I sat beneath the tree of me
its sheltering boughs spread wide.
Catching the afternoon sunlight on
hoary green leaves.

I sat beneath the tree of me
it's twisted, gnarled trunk stood strong,
Scarred by initials crossed out.
It's gooey sap ebbing and flowing to
the erratic beat of my own heart

I sat beneath the tree of me
thirty two rings, some thick, more lean.
A centre core, a maypole of happiness and
not

I sat beneath the tree of me
cradled by roots dug deep.
wispy wind wiggling my hair
comfort in all of me

I sit beneath my ageing tree
on a blanket far too large.
"You're welcome" I'd say to passersby
to sit with me a while.

Deep within the spacial abyss that is my brain
There lies a little blue planet called “Paul”.
Hidden away from most of reality
This world is full of wondrous dreams.

Its drifting continents are full of sporting arenas,
Traditional pubs and inns
And swarms of gorgeous women.
Lofty mountains overlook sandy beaches
Fringed by sun kissed palms.
Endless vistas of hill and dale
Teeming with Life.

There is a Dark Side too:
I have my “Mordor” for sure
And my own Sauron.
Who doesn’t?
Lands full of man eating wasps
Fearful ghouls and witches
And torture chambers
Full of dental equipment.
Giant eyes
And Mirrors
Which take on a life
Of their own.

But let’s focus on the Brightness here:
The music and poetry
And even dance
And romance!
A place where we can “Get Around”
To Beach Boys harmonies,
Rock to Chuck Berry
And enjoy whatever delights Carlsberg can conjure up,
If not a pint of “*****’s Beer”
From Cleethorpes.

Paul Butters

© PB 10\5\2018.

I say again: the fifties film “Forbidden Planet”
Brought us “Monsters from the Id”
Where your worst nightmares
Were brought to life
From the deepest recesses
Of your subconscious mind.

The Id is such a frightful thing.
It can create the greatest pleasure
Or the most horrific monster.
Even God may have an Id.
Maybe that Id created this heavenly hell
We call Earth.

Does anyone anywhere have any control
Of The Id?
Probably not.
Those mountains of our mind
No man fathomed.
Gloomy jungles infested by crocodiles.
Endless depths.

The Id holds all the cards,
Letting us have a memory
Now and then.
Imagine if our dreams
Could truly come to life!

Bad enough that the alligator within us
Swishes with fear
And anger
The moment we feel threatened
When really we are safe
As “Mindfulness” shows.

Yes, the Id is King of the brain,
No democracy here
And all we can do
Is play along
As best we can.

Paul Butters

© PB 27\2\18.

You may think you have no shadow.
But I see it dancing behind you.
I can't see it's face,
but I'm sure that it's smiling.
But it's no smile of fructose.
Just of bile and scorn overdose.

With topography riding limbs.
In seamless synchronisation
with yourself.
I hear it whisper and hiss,
with sounds of ****** bliss;
At each unseen bruise inflicted.