second wave is here:
Flower after flower,
Bird after bird:
Robins and Blue ****,
Blackbirds and Sparrows.
Pesky gnats are out
As everything awakes
From hibernation.
Yes Spring is here,
Showing us once more
The sheer resilience of Life.

Paul Butters

Fountains of flowers, growing so fast.
Such a shame that none of them last.
Summer blossoms soon will wane,
They’ll be back next year again.
Bees await the autumn flowers,
Checking out the wooded bowers.
Twittering blackbirds guard their land:
Will their fights get out of hand?
Swallows swoop with arcing wings,
Ever returning for endless Springs.
It’s early July, just past midsummer,
Every green leaf is a newcomer.
Earlier dawn and longer light,
Durable daylight and shorter night.
British weather will still prevail:
Sunny spells and storms with hail.
Winter always is a ******,
I thank Goodness we have our Summer.

Paul Butters

Genetic engineering’s here to stay
Possibilities are endless, scientists say:
Men mixed with anything we can find:
Oak trees, wasps, ants and elephants combined.
Satanic horror armies sweep their enemies away
And Frankenstein’s monster’s little but child’s play
Compared with these.

Yet with Good intent,
And wisdom heaven sent,
Utopia or Paradise could be on its way:
Bumper bug-free harvests every day,
Giant fruit and docile, friendly beasts.
Food for all, and endless feasts.

All manner of
Good
Or Evil
Is within
Our grasp.

It’s down to us.

Life-Death Forgotten, Never Was;
Time, matter whirling, empty Space.
Love, merely hunger, drives us On;      
Self, ever lonely, rots apace.
God, faintly ruling, far away,
Sees sinful, ***** liars pray.
Vague faceless ocean,
Blackest Light;
Nothing tells us What is Right.
Life is but a Game we Play;
Death no more than End of Day,
Forgotten.

(Yet Remembered,
With Hope).

Paul Butters

(First Drafted and (C) 22\4\1971)

(13\6\97: "Yet Remembered... added)

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

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

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

Paul Butters

© PB 25\5\2021.

In the Beginning there was Nothing.
Then Matter appeared.
Movement Mothered Time.
Our Universe Expands.
But wait!
How could there be a “beginning” if there was nothing?
For if there was nothing there would be no time.
And if there was no time there could be no beginning, or “end” for that matter (excuse the pun).

So, the “Beginning” came about only when Time began.
And Time began only when Matter appeared and Moved.
The moment when Matter appeared and when Existence began we have termed “Creation” or “The Big Bang”.
The latter implies some “Accident”, some cataclysm that just happened “out of the blue”.
Or rather, The Big Bang occurred from Nothing.

“Creation” implies that some “Intelligence” made the Big Bang happen or otherwise designed our Universe (or Multiverse or Whatever).
Some would call this Intelligence “God”.

But who Created God???
Surely we have to Begin with An “Accident”.
Could we really Start with God?
Start with an Intelligent, Omnipresent, Omniscient, Omnipotent, Immortal, Sentient Being?  
Out of Nothing?
From Nowhere.
Nowhen?

It would seem unlikely.
Humbler beginnings seem more feasible.
An Accident indeed.
A tiny accident that leads to greater things: much, much Greater.
To the Evolution of God perhaps.
(It is possible that God hasn’t even Evolved into existence yet.
Maybe We are taking part in that very Evolution).

But then we arrive back where we started.
Back to the same problem.
How was there a Beginning without any Time.
How was there a Nothing without a Something (indeed without Existence)?
How did Matter just Appear from a Nothing which couldn’t Exist because there wasn’t an Existence, wasn’t a Something?
I just Don’t Know.

Seems the Universe is expanding into Space.
For there to be space there must be Something that defines that space, something surrounding that space!
Is our Universe in a test tube?
Or perhaps space is created once matter appears, such as that which constitutes our universe.
Space must be infinite.
I cannot imagine matter being infinite, even containing spaces.
Space must be more than “Nothing”.
Space has to be infinite,
Otherwise we would have to ask,
What is beyond space?
Infinity.
Eternity.

In short,
Existence,
Life and Everything:
It’s Impossible.

Paul Butters

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.

Get your finger out!
I hear you shout.
Give Life a clout.

But what’s it all about?
What does it mean?
Out of what?
A hole in a gun?
Or your ***?

How do you think I sit?
Is my finger covered
In something not too pleasant?

So you think I’m lazy!
You must be crazy.
I’ve worked off my socks
Yet I’m tied to the stocks.

We are ALL in this mess,
Yes it’s time to fess.
Too much wrong in this world:
Time our flag was unfurled.

To do nothing is bad,
From Rome to Riyadh.
Don’t want to feel sad:
We’d rather be glad
That we acted
Without being distracted.

So get that flipping finger out!

Paul Butters

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

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

© PB 21\2\2022.

A Giraffe, with its
Long
Long
Long
Long
Long
Neck is looking down on me.
See him stretchhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh up to those high-tree leaves
And grasp them with his massive tongue.

Two males are having a fight
To decide who will mate today.
They swing their necks at one another
Madly
Until one of them falls.
A battle captured all on video film.
The loser seems quite dead
But then comes round
And totters to his feet.

Magnificent creatures,
All mottle-flanked,
With tiny horns
And telescopic legs.
Giraffes!

Paul Butters

Delicious eyes of magic fire,
Warm shafts that finger forth a touch
Of Love;
Enticing my desire
To surge through lancing beams
As rolling waves o’erride the ebb,
Which sheens, a mirror of the sky,
Leaves pools of cool tranquillity,
Enriched by sprinkled stars of pollen-
That fell from flowers, that hug the heaven:
Hidden beyond the misty trees,
Which blossom founts of rustling leaves.
   These forks of light lash through the woods,
   From dawning suns that melt the ocean floods.

PAUL BUTTERS

So glad I wasn’t born a Daesh Child
Or Indian lower caste.
Or in some ghetto in Brazil
Or wherever.

The hands of Fate were kind to me,
Being born a Brit.
An easy life, compared to many men.

To think I could have been born anywhere:
A black, white or yellow,
Christian, Muslim, Jew, Hindu….
Even a Royal!

I’m glad indeed at what I am,
But should my birth determine all?
I must have Choices
Little though they be.

I choose Agnostic though I’m C of E,
And Humanist is my Way.
My Love of Nature is a solid choice:
Compassionate Kindness being my Creed.

My race and gender (and being Straight)
Are set in stone
Popular or not.
But otherwise I’m just very glad
To be Free.

Paul Butters

Do not take glory from conquests and wins
Or climbing stairways into ivory towers.
Rather, take glory in Mother Nature’s work
And glorious sunrises and sunsets.

Oh those sun-down colours: reds and golds,
Deep purples backed by azure blue hues.
Every sunset unique
Like every swirl of clouds.

Yes every sky is different.
My mind makes pictures from those clouds
Except on days of formless, fathomless mists.

Beneath these skies
We have a lovely vista
Of trees and savannah.
Satellites show us a wondrous world
Full of amazing sights.

But best of all we have
People
And animals
Of all kind.

Folks with whom to share
This glory
The real glory,
Every day we waken
To greet the new bright day.

Paul Butters

© PB 29\5\2019.

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.

When I was eighteen I wrote “The Bedrock”
In which I said
The Priority is to Survive.
But I’m sixty three now,
And that’s not enough.
It’s not all about Me, so
It’s time to decide
What is Good.

Well, my friend
All Life is Good.
Every living thing.
From enormous whale
To spiteful wasp,
Bacteria
To Ecosystem.

Yet some beings must be extra-cherished:
Those that are conscious,
Sentient and smart.

Intelligence as such is there to be nurtured
And knowledge learnt.
So too wisdom,
But above all
Love.
Do unto others as you would have them do unto you:
A great old saying.
Be a Humanist indeed,
But better still,
A Lifist
Who Loves Life.

All else follows on from what I’ve just said.
Go figure.

Paul Butters

© PB 25\9\2015 (2).

Who needs terrorists?
They are redundant
When over 60 poor people
Can perish
In a raging inferno
Caused by their own council.

For years the resident action group
Were poo pooed by the authorities
With, “Don’t worry your pretty heads!”
When they warned about fire safety regulations
Being ignored
Just like them.

No sprinklers and only one fire escape
In a twenty four storey building.
Only last year the tower was refurbished
With cheap plastic cladding that’s
Banned in the USA.

Our prime minister has been accused
Of failing to show humanity
By only visiting the Emergency Services
To avoid the angry public.

All this has happened
Not in some God forsaken third world country
But in the fifth or sixth richest economy
In the world.

For sure, that all engulfing tower-fire
Has made the blood of the people
Boil.
Let’s hope this volcano does not erupt
Like the one that caused
The London Riots of 2011.
Let’s hope our administration
At all its levels
Learns something from this:
To Care for its People.

Paul Butters

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

© PB 17\1\2021.

Singularity
Then Big Bang inflating to
Our Universe now

Paul Butters

© PB 17\4\2023.

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.

Heat from the street beneath my feet keeps hitting me.
The sun above relentlessly shows no mercy,
Baking everything with its fiery stare.
Sultry mugginess smothers us in a sauna of sweat
As even the breeze burns my reddening face.

Global warming turns us into another Venus
As record-high temperatures
Scorch us into submission.
Even some Sun Lovers are hiding now,
While others insist it’s just Summer.
In heat like this there’s only one solution…

Time for a beer.

Paul Butters

© PB 17\7\2022.

This muggy, sultry sun is no fun:
Longest sustained heatwave for over forty years.
Suffocating Sahara with Death Valley cracks
In the dry arid soil.

My electric fan shattered with a power surge
Into fragmented plastic shards.
I so miss it now.
It’s oppressively tropical,
With volcanic heat
And Pressure bearing down on us.
The clammy mugginess of a sauna.
Not the clean dry air you find abroad,
Yet still that remorseless torrid scorching,
Roasting and toasting.
Just too much.

Hot air clothed in humid moisture,
Stuffy and sweaty,
Steaming to a haze
And later
Thunder storms.

I long for a cool brew
To freeze my throat
And quench my raging thirst:
Ice cool, ice cool, ice cool.
I’m sure not talking
Of tea.

Paul Butters

© PB 6\8\2018.

According to the Bible there is
“Heaven”
A high place where all good people go
When their Life’s innings is over.
But Bad folk go down to “Hell” –
To suffer “bottomless perdition”.

Yet we only have to look up
At the morning or evening sky
To see Planet Hell:
It’s the brightest “star” of all:
Venus!

And I believe
That out there amongst that ocean of stars
There is a so called “Exoplanet”
In a distant solar system
Like ours
Perhaps twice as big as Earth:
A sub-tropical world
With ice only at the very poles
And on lofty mountain tops.

I see a place of endless forest
Filled with butterflies
And songbirds.
Grassy plains too,
Roamed by alien buffalo.
Oceans teeming with fish
And dolphins
And colourful corals.

A world untroubled
By killing
Or pollution.
Dotted with tiny villages
Only
With peaceful inhabitants
Basking in afternoon suns.

I picture a utopian paradise
Shangri-la
Or what you will.
Another Eden,
Or if you prefer
Simply
Heaven.

Paul Butters

© PB 28\12\2020.

Another one for Norman Stevens.