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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

© PB 1\4\2018.

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.

Please do not Leave Facebook, my friend,
These storms will soon subside.
ReMOANERS will get used to “Britain Out”.
They’ll grow tired of making you feel
A *****
For voting to jump the sinking Euro ship.

Don’t leave Facebook
For Google will crash,
Bebo and Myspace will return
And the BitPound will plummet.
Latin will become the default internet language
As hackers rule the web.

Be afraid, very afraid.
The consequences of Leaving would be dire.
But if you Stay here
In the ***** of the Facebook Family
You will be safe and secure
And eligible to claim
Your complimentary cuddly toy.

Paul Butters

© PB 25\6\2016.

Pleased to meet you.
But you better be pleased to meet me!
For I am the only one who is Me.
And I’m the only one who counts,
For I’m the one who’s experiencing all this:
For me.
Get it?

Doesn’t matter if you are the US President
Or Putin,
Or anyone else “Important”.
Nobody can affect
That what I experience
Is what I experience.

Nobody else will go through
Whatever I go though.
Nobody else will die with me,
Unless we happen to meet the same fate
Together!

You may be Royal
Or Rich,
Or All Powerful,
But all that matters to me
Is Me.

Maybe I’m Mad in saying this.
Perhaps the Whisky has taken hold.
Better than being depressed
I have to say.
Euphoria is better than gloom.

You too can be
As crazy as me.
Just free your mind
From the daily grind.

Never let those *******
Grind you down.

Love yourself
And Love
Whatever there is
To Love.

Paul Butters

Are they right?
Is our “Universe”
The Be All and End All?
Is it even the Only One?

Or is our universe one plume
In an infinite cloud of plumes?
One rocket in a great celestial
Fireworks display?

We may well ask.
And ponder on the notion this plume cloud
May be replicated
Countless times
In parallel dimensions:
A multiverse
Beyond our wildest dreams.

And God may be
A God
Amongst a Race of Gods:
The Greeks and Romans right,
After all.

Yet what matters most to us
When all is said and done,
I have to say,
Is none of that
But simply
Whatever happens here
On this little blue world
In this corner of
The Milky Way.

Paul Butters

It has been said to me
That poetry
Is but Words
And Gobbledygook.

So how can I explain
What poetry is?
It’s something intangible,
An atmosphere,
A spiritual thing.

Poetry is essence,
Touching the soul.
A kind of Magic,
As Queen used to sing.

It makes you tingle
And shudder
And glow.

Much more than a shopping list
Or legal decree
Poetry flows from the heart,
Lyrically lancing
Through space and time
To create a universe
Of bountiful beauty,
Where even the ugliest monstrosity
Is transformed
Into heaven
On Earth.

It saddens me to think
That seemingly soulless people
Miss out
On this.

So all I can do
Is keep on singing,
Carry on writing
In the enduring hope
That one day
They will see the light.

Paul Butters

© PB 2\1\2019.

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

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

© PB 16\8\2020.

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.

Iambic pentameters are quite old
As poetry fashions go now, I must say.
Tetrameters are sharper, yes,
But both are old I must confess.

Make any speech, with force, you’ll surely find
Iambic rhythms: the power of pulse.
Such things are found in common speech for sure.
And lines of ten syllables must endure.

Poetic structures set in stone are not
My way: variety is key I have
To say. Some use of rhyme is okay too.
So how you write, that’s up to you (my friend).

For I prefer to write free verse,
To steer away from doggerel’s curse.
Longer lines are languid, with gravitas.
Short ones clout,
It’s as simple as that.

Paul Butters

As I lay dozing in my bed,
I write poetry in my head.
Playing the page with well-worked words,
A mix of adjectives and verbs,
My Voice it resonates with musical sounds
And my imagination knows no bounds.

I like that!
I declare,
So soon I’m rushing down the stairs
To grab my pad.
Scribbling it all down
Did I forget to mention noun?

Forgetting words is just the pits:
That sends me into raging fits.
I’m on my laptop soon enough
To add more verses, off the cuff.

Microsoft Word becomes my home
As now I’m really in the zone.
I just can’t stop myself from doing this I know:
All I can do is let it go.

Paul Butters

The very first thing a poet should do
Is throw that ego in the bin.
For being Great, or finding fame and fortune
Should hardly be your goal.

Just say whatever you have to say
With passionate heart and Voice.
Forget about Perfection
As all is relative:
And simply be Inspired.

Don’t be a slave to rigid forms:
Variety is the key.
Pulsing rhythms may match the heart
But missing beats have clout.

Be respectful to other poets at all times
And always return their praise, where you can.
Never criticise in a negative way:
Always be positive and supportive.

Keep out of inter-poet politics:
Such a waste of time!
Just write and write and write and write:
I simply cannot help it!

Paul Butters

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

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

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

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

Paul Butters

© PB 4\1\2022.

People, you are pots of paint for my canvass.
With all your quirks and foibles,
And wonderful ways.
The world indeed is crowded
With many pots of paint:
Glorious views.

My brushes are all aquiver,
Inspired by everything.
From India to Iceland,
Russia to sunny Spain.
You folk, I love to paint you,
Though never your actual words.

The universe, a marvel,
Flying through the heavens.
Swirling spiral galaxies,
Pallets for my verse.

Paul Butters

Prose is writing that goes right across the page. It rolls on, sentence after sentence, usually about things mundane.
But Verse is where you yourself
Decide the length of
Line.

Or stanza indeed. Some call lines “verses”. They can be very long.
Or short.
Iambic metre may be used
And other metres too.
You can write anapaests if you wish.

Yet Poetry is neither prose nor verse
As such.
It is about skyscraper forests looming large,
Trees spiking though mysterious mists.
Poetry is sunshine, filling your heart
With radiant joy.
Black nights of deep depression
Give way to a golden dawn.
The lonely
Find Love.
That’s Poetry.

Paul Butters

They say that before every step
You take in life,
You flick a mental coin
Then go left or right
Turn or keep straight on.

In your own universe you go left,
Pop into a café,
Go home and have a nap.
Then carry on those humdrum days.

But that was close!
So close that in an alternative realm
You go right,
Go into a shop,
Buy a lottery ticket
And Win Millions!

For every possibility, the scientists claim,
Is played out
In an Infinite Multiverse.

Somewhere you are King or Queen,
And somewhere else you are about to be shot!
Somewhere you are a fly
Or a bear.

Somewhere my parents are still alive
And everyone is free of ill.
That tuneful Rainbow springs to mind.
Maybe there’s even a Universe
Where everyone is Immortal.
Where God calls in for a cup of tea.
And what we’ve read as fiction
Is all true.

These possibilities are endless and
My imagination strains to picture
All that might just happen.
Somewhere.
We can but Hope.

Paul Butters

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

© PB 23\5\2020.

So many are searching for The Truth.
We scan the heavens in our quest.
We pray to deities
And meditate.

Something to believe in
Is what we seek.
Some clue
As to what we’re doing here.

You can read about
Religions of the world
And Yoga and so forth.
Join a Brotherhood
Or Sisterhood of course.

A lifelong Odyssey awaits us.
But never forget:
The best place to look for Truth
Is within Yourself.

Paul Butters

Mike Bee
Likes a fast read.
The End.

Paul Butters

© PB 1\2\2018 (2).

Never be afraid to be quiet,
For you don’t have to be the loud Extrovert:
Putting on a life and soul of the party act,
While secretly sad inside.

Just be yourself.
Be cool and calm, and of course, collected
As they say.
Be happy with yourself,
At peace with all the world.

Esteem yourself and others will esteem you too.
Be cool,
For that is cool.

Just feel that tranquil lake,
Within your mind:
Rippling gently in the moonlight,
Stirred only by a sighing breeze.

Then bask in golden sunshine,
Reclining on the shimmering sand.
A thousand summers all in one.

Engage with people
And listen
To all they have to say.
Then when the time is right
Make known your point of view.

Until that time,
Stay quiet…

Paul Butters

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

Paul Butters

Yell your head off
And shout, shout, shout.
Get in amongst them
And put it about.

We’re awake now, hear us cry!
Full of energy,
Watch us fly.

Out of our slumbers,
On the up.
Highly charged,
We’ll win The Cup.

We’re all full of motivation,
Hear our incantation.
Forward we go, bursting with pride.
Come with us, enjoy the ride.

We’re the greatest, we all know.
Ever ready to fight the foe.
We are winners through and through,
Even better than Doctor Who.

We will put the world to rights.
You will see incredible sights.
All together we unite,
So stay with us and
The future’s bright.

Paul Butters

Let’s make a point
And rock this joint.
What with Putin and ISIS,
We’re all in crisis.
I sound like Ali,
From here to Bali.
Let’s give Peace a chance,
Our world to enhance.
What happened to Love?
Where’s God up above?
Don’t need globalisation,
Just one Human Nation.

Time for a stanza:
Let’s have a bonanza.
But seriously folks,
This is no time for jokes.
We must have compassion,
It isn’t on ration.
So please hear my call
And Love one and all.

Paul Butters

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

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

Did God Create our Universe?
Who knows?

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

Make your poems Memorable,
That’s what I say.
No need to be incredible,
Just let them play.

Read them with your inner voice,
Write them that way too.
Hear the music in those words,
This I’m telling You.

In ancient times these poems were songs,
Remembered off by heart.
At least you’d call them statements,
Knowledge to impart.

Iambic metre’s very common yes,
And so of course is rhyme:
To make these verses remembered
Through the course of time.

Yet verse is best as poetry,
Lyrical if you will.
We have to write with feeling,
And give the reader a thrill.

Paul Butters

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.

Repetition is the best petition.
Drive that refrain into your brain.
It’s my mission.
Driven on by Stewart Copeland the musician.
Drums and dance
Send me into a trance.
Transcendental music
Any way you choose it.

Repetition, repetition, repetition
Just as potent as nuclear fission.
Sometimes, for me, it’s just too much.
As crazy as Screaming Lord Sutch.
Yet here I make a telling submission
About the power of repetition
As beautiful as a painting by Titian.
A composition to appeal to your cognition
To get you into a better condition
Without transition.

There are four hundred and ninety rhymes
Of repetition
And that’s not something from superstition.
But I’d better avoid a war of attrition
Even with your kindly permission.
It’s great to prance
And have a dance.
I’m glad you’ve given
This poem a glance
To give its rhythms every chance.
My aim is to enhance
And cut through the boredom like a lance.

Poems are music
Poems are Romance
So let’s advance
Then make a stance.
That’s my position.

Paul Butters

© PB 2\2\2020 (first line written 31\1 then notes made 1\2). Final line added 3\2.

Ease your way into the day.
Being Mindful is the way they say.
Focus on Now, we don’t have long.
Meditate or sing a song.
For ten long years it’s been pipe and slippers (without the pipe),
And Ages have passed since we were nippers.

Slowly we all fade away,
For time cannot be held at bay.
I wonder what it’s all about,
There has to be another way out.
We die like flowers according to science,
There is no alternative to our compliance.
We may or may not be ruled by God,
But so long as I live I don’t give a sod.

Easy days and a set routine.
Do my best to keep my house clean.
Nice pub lunches four days per week,
A peaceful living is all I seek.
You may say I’m set in my ways,
But I’m contented in my twilight days.

Paul Butters

It’s hard to intervene when people fight.
Recall being thumped for “bullying” a lad
Who’d harassed ME.
So hard to tell
Who’s right or wrong.
Who made the first jibe
Or struck the first blow?

The same with global conflicts too:
Irish Catholic or Protestant?
Israel or Palestine?
Communist Country or Capitalist?
The list goes on…

Best keep out of it if you can.
Do not make judgement,
Just mediate as best you can.
Preach fairness and conciliation:
Do your best to facilitate
Peace.

Paul Butters

It’s time for a rhyme
I hear you chime.
It’s time to hit the beat.

We’re ready to dance
Without a glance,
Pick up those Tyger feet.

Those drums do thump,
Dancers grind and bump,
The party’s in full sway.

Don’t feel like strolling,
Just want to be rollin’
In the scattered hay.

Them guitars are twanging
I’m really panging
To twirl you round and round.

Some like to fight;
I’d rather dance all night
To that raucous rebel sound.

Let’s go.

My “Daffies” and Bluebells are budding now.
Maybe my Crocuses too.
Roll on Summer is what I say,
Clichéd though that may be.

No more dark dreary “days”,
With biting icy winds.
No more freezing fog
Or fretful snow.

Let’s have glorious sunshine
Bathing all our land.
Ice cream and holidays,
Leisure and luxurious slumbers.

Those Daffodils will be history by “Flaming June”
And with that “roll” will come the “rock”
Of sugar seaside sticks
With dancing music.

Oh to bring back Rock and Roll,
So we can do it again
Down on the beach
Where children ride on donkeys
While dogs frolic on the sands.
To play football again,
Jumpers for goal posts
On lush green grass.

Sunny summer.
Bring it on.

Paul Butters

© PB 9\2\2018.

Association Footballer Ronaldo,
The new Wizard Waldo.
Oh what a fandango,
You bet he can tango.

Paul Butters

© PB 18\11\2017.

As I said this time last year,
We likely get just one taste of life.
So why do we spend so many hours
Watching daytime TV,
Engaging in petty feuds,
Following football and other trivial things
(In my particular case).
Money worries and relationships,
Celebrity and “news”,
Such preoccupation with the mundane.

So I must turn my mind to higher peaks,
Wherever or whatever they may be.
Puzzle the Purpose
Find The Way,
Give life meaning.
Overcome that Seasonal Affective Disorder,
To brighten every day.

As we head towards The Spring,
Think on what joys that’s going to bring.

Paul Butters

Who put the “sub” into “subversion” and “subculture”?
Was it the same people
Who built schools:
Those prisons
Where kids are tortured
And brainwashed
Into being “good” conforming citizens –
Factory fodder
Trained to sit in lines
Labouring at meaningless tasks,
Questioning nothing?

So still we are ruled
By Tory Grandees and Brussels Bureaucrats
Keeping us in our place:
Social Control
Over Job Centre slaves.

It’s the same the whole world over:
The rich wallowing in luxury
While the poor starve to death
Exposed to pitiless winds.

For once words fail me
About our Unfair World.
Children dying everywhere
While fatcats feed in a frenzy.
No wonder people talk of Revolution
And terrorist plots.
Our air is full of carbon
While trees are cut
Down
For seas of palm oil.

We need to reconsider
What we do
In all our ways.
Enough is enough.
It’s time to nurture nature
As denizens of Planet Earth.

Paul Butters

© PB 23\11\2018.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters
© PB 26\6\2019.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

© PB 23\9\2019.

Sergio Aguero:
He’s my hero.
Title-winner against QPR,
The man sure is a Super Star.

Paul Butters

Shall I compare you (being modern)
To a summers day?
Or to a galaxy full of stars?
No I will not
For I know full well
That you will never fall
For any of my corny chat-up lines.

Paul Butters

A drop of Aussie poetry (guess from where):

The liquid amber is a nice drop.
I especially like the sherbert on top.
It caresses my taste buds with flavour
And I enjoy its savour.

An Australian man’s home is his Castlemaine XXXX
Full of Foster Children
Drinking nectar.

Should we all stop eating meat?
No, we’ll starve of protein doing that.
But yes, it’s morally right.

What about plants?
We’ll starve: fruits and berries are all right.
Eat meat instead!

Are we doing enough to avoid nuclear war?
Not enough, we are doomed.
Too much: the next level is with nuclear-holocaust-mutations!

And global warming?
Our greatest threat.
A hoax!

What should we do?
Just what is Good?
****** if we do and ****** if we don’t.

Should we be pacifists or should we fight?
Anyone Out There to put us right?
If there are,
Their lips are kept tight.
Even God, with all of His might.
One Man’s Good is another Man’s Evil,
From a great blue whale to a little Boll Weevil.
For now We stay on a lifelong quest,
Seeking out what might be the best.

Paul Butters

The shires bask serenely in the summer sun.
Streams flow smoothly down the green hillsides.
All is well with the world
As apple blossoms bloom.

Such peaceful scenes are soothing to the soul.
Spiritually uplifting: a sensual seduction
Of sight, sound and aromatic smells.

Snakes may hiss and stoats may snarl,
But nothing reduces this sense of peace and calm.
Assonance and sibilance flows as I scribe
My idle dreams upon this page.

It’s good to let your imagination loose
To planets out there amongst the stars
Or simply let it roam over the slumbering countryside.
Good to escape the struggles and strife
Of daily life.
Good to sleep easy
After meditating at our leisure
Refreshing ourselves with Mother Nature’s
Soothing Love.

Paul Butters

© PB 8\1\2022.

When slapped by raving rants
Or flamed with insults.
When slurred by sarcastic sneers.
I know your blood will boil,
And someone will say,
“Are you going to stand for that?”

Ignore that person.
Calm yourself.
Smile (if face to face)
Or take up Poker Mode.
Show annoyance and the enemy has scored.
Do not respond with anger.

If appropriate, try to reason with him, her or them.
Should they not reason, say no more.
Turn it into a joke whenever you can,
Even belittling yourself in an ironic way.

Never retaliate in kind.
Never feed the flamers and trolls,
Either online or in real life.

I see around me arguments go on
And on and on and on…
When will the listen?
Don’t feed the trolls!
How many times must folk be told?
When under attack
That old cliché applies:
Silence is Golden
(And so Powerful).

Paul Butters

Oh let’s sing
Church bells ring
Dingaling ling.

Sing out loud
Boldly and proud
Enormous crowd.

Hear those chants
You debutants
Some breathless pants.

Poetry starts here,
Perhaps with a beer
Ask Shakespeare.

Oral tradition
An ongoing mission
So start the audition.

A memorable rhyme
Lasts for all time
Let’s make it chime.

Free verse is still fine
Bring in the wine
And vary the line.

Who cares if it scans
You grammatical fans
We don’t need your plans.

So free up your souls
Whatever your goals
And loose those controls.

Yes let your heart sing
A bird on the wing
Tingaling ling.

If singing’s your thing
Think what you’ll bring
Tingaling ding.

Paul Butters

© PB 7\9\2018.

I don’t mean to blaspheme,
So please don’t scream.
But if God supports marriage
Then why is He single?
Is having a wife
Just too much strife?
Imagine a Lady of Power
Waiting there
When he comes home at such a late hour!
“Sorry Love, I’ve been creating a universe,
A thing you just can’t miss.”
“No you haven’t” she says,
“You’ve just been on the ****!”

MMM So God is quite wise!
Yet He’s no time for guys “loving” guys.
Nor ******* girl –
That makes his toes curl.
And non-believers, they must go to Hell –
Well so the ancient scriptures tell.

Remember he’s a “jealous God”,
Who much prefers to be on His Tod.
No Zeus, Jupiter or Thor for Him,
And Satan’s prospects are very slim.
Can God be really so old fashioned?
So bad tempered and so impassioned?
A Super Intelligence He’s supposed to be,
Every Existence He can see.
Knowing all and blindingly smart,
Ultimate Master of Science and Art.

Could God be a Woman?
Now there’s a thought.
Yes that goes all against
Everything we’ve been taught.
The greatest Creator might well be a Mother.
If that is so, then adieu to Big Brother.

No matter what, God is Love –
Looking down on us from up above.
A mind that’s thinking on greater things,
While S\He protects us with bright white wings.

(Inspired by a conversation with **** Noble over a lunchtime beer).

Paul Butters

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

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

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

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

Paul Butters

© PB 1\7\2023.

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”).

The sky: an ever-changing canopy,
Endless variety.
Black at night,
Punctuated only by stars and moonlight,
And clouds by day.

Cloud-ships sail along an invisible sea,
Scowling black clouds,
Or fluffy white palaces of snow.
No end of shapes and forms,
Yet sometimes formless mists.

Clouds that are net curtains
In the window to space,
Or growling black monsters
Firing deadly lightning-forks.

If we’re lucky,
There aren’t any clouds at all,
Just blue from horizon to horizon
Everywhere you see.

Golden-red dawns and sunsets
Contrast well with deepest blues
All colours and hues.

By night and day, Moon and Sun
Play Peekaboo behind those clouds.
And stars forever twinkle and swirl
Along the Milky Way.
No words can adequately capture
The beauties of the sky,
It just gives God’s Believers
Every Reason Why.

Paul Butters

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.

Simon “Hurricane” Hudson prowls the snooker table
Like any good mixed metaphor would.
A modern day Pythagoras
He triangulates his shots.

Meanwhile his rival, lion-heart "Rocket" Richard,
Not to be confused with Lionel Richie,
Is on his mobile Googling
How to play the perfect “snooker”.
And the two Perfect Pauls
Discuss the latest football,
While “Whirlwind” Wendy sits in judgement,
Knitting the night away.

At long last Simon plays a stroke!!!
And rattles those unrelenting jaws
Of that elusive pocket yet again.

The game rolls on.
But where the hell is Simon?
The clock on the electricity is running down
But where is Simon?
Where is he?
He’s at the bar
Telling barman Nick how Rochdale
Will win The Cup one day.

Hurray, he’s back to play again.
Cascading planets collide into new orbits
As they did in the Primeval Solar System.

We play on,
Safely keeping those precious *****
Away from those black holes
They call the “pockets”.
We try to pick our shots
(At those pockets lol)
But all we keep potting
Is that white one.
Maybe we should switch to Billiards,
Or *** some plants instead.

Paul Butters

Soldiers of Peace march on
Have no enemies
Just hearts and souls to win over.
See no divisions
Between race or creed
Or whatever.

Engage with people.
Listen and understand
Where they are coming from.

Unite us all:
The human race –
Life Forms everyone.

Have that discipline
Of the best army
In the world
But channel everything
Into peace
And Love.

Stand together
For The Common Good.

Paul Butters