Your eyes are a void of silent surrender,
Solitude,
Satisfaction,
Serenity.

Looking through you
I see the essence of something
So beautiful and pure.

I met this beautiful lady
We talked but it was brief
She looked at me, so gracefully
With a cigarette in her teeth.

It wasn't long
before I knew
That I was fallin' for you,
By the way that shook my hand
The way you played and danced
In the sand.

If I ever had the chance to love you
girl i'd never do you wrong,
That day has come
The time is now
So I wrote you this little song.

Late at night, another evening
In living room, while city’s dreaming
Depressing thought, my head is tight
The sun will rise, it’ll be alright

A hurricane of random feelings
Suppressing worlds are forming lyrics
It’s time to sleep the sun will rise
And then new day will feel alive

Heeey
Where are your thoughts?
You getting lost in all that noise
Who?
Are all those people
That are not caring what are you dreaming

...

I like the quiet of the dark
The lights are dimmed, the mind is spark
I’m calming down, the night is leaving
And then I’ll feel new morning breathing

A little rain then
Sun, the wilted flower speaks
Its song of the truth.
Graveyards turn to flowerbeds,
Watch the petals dance with me.

Wordsong, wordsong,
Lovely as birdsong.
Could be a Pop Song,
But never a Swansong.

Could be a rap,
And all that *******.
For Rap is easy,
Lemon squeezy.
But rap has beat
And words that repeat.
Rap has rhyme
Nearly every time.
Rap even has metre –
Who can beat her?

Yet wordsong is melodious too,
Giving us a worldly view.
Poems of love and dedication
Even human emancipation.
Whoops I’m slipping back -
Back into that addictive rap.

You must remember to read out loud –
Silver lining on every cloud.
Poetic landscapes catch our gaze,
Brightening up our mundane days.

The river of life keeps flowing on,
Iambic metre our beating heart.
Read it like you’re singing a song,
Write it whether or not it’s Art.

So play those words
So full of feeling
Just like the birds
And so appealing.

Paul Butters

© PB 27\1\2021.

The not not bird
listens to its not not song
in the not not tree
near my not not door.

And in its song it hears
something not not grand
compared to all the other
not not birds
in all the other not not lands.

The not not bird
doesn’t know
all the not not things
it’s suppose not to know.

It sees not the not not leaves
written in this poetry.
Smells not the not not flowers
swaying not in the not not breeze.
Hears not the buzzing of not not wings
of all the yellow not not bees
supping on all this wondrous not not majesty.

For this not not door of mine
is neither not not open
nor not not close.
For that is not the not not providence
of this not not poem to define.

I choose wether or not
all this not not nonsense
shall be or not not be
in some future not not prosody.

For those who beg to decline
I privy thee to write
your own **** not not rhyme!

nettle once brittle
kneels on burning snow
dandelion grove
breathing ashes bitter

an elephant-like hole in the ground
don’t look in on the strangers
eyes wide from the danger
disappeared with all the sound

a doll holding a hand
hands sleeping in, tight
in their hold, no fight
just dance with the twirling sand

nettle once brittle
kneels on empty plane
once nest’s now a grave
full of ashes bitter