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.

All that was fixed floated before
My eyes. Blood ridden rags flew like doves
Of peace outside my window.
Pictures of slaves framed as freedom

Ink in the pen replaced
With blood and  yellow bile.

“Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,”

“And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I 've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.”

-Emily Dickinson.

The Stop & Shop strike v. Game of Thrones.
In Game what’s not made plain
is the condition of the people
compared with warriors and queens.
There’s no mention of land-clearance, tree-felling,
pruning, chopping, digging, hoeing,
weeding, branding, gelding, slaughtering,
salting, tanning, brewing, boiling,
smelting, forging, milling, thatching,
fencing and hurdle-making, hedging, road-mending and haulage.

As for the strike, most of us
supported the cashiers and clerks—
cutting benefits and pensions
when CEOs make millions.
A few pennies more
for ice cream and tofu
a leg up for our neighbors
and comrades in labor.
But don’t get greedy, power-hungry—
we don’t want the supermarket to go out of business
or the Army of the Dead to extinguish us.

A red-tailed hawk observes what small mammals, birds are in the
     clearcut,
awaits the moment to strike.
Three *****, two strikes, full count. Aaron pitched carefully, slow
     strikes and the opposing team scored.
Transit strike. Part-time tutor,
food deliverer, illegal immigrant,
school bus driver, supermarket bagger.
Let labor flow like capital! Full tank of gas!
In your dreams, you kick ***.
In your daydream, you’re breaking bones, killing mean dogs with bare
     hands .
In my childhood dreams, I fought side by side with my best buddies
against the Army of the Dead.
I wake up to a lightning strike and my dream incinerates.

The strike is over, like a thunderstorm.
Still a half dozen or so episodes of Thrones
before it sinks into the past.
Will women save the world?
Anything’s possible.
Nothing changes in Williamstown, Willie, except the seasons.
The wee hours, the bored minutes, the second guesses,
the town sewer department, the collector of taxes.
Pitcher’s elbow, runner’s knee, reader’s eye,
you live until you die.
That’s no answer.
Without the Mexican and Canadian borders
the White Walkers would dissolve like an aspirin in seltzer water.

The sun is up, the strike is over
next episode of Game is Sunday
the White Walkers attack
some of our favorite characters croak
but humanity survives
though the weather is ominous.
The habitable zone around the sun
is moving outward as the orb expands
getting hotter as it grows older.
Earth a billion years ago
was smack in the middle of the turf
but we’re now half-in, half-out
exposed to the sun’s ardor, agony,
a dragon eating its babies, torching cities.
We’re gonna hafta outsmart it
hold Labor Day barbecues on Mars.

Looking for a plan
to homestead with honey
You find the land
and I’ll bring the money.
Start with 8 hens and
then get a rooster.
Sunlight and dirt are
the best immune booster.
community grown
no, you won’t be alone
walkie talkies instead of upgraded iPhone.
remain lean and fit
use up every bit
for excellent compost mix in chickensh!t.
swale in the roots
of a filtering lily
irrigation to grow
what I’ll use in the chilli
weeds in the cracks
seeds in the snacks
a little help from the axe
and the *** makes us stacks.
And I’ll spin what I comb
from the fellows who roam
on the sod in the loam...
All we will need is
some land and some money,
a pocket of seed,
and true love for honey.