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Paul Butters Sep 4
My stream of consciousness is in full flow,
Tumbling down the page.
A cascade of words
Bouncing and foaming
Towards unknown seas.

No planning here.
No structure
Or direction.
Just meanderings
And oxbow lakes.

Free verse unfettered
By Draconian Rules
Or dogma.
Odd rhymes thrown in
Perhaps:
Casual confetti.

So what should I type about,
Sitting here in my armchair
In the silence of my lounge?

The sky is full of clouds
A blanket over this
September afternoon.
Perfect conditions
For composing this poem.

Should I put the world to rights?
(How long have you got?)
Or just indulge
In some uplifting visions?

I don’t do emotions very much.
The cork is firmly closed
On those.
Recall my early loves:
All unrequited.
Crushes
That crushed my very soul.
Memories of crying inside,
Unable to eat
Or think of anything except
That longing for love
Which never came.

So no
I don’t do emotions.
And seldom reveal myself
As I just did.
I’d rather let my imagination soar,
My eagle eye -
A soaring cliché –
Taking in the sweep of space
And everything below.

I see trees
And animals,
Mountains, coasts and oceans.
People milling about.
A scream of seagulls soars above the sea.
Waves crash:
A thundering tsunami
Against the brittle cliffs.

I have many voices.
From soft soothing lullabies
To grand orations
Full of pomp and splendour.

Music plays in my head:
A crescendo of orchestras
And songs.
Freddie, Elvis, Bassey
Clapton, Hendrix and Satriani.
Ginger Baker, Phil Collins.

Reciting poetry
Within my brain
Is easy
After Bohemian Rhapsody.

So once more to the beach dear friends
With Brian Wilson
And his crew.
Let Sloop John B be launched
Again
Heading for oceans new.

At last a rhyme
As attention spans begin to
Wane.
Enough for now
My loyal friends.
I’d best bid you
Adieu.

Paul Butters

© PB 4\9\2020. First 3 lines Written 16\8\20 in my big paper diary.
Going Walkabout
Kevin Castro Oct 2019
we are the sand on which man with his ever arrogant gait
treads. we are his tools, his land, his obstruction,
his children’s playthings, his building blocks
bounded only by the limit of his imagination.

to him, we are docile, but we are in conflict,
refusing to give way, robbing each other of the space
for breath, for drink.

we outnumber man as stars do, yet
our friction renders us subservient
to his hands.

we could be so much more.
if it were not for this
friction, this ****** friction,
we could bury oceans
and change the course of rivers.

it is my hope
that a great raptor shall beat her wings,
uniting us in her wind to rend flesh from bone,
that man’s blood shall be our water,
a medium to swallow him whole,

and we shall be dyed red like our brothers
on a former earth

who killed the god of war.
i submitted this to my university literary folio. im not allowed to disclose the results of the deliberations, but im still proud of it and id still really love some comments.
MisfitOfSociety Sep 2019
Who am I,
I don’t know anymore,
I lost myself long ago.
I lost pieces of myself,
In those inner landscapes.
I’m struggling to find the pieces,
I can’t remember their names.

I forgot how I got here.
Where do I go from here?
M Solav Jul 2019
We live on the ripples of a beating heart
Sailing wide across a great black sea
Each pulses like falling raindrops
As we drift on the surface of destiny

We know the struggles and the storms to come
Foundations the turmoils of passing winds
Are scattering on our way towards the sun
Were raised by none but the breathe of our will

We become landscapes the further we are drawn
Cold mountains, dense forests, oceans and such,
On our carved existence all promise to be found
As we roam from mood to mood and thought to thought

We understand at last what the touch reconciles
When we start to realize what we had always known
That the world was always ours, and it dawns on our mind
That the rainfall had stopped while we’d landed home
Written in June 2019 - for an exhibition in Peking.


— Copyright © M. Solav —
This work may not be used in entirety or in part without the prior approval of its author. Please contact marsolav@outlook.com for usage requests. Thank you.
__________
he painted flourishing gardens
and stunning landscapes
using a palette of superb
colour drapes

in his homeland they toast
him with champagne
for his canvases hang
in their art gallery's lane

his works are worth
many millions of dollars
and they've been studied
by generations of scholars

of the impressionist style
was he
he had brush daubing
down to a tee

paint me a picture
if you possibly can
that will tell me
of this creative man
Suspended over
A white cloud covered landscape
It feels like a dream
Nylee Apr 2019
My life started on it
I have run over a million times
my little legs to huge feet
got enough space to walk on.

the beauty in water and landscapes
I have thought a million times over
accepting all kinds of sizes and shapes
The tree spread over gives me the shade

The oxygen and life spreaded all over
The bounty of love given to us
A sleep in between the blue and green cover
home to lives of the minutest

The one sided love has stressed the earth
It's aging twice to thrice extra every second
Our toxic nature has done enough hurt
A day of remembrance is just not enough
.
David Hutton Nov 2018
Raw landscapes shape the far distance
Brutal terrain tests our endurance
A greeting with coldness
A sheet of fog invites us
Raw landscapes welcome us with silence.
Paul Butters May 2018
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.
Welcome to Planet Paul.
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