"bulter" poems
Træt af dagene
Går og går
Tiden slår
Ingen stop
En dag får vi nok
Mon vi så siger stop?
Hulter til bulter
Tankerne kludrer
Forvirret og fortabt
Der er ingen livskræft
Jeg nåede aldrig at sige stop.
S.
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 3:22 PM UTC
Munster was his name,
after Herman Munster
of TV fame cause,
he was so big.
But not scary, feral big,
just double dose of cat big.
He was predominately
sleek, shiny black,
with a white bib
and crooked muzzle,
like he had his moustache
painted on in a hurry.
Oh, and he had one white paw.
Poppajack used to say,
he had been caught by God
stealing cream.
Munster was sleek, sinuous
muscle,
he rippled when he walked.
In stalk mode he was, panther incarnate.
Albeit, dressed in a tuxedo.
In cat term's he was vain,
always preening, or finding
a vantage point to show
himself off to the best photographic angle.
But just occasionly,
if we were lucky
and the butterflys
were on the wing,
he would, kitten prance
like a pixie, at the birth of spring.
He was a hunter,
not of bugs and lizards.
A ratter of renown,
he could take a bird
from it's early flight
without a care.
I once saw him, come home
and drop a rabbit,
at Poppajacks feet, before
finding the evening sun
for a well earned nap.
Munster loved Poppajack,
with dedicated flair
would follow him about
the garden, bulter-like,
dignified tail, straight and tall.
They would parade
in regal state,
to check on the vegetable serfdom.
He was not a cat of lap,
but,would sprawl over Poppa's feet like,
black satin slippers
with a purring engine beat.
Majestic Moggy Munster, was felinetity in it's prime.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 5:26 PM UTC
Canvas with oil painting upon the beach backdrop rile imagination,
With the couple dancing in the sandy ocean bank.
The lady in red curves with the wind,
While the gentleman leads with a waltz.
It's this fantasy that drives our inner movement,
And like a music we follow the tune of the moments,
While define the characters within our actions!
If a painting spoke to me,
I believe "The Singing Bulter" was saying Carpe Diem,
Because dancing in the wind is living in the moment.
To dressed to impress,
True to the movement,
Being one with each other!
It is the sweet taste in the air,
For nothing in the world matter but that moment,
Because love needs no words to express a thought.
So say "The Singing Butler!"
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 4:30 AM UTC
'free butlers for everybody'
yippee!! hooray!! huzzah!!
i would so love,
somebody to follow me
around all day.
doing the mudane and
boring things,
all that daily guff.
to be at my beck and call,
for just about anything at all.
but then,
if there are 'free butlers for all'
would my, butler,
not have a bulter, of his own
to order about from,
his butler throne
and so on and so forth
and if we all had butlers.
would anything, ever,
really get done?
OR, would we all be,
passing ***** laundry
about in a neverending,
linen chain.
drinking tepid tea from each others ***** tea cups.
polishing silver for some one other than us ...
would i end up,
being a bulter to you.
my god!
this, idea of
'free butlers for every one.'
is spiralling, out of control
this factotumnal conudrum,
is going to drive me insane.
JEEVES ! please, please be so good
as, to bring me a calming tisane.
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 7:18 PM UTC