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 May 2016 REDACTED
Paul Butters
They’re really rockin’ in Bradford,
Off the Pennine Way.
Deep in the heart of Yorkshire
And round the Robin Hood’s Bay.
All over South Ossett
And down to New Farnley.
Roast beef and Yorkie Puddings,
God’s Own County, Yay!

Yull see ‘em rambling at Ilkley,
Right to the county line,
Sheffield steel and Wednesday –
A football team so fine.
Better still, Leeds United,
Greatest club of all time.

Yorkshire, Kings of Cricket,
Oh what a boon!
Get down that wicket,
We’ll be champs by June.
Down a ginnel or snicket,
See our Olympic Champs.
Coal Miner Picket,
Relight those lamps.

Racing pigeons and ferrets,
Stereotypes tha knows.
Over t’top in Lancashire,
Them there’s our foes.
We’re the greatest county,
Our pride really glows.
We know you all hate us,
It keeps us on our toes.

So we’ll be rockin’ in Yorkshire,
What more can I say?
Us Tykes 're as barmy as Barnsley,
So I’ll be on my way.

Paul Butters

(With due thanks to Chuck Berry and also The Beach Boys)
LOL
Though in dexterity my  physically challenged  carpenter father,
Than  the physically fit proves better,as a source to his anger,
With contemporaries a level ground  he enjoyed never!

From late childhood there was one thing that me used to bother,  why my so discriminated father
On his turn true to cultural dictates,ill treats my domestic chores saddled mother
And heeds not her say though by the sweat of their brow
As responsible parents they were happily bringing my sister and I together?

I still wonder why ,why ,why my sister who has IQ
On par with me if not better,to help out mother
Suffering a cold shoulder even by her mom was denied the  right to pursue education further
While I was given a chance to prove a man of letter(s)?

I remember, crossing many a pool, barefooted, I used to trek
A long distance to a nearby town's a  school,
Where for my  provincial and shabby clothes I was seen a fool
By the relatively rich  in showing courtesy far from cool.
Though stationery they didn't lack , sad,I had a hand tied behind my back.

Alas,up on joining campus where I yearned for the sagacious a chance
There too  in my class,I was looked down by students
Hailing from families of the top brass.

When I went abroad for a higher education enjoying fellowship and donation
Worse still, I met many, colour has coloured whose vision.
Ironically my dissertation was drawing attention
To why should the broad mass be standers by
And with ill-fate marked die
While the favoured ,racist and the corrupt few gobble over 3/4 of the pie? /
Discrimination based on disability,gender(Husband and wife,son and daughter, ).towners and provincial lads,the haves and have nots,the colored and others wise and inequitable distribution wealth. I need your feedback.I prepared this poem as per OXFAM ideals  on inequality
 Feb 2016 REDACTED
Star Gazer
Monochromatic
Addict.
Black
Or
Blue.
Nothing
But
A
Coating
Of
Bla­ck
Or
Blue.
Sometimes a hint of only grey to finish.
There's butter in my coffee
I heard that it fills you up in the morning
It's the fat, they say, that sustains you.

The problem is, I haven't eaten in, oh,
19 hours or so,
And this buttery coffee is making me feel funny.
Like, nostalgic,
Plegic at the kitchen table
Staring at the new paisley tablecloth without being able to think about anything.

This house has a voice and it's making me tired listening to it scream all day.
Only a month and already I'm pushing away
You can tell, you keep trying to kiss me awake but I can't hear you over the house.
They say this is what happens, so I never tried until now.
You really see a person, they say.
And I can tell you are really seeing me for the first time in these three years,
And it's making you nervous that maybe I'm actually not okay.

Maybe I'm not.
This behavior isn't normal, I guess, I mean most people eat and sleep at regular intervals
And share themselves
And do their chores
And go to work in the morning
And live a life that resembles something.

And now you're really noticing.
Normal behavior hasn't ever really been my "thing."
But writing songs to the tune of your own heartbeat isn't the way to make other people sing.
 Jul 2015 REDACTED
Brycical
Parents would prefer kids stay away
from these three jobs,
cause as they'd say
There's no way to make any money.
At least you can sell paintings with art
or hock a few bucks with albums from your music.


No parents encourage children into any of these gigs,
especially prophecy.
Today, a kid would be fed pills for breakfast
if they expressed any interest in becoming the next Jesus or Buddha.

Suppose Moses decided to go try an open mic comedy night
instead trading his commandments for a set list
but I bet his adopted parents would have lectured him just the same.
At least Moses would have gotten a few laughs.

The job descriptions are strikingly similar,
just like the outcome
a 50% chance the audience will applaud and chant
or watch you in heavy, maudlin silence... sweating nervously struggling
to maintain a sane face while raucous thoughts of loathing and doubt chew then spit out pieces of heart and soul forcing a confrontation of an emasculated existence for five to seven minute while....

whoa, hi, sorry.
Must've been having a flashback for a few seconds,
forgive me.

There is a difference though,
in the mindset of this trio.
A poet knows they're crazy,
a comic ponders if they're nuts
while a prophet thinks everyone else is just cuckoo.

I can see why parents don't want you to
go near these three jobs,
problem being, it's more of a calling than a culling,
and once it's answered,
all I can say is, well...




good luck.....






have fun.
 Jul 2015 REDACTED
Mr X
Light
 Jul 2015 REDACTED
Mr X
God is like the image of
The back of our eyelids.

Its always there
In front of the eyes,

But we cannot see it,
Due to the absence of light.
Bring light into your life and see what happens.
 Jul 2015 REDACTED
maxine
Untitled
 Jul 2015 REDACTED
maxine
Don’t compare yourself to others. Compare yourself to the person you were yesterday.
 Jul 2015 REDACTED
Brycical
Wild child space travel gypsy
       drunk    on     the cosmos
     churning a sensual pattern--
             melting         suns
with a carefree wink
as stars pour into her eyes
like a garnet shiraz
       spiraling
              in    tidal   waves
splashing in a crystal wine glass
     caressing
              her white light lips.

Planets dip and dangle around her hips
as the weight of the nebulous nectar whispers
                                       lullabies to her eyes
         as her incandescent            hair contours
    to copious glistening constellations  
rippling across her tired body
                 like ice dripping on a warm chest
vibrating    indigo       moonlight         jazz
enrapturing millions with her simple act of symphonic yawning
as the dusk light dawning over faces
embraces souls stirring--
her purring hip cat dreams
leave people like us with mouths agape
as her voluptuousness nape hushes
us with a supernova explosion of peace
oscillating between
each of our spirits.
Poem inspired and is a respone and reaction to this painting, http://beautifulfarrago.tumblr.com/post/122372179828/the-universe-dreaming-of-the-universe
I kicked an ant today.

It was coming right for my bare foot, so I kicked it. The thought of its tiny feet tickling my giant feet made me feel ill.

Generally insects don't bother me, but ants. Ants, with their underground tunnels and their abilities to carry a zillion times their body weight, with their appearance in my kitchen every spring from seemingly nowhere even though my kitchen is clean and inhospitable to them - I hate ants.

I was outside, the ant's domain, on my back patio enjoying the beautiful weather and the newness of spring. It wasn't fair of me to kick him like that in his own domain, and yet.

I wonder what I would do if I was kicked by a giant. I would probably die, land in a heap and break all my bones and die. That ant almost certainly didn't die, but I wonder if it hurt. Do ants have very many nerve endings? A question for the ages.

Before I kicked that ant, I was reading some old poetry and letting the sun warm me and the light breeze riffle through my hair, avoiding work and thinking about my life and the big question marks that punctuate my waking moments with their soft severity. ******* this brain and it's forever worrying.

The worrying is the problem. I should spend more time doing.

But I don't. Instead I write poems and kick ants and daydream about finding a home where I can begin my Real Life.

Because this isn't it, is it?
Is it?

Kicking things out of my way that make me uncomfortable? Finding the sunshine and basking like a lizard? Reading poetry?

Actually, I think I can live with that.
That, and fewer ants.
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