The Knitting Needles Museum
has a prudish name
that frightens the schoolchildren
and obscures the oppression
of desperate and ***** women

The torture museum
and the war museum also
lack the inspiration
from a muse
They are monuments

and should be called that
With the unbuilt museums
of destroyed art and
ancient cultures, they can
fill a street in any city

'Ecce ****', behold man
the noble beast, the master
of things and nothings -
virtual and vanished
worlds that are unlivable

Legend says that during the last Ice Age
There was a worldwide civilisation
Quite advanced
Which built magnificent pyramids in Egypt,
South America and South East Asia
And great cities
Some deep underground.

But at the end of that Ice Age
There was a cataclysm
As snaking comet-shards showered on The Earth
So the ice sheets melted
Causing a Great Flood
And almost all was lost.

Which begs the question
How far back do we really go?
Were those mythical dragons
So bravely fought by noble knights
Actually Dinosaurs?

Have We been around for many millions of years?
Oh for a Time Machine
So we could go back
To discover The Truth.
Scientists insist there would be nothing to find
As their theories and constructs are all
They can see
Or wish to see.
But Intuition tells me otherwise
So the search for facts
Must go on.

Paul Butters

© PB 25\12\2022.

Left and right, voters

all are unfortunately --


against welfare cuts.

The universe holds

me, I hold the universe --


with this very thought.

Lately I have had a feeling of a sense of deep foreboding in the air,
every time I stop to pause, to think, I can feel it just lurking there.

An all pervasive feeling that all things are not as they should be,
and I get an anxious sensation that it's effects are not just on me.

Colours of nature seem all faded and the air seems different too,
the sky is somehow much more ominous and appears a paler blue.

Even the birds I see upon their wing seem more skittish everyday,
and I wonder if they feel it too, does a dark fear halt their play?

I sense a tension in the natural order of these once normal things,
and my heart and mind are fearful of what message this all brings.

Like some silent siren wailing or invisible flashing hazard light,
my mind is filled with deepest dread and senses things aren't right.

Far too much time caught up thinking upon the portents that I see,
with each terrifying thought I pray for all, to hope that its just me.

We are a parade

of all of us together --


of us, one by one.

The journey is restless, but
the ship is marvelous
It's a beautiful ship

Unfortunately without ship gnomes
to help the whole lot escape, no
there are only fools on board

who sing songs of freedom
and toast to distant beaches
Alas, we get off our course

The magnetic field loses strength
and the north pole is shifting
Ports remain unread

Sessilia grab us by the keel
growing anchors to the deep
of the restless water

The unreachable moon draws
a sweet scent in the salty air
But who could live there?

A flash of light upon the sky
and dinosaurs were gone.
In a universe that knew them not,
and held no memory to live on.

Of ourselves our human kind,
we think the universe holds us dear.
Through time and vastness of it all
so doubtful it knows we're here.

So many things come and gone
forever changing it still evolves.
Too short is our human existence
to see how all of this resolves.

We think our kind important
a central purpose for it all.
But the universal scale of things
serves to remind our place is small.

We will never know its purpose,
and may never know if there was plan.
But rest assured my fellow humans,
our path will be as the dinosaurs
when the universe recycles man.

Separated by progress
We live in isolation
Socially stagnated
Growing ever distant.

Focus further inward
Without hesitation,
Cutting off future conflicts
Before they even happen.

Perspective and reality
No longer separate
Echo chamber catalysts
Shattered-faction fragment.

Elitist tactics brainwash
Entire populations,
Localised abundance withers
With dying vegetation.

Doomsday clocks lurching
Our salvation diverges
Shouting to the twilight sun
We share but false elation.

Entire regions' designated
Means of production
No new doctrines allowed
All hail consumption.

Ever directionless, at a loss
Regressing into violence:
Revolutionaries' proudest
Of our failed revolutions.

Living out our dreams
Of solitary bliss,
Live alone in harmony
Or die in the abyss.

What piece of work is man
That chooses inhumanity
A species in a chasm
Led by mere savages.