Flowers fight flowers
To aridity
In my chest
Such is a penance
Must paid
For your distant benevolence

A liveliness so ecstatic
It slays and slays
All bits
Of melancholy peace
I’ve known
Lust you,

I lust you to war
Lust you, I lust you on
Nothing purer dare I claim
Lest the Sirens
Whirling
Within your gaze
Question the chastity
I have so well known

There is a desolation
Beneath this devouring tide
And you do not get me
You do not understand
I have always
Loved bleakness
Have always loved
A piece or two
Of you

And here
Bees fight bees
And the carnage
Weaves you a golden dirge
Soft as satin and softer still
Will you not hear—
Will you not?

I sink and sink
with the fair maidens
Who lured me to stillness
And not a note
Not a tune stirs its gentle wings

Your mute Muses
They know not a taste
Of hues
And I lure myself
Into you
Still

How awfully beautiful
Is our dance
How bleak—

You'll find sparrows, my mother said
Not in the thick,
nor the deep dark
canopies of the woods

You will find them, in droves,
at the ends of tree lines,
busy, busy—always busy
whether in song or with a twig

You will find them in coves
perched upon the green vines,
busy, busy—always busy
calling out upon a sprig

They are small when alone
like me,
in the long, silent hours of my nights
But in the morning they are a chorus
reminding you of all the work yet begun

So, go, find yourself a tree
You'll find sparrows when you're done

Feigning since I'd freshly painted nails and was going out after dinner to poetry class that I didn't care that he hasn't talked to me...



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCLIII)


The fragile ghost of mists likeas a veil
'Non gathers in the waning light fr'intents,
As puddles shiver to rain's dimples hence,
And how the clock declares work's done, to scale.
Whileas the timer counts last minutes' tale,
I do a sassy dance, and sparrows thence
Go silent as I play out sans defense
Was it a naughty thought lo, sans erm, bail?
O how the firs now whisper hoarsely through
This freighted calm as I serve dinner fer
Us three, and carry that big soup *** (poor
For just us few?) 'non to the table, to
Dish out his bowl and mine, rolls too in tour
With butter, marmalade as fog yet'd woo.

04Apr19f

...forever I'm certain.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCXXII)


Come, come, as sparrows chatter for intents,
How lo, the cardnal knows as twere to hail
With just one note, that ha! he's here, in pale
Excuse for watching is't?  I'll tell ye hence
What I wish:  that he'd come, yes, closer, thence
Be less reserved, and sit upon (to scale)
My shoulder--how I'd love to feel t'avail
His weight, although he'd deafen me for sense.
Dream on, and wish a thousand things in tour,
Cuz breathing sometimes weighs too heavy through
These hours we feel our vanity as twere.
Who warbles from the pine's top, as wont to
Effect some years back when I'd peg out fer
The soft airs all our linen?  Say who knew?

28Mar19b

We are happy to chirrup with the others
but would the peacocks dance with us?
Our coats not exotic but shabby and plain
And we like being in places close to our nests
We love the sky and to breathe the clean air
But do not aspire to go where eagles dare
Do not pity us, oh great birds of pride
Our songs are sweeter- never mind our size
For vanity and attention is not why they are sung
But to plug the holes you skewered in our hearts

...I still imagine there is.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXXIX)


Lo, how a robin scolded me in pale
Dawn's eye, as if what 'zactly for intents?
And sang how sweetly as I'd toast for sense
Um, sourdough slices, raisin bread, t'avail--
Until I took the darling then to scale
In hand t'explain (cuz they are jealous, whence
I've had such grief oer Mavis' song) from hence
I'll love all birds, not just him, in betrayl.
Now blue skies so expansive warm in tour
'Cross afternoon's half lazy sense tis new,
Snow like a curse swept far off as it were,
The memry of morn's early minutes too,
My noggin full of all since then in poor
'Scuse, sparrows tease my smiles at lunch, and woo.

16Mar19a

...I tried M&M's that evening, and I dunno, they were tasty.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLII)


If languid hours trick out these wastes til hence
I feel within my bones that April'd hail
Soon, what's the diffrence now in sheer betrayl,
That March looks cold and grey, as if suspense
Was buried in deep slumber like fr'intents
Last May's old tulip bulbs?  Snow's weary scale
Of white is aged; no icicles detail
The silent eaves, and I feel dull sans whence.
Yes, poor man's tea with breakfast was good, fer
All that, but not inspiring.  Sparrows, too,
Cried sweetly as I passed the window, poor
As never feeling like it should be to
Effect worth half a note.  And soup in tour
Now warming as rolls rise, what's left to woo?

07Mar19b

They drop from branch to branch
Of my Cotoneasters:
An extended family of lickle spuggy sparrows.
Their aerial scouts are flitting
From shrub to shrub
While the main party flies up and down
Up and down.

For they have spotted the wild bird seed
That I have scattered
All along the bottom of my back lawn.
So now they make their way
In regimented fashion,
Up and down,
In and out,
Ever wary of those murderous cats.

Now and then they are joined by **** or robins
Or other lickle birds unknown
To this city suburb lubber from Leeds.
Not forgetting those massive fat pigeons
And delicate doves
Who all join in the frenzied feeding
Without a care in the world.

Meanwhile a couple of blackbirds
Patrol their territories
Ignoring the seed
In preference for some scraps of meat or fish.

Later on the foxes will spring forth,
Sneaking around the streets.
So all we need is a commentary
From Sir David Attenborough
With his “Dominant Males”
And “Courting Rituals”
For all to be complete.

Mother Nature loves our little seaside town,
Patrolled by gulls
And guarded by our dogs.
I must get walking in the Spring
When the flowers reappear.
Look forward to that.

Paul Butters

© PB 20\12\2018.