You’re a flipped mirror upside wrong, right side right where you don’t belong,
Can’t tell where the end begins,
The horizon is the only thing that lives,
Unless the bottom drops out into a free fall heaven,
Taking with it the hopes that the reflection could be more than a hand made inception.
Let me fall back into my own right side wrong.
I wanna be in the background that finds its basis in the foreground,
So maybe I’d believe that the beauty exists in me,
So maybe the creativity could set me free.

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.

This dark soil
teems with potency
of light and life
the sun stirs the soul
hidden in wait
for the creative juices
to flow and saturate
its seeds to spring.

Pulling the bow
musical notes catapulted
from the deck of the aircraft carrier
fly far into the distance
a roc flapping its wings
on the crest of a wave
a group of horses
galloping on the grassland
the strings are rigid
the bow is flexible
in between
there's smoke rising
there's the vastness of field
when the sound is just right
the sky calms down
to listen
to the jade
ancient tide.

A beautiful girl
comes and goes
in and out of my dream
looking up at the clouds
recalling her face
even though mountains block
and the city full of fog
my heart is not lost
because
she's on the other side
of the shore.