"inns" poems
Imagine if the nativity
Took place now instead of then
With technological advancement
It'd be on the news at ten
In fact it would make youtube
A film clip at the stable
Taken by a shepherd boy
Underneath a table
The three wisemen would go on Skype
The gifts would be en route
No need to travel all the way
With the traffic in Beirut
Phone banks would be all set up
To raise funds for the birth
The internet would be a buzz
With the greatest news on earth
No camels, inns or drummer boys
There'd be no one there at all
The Angel of The Lord would be
Black Friday shopping at the mall
In fact I do not think that it
Would be a deal that we would follow
Social media and the press
Would make it all seem hollow
I'm glad it happened when it did
As time has come to pass
With Jesus in a manger
And wisemen there en masse
I don't think it'd be Christmas
If Christ was born today
Without a cd or a movie deal
Or a sport that he would play
Christmas is...and always will
Be the story we were told
I'm glad it didn't happen now
If I may be quite so bold
Unto man a child was born
And he, the son of God....
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 11:51 PM UTC
THE TRUE STORY OF THE EASTER BUNNY
you see, way back in the 1300s, there was this man who bred rabbits, and he was dedicated to his job, so much in fact,
he would go about starting to dress up as a colourful bunny around April every year, around the full moon, and on the
evening of easter Saturday, this man, would take off in his rundown jet plane to deliver hand painted eggs, painted by himself
to all the boys and girls of this land, and if each kid was very good, he will give the one of the kids a very rare chocolate bunny
which was very hard to find in these times, every kid pushed each other over to be the chosen one for this delicious bunny, and
the man dresses all the rabbits of the land, in colourful clothes and a easter bell around their necks, to warn the foxes that
can lurk about, you see on this man’s route were 345 houses to deliver each egg to, and some of the kids were still up, and he was
nice to them, giving them 3 eggs instead of 2, you see he always over-packs, because each kid wanted to stay up for the
arrival of the easter bunny-man, as he arrived at their houses, and maybe, that is the reason why it was a nightmare to get
the kids to go to bed now, well they do go to bed, but the easter bunny-man made the kids so happy, the kids went to bed
when he left, after that he dropped in at various inns around the town to deliver the painted eggs to each patron drinking in the inns
and mind you, he had a lot of great stories to tell each patron in the inn, about his wonderful adventures. then he drove off toward
the two farms of the town, and in the 1300s, the farms housed mostly poor people, ya know people doing it tough, so to speak, and
he dropped his easter eggs to the farmers and their kids and performed a few songs for the farmers like “candyman” and a rhyme which was
easter easter what’ll we do
give an egg to me and i will give one rot you
you see i am happy to really make you
the happiest farmer this easter will produce
you see these are painted eggs, i like them yeah
the colours are beautiful, really, i swear
come on kiddies try and grab more
easter easter how are you
and he played many many more easter related songs and rhymes, and the farmers liked to call him the rabbit ******* and he had a great night
as he did this every easter saturday, and at 5 am on easter Sunday morning, he finished his route and and spent easter sunday with his family,
and whether you believe this story or not, this is how easter started in my eyes
HAPPY EASTER FELLAS
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 4:47 AM UTC
1078
The Bustle in a House
The Morning after Death
Is solemnest of industries
Enacted upon Earth—
The Sweeping up the Heart
And putting Love away
We shall not want to use again
Until Eternity.
2.8k
This is not Love, perhaps,
Love that lays down its life,
that many waters cannot quench,
nor the floods drown,
But something written in lighter ink,
said in a lower tone, something, perhaps, especially our own.
A need, at times, to be together and talk,
And then the finding we can walk
More firmly through dark narrow places,
And meet more easily nightmare faces;
A need to reach out, sometimes, hand to hand,
And then find Earth less like an alien land;
A need for alliance to defeat
The whisperers at the corner of the street.
A need for inns on roads, islands in seas,
Halts for discoveries to be shared,
Maps checked, notes compared;
A need, at times, of each for each,
Direct as the need of throat and tongue for speech.
2.8k
214
I taste a liquor never brewed—
From Tankards scooped in Pearl—
Not all the Vats upon the Rhine
Yield such an Alcohol!
Inebriate of Air—am I—
And Debauchee of Dew—
Reeling—thro endless summer days—
From inns of Molten Blue—
When “Landlords” turn the drunken Bee
Out of the Foxglove’s door—
When Butterflies—renounce their “drams”—
I shall but drink the more!
Till Seraphs swing their snowy Hats—
And Saints—to windows run—
To see the little Tippler
Leaning against the—Sun—
2.8k
As when two men have loved a woman well,
Each hating each, through Love’s and Death’s deceit;
Since not for either this stark marriage-sheet
And the long pauses of this wedding bell;
Yet o’er her grave the night and day dispel
At last their feud forlorn, with cold and heat;
Nor other than dear friends to death may fleet
The two lives left that most of her can tell:—
So separate hopes, which in a soul had wooed
The one same Peace, strove with each other long,
And Peace before their faces perished since:
So through that soul, in restless brotherhood,
They roam together now, and wind among
Its bye-streets, knocking at the dusty inns.
1.9k
I am Sarah Malcolm -
yes, the one they call the Irish Laundress
and the jury found me guilty of the murders
(the Infamous Murderess)
of Mrs Lydia Duncomb,
Mrs Harrison and the servant Ann Price
in Mrs Lydia’s chamber
at the Inns of Court in the Temple;
and the jury only needed 15 minutes
and there was disbelief when I admitted to robbery
but not ******
and there was disgust
when I said the blood on my clothing was my own menstrual blood
and not the blood of Ann Price:
I had broken a taboo in talking of menstrual blood
for, as they say,
only loose and the not so virtuous women speak that way
and of course even after the judgement
I have been deemed even more guilty
for I am of a different Communion
of the Catholic faith, not Anglican -
just as the Ordinary, James Guthrie described me
in instructing me here at Newgate on the Christian faith;
and I have earned the name now of many
as the evil, barbaric, and stubborn woman
And now Mr Hogarth sketches and paints
that you might have a view of me;
and the appointed date is 7 March 1733
when I will be executed...
and these lines I add to the picture
that you might remember me
Jan 28, 2012
Jan 28, 2012 at 5:29 AM UTC
LEPRECHAUN (3/16/12)
The leprechauns are singing and dancing
Around their *** of gold
For they have a story that must be told.
Of a man who they called St. pat
Who through his fear pulled in the welcome mat.
He knew that the wee people were mischievous beings
And all they done he was seeing.
They would play jokes on all around
Although they couldn’t be seen, and didn’t make a sound.
They would go to the nearest inns
And spike the ales and the gin.
Once they saw that everyone was polluted
They would go in and their purses would be looted.
This was how they could fill their pots of gold
Or at least that’s how the story was told.
They knew that most would tend to forget
And this was the easiest way yet.
Being robbed and not recalling
And their wives would start their balling.
Now if one of them could be caught
To their pots of gold, that person must be brought
But On this *** of gold there was a spell cast
That if taken- it would not last
It would be spent drinking the night away
And in the morning, the leprechauns would once again play.
So enjoy this ST. PATTY S day
For in their hands the gold will stay.
Mar 16, 2012
Mar 16, 2012 at 8:33 PM UTC
Astro space dust peaking over the bows
Jesters prance across your belly causeing blindness
And practical giants pick your clothes for tonight.
Although we have danced together
Yesterdays lunch backs up our crusades.
The spiked pants have formed a crust
Around the water bed
Filled with the tears of your family.
Your halos burn in the fire of the ages
Scorching the carpet.
Liquor and wine fill the packs
A toast to life is a thirst quenching mission
Taking away our lust and bleaches our skin
Forgotten births spread across the floor
Covered in last nights brew.
The night bodies jangle around under the gauze
Bells toll in the distance but the breath drows it out.
Under the bridge, behind the stores,
In the Inns, out inside.
The physics are catestrophic in their own way.
Crys begin once the breathing stops and the men leave.
Today we are creatures but how did we get this way
Who was the one who came up with the idea?
Don't question yourself
The leopards can't chase you forever
Give yourself to the hunters
They starve another night.
May 5, 2010
May 5, 2010 at 4:59 PM UTC
that summer, Born to Be Wild
and Mrs. Robinson were on AM,
A & W Drive Inns served frosted mugs
and Tet’s blood had not long dried black
on Saigon streets
my thumb took me from the green tipped tongue
of western Kentucky across the wide world
to a café in Santa Rosa, where I spent my last
eighty-five cents, on a tuna sandwich
and chips
a bus bench was waiting for me
when the cafe closed its doors
at 12:10, the old waitress giving me
a generous extra dime of time,
knowing I had to face the night
and the bench, or the New Mexico road
I chose the latter and headed south
under coal dark skies
only eighteen wheelers passed, their screaming lights
robbing me of what quiet vision night’s monotony had granted
they saw my thumb, but not one stopped; they did not know I had walked
a dozen dark dead miles, and had not closed my eyes in 60 hours
nor did they care, about me, or my shadow on Highway 54
I talked to pinyons, cedars that dotted the mesas
and moved about like mournful buffalo, stirred to life
by a sound or a scent, perhaps my own foul road bouquet,
though they were mute, even when I asked them
if I was seeing god in their measured marching
across my desert dream
long before
the dawn I begged to come
I saw him, dead center on my highway
so black he was blue, his eyes like two emeralds
hanging in some ethereal space, staring at me, the rest
of the absent world unaware he was there, growling
the rumble so low I tasted it, as he might taste me,
I felt our nostrils flair, as his would when
he devoured me, I saw the blood feast
through our eyes, the last morsel of me,
a pale art form on an asphalt palette
as he swallowed the last of his meal
the eighteen wheeler came, its high beams bouncing off him
only long enough for me to see his mouth was dry
and his belly empty, before he vanished
into the blue night
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 11:48 AM UTC
*long lost years
our master, Shakespeare
traveled to London for four days
no shillings or good garments in his bag
he stayed in lodge inns
penny a night
he had to gave up with a sigh
the smell of midden-heaped lanes
from the slum tenements
he had to bare for nights
he held both jobs
holding patron's horses
or prompter's attendant
and as destined to be a playwright,
his plays express aspects of life that transcend time
he wrote to be remarkable
and to put food on the table
illuminating human experience
a genius mind...
a playwright, poet and actor
that we will always admire.*
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 12:49 AM UTC
Don't bother with the politicians, the war men -
For Karma will fulfill the People's ancient justice.
Just say "mu",
And let your soul dance naked down the avenue,
Singing songs,
And carrying on,
From the day you came to Earth
To the day you'll rejoin the Sun,
Peace is what we need -
Peace is everything.
Peace in the mind,
In the body,
In the naked Soul of Infinity -
Let peace ring out in song
And silence the War Man's voice.
For we all have a choice.
Every moment,
Of every day,
We all have a choice -
And our choices are ripples,
Ripples that are endless
And affect the entire universe.
So be well,
And spread your peace.
Don't be swallowed up by greed.
Just be well,
And spread your peace.
This world needs you.
We need your peace.
For if you're not free, no body is free.
Life is a moment,
So seize the day,
Go out and play,
Say what you want to say -
For life is a moment,
And your body won't last forever -
Walk easy, Speak easy, Be easy
Nobody said life would be easy -
But It Is.
So be well,
And Spread Your Peace.
Yes,
Spread Your Peace.
Spread Your Peace.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 10:02 AM UTC
The Proclamation had met with silence,
he must have known the fight was lost,
But, Connolly, faithful to the Cause,
Was accepting of its cost.
They took the Green, The inns of Court,
the Post on Sackville Street
De Valera stood at Bolandʼ s mill
the place where five roads meet.
Their commander, Pearse, a scholar,
Apportioned his menʼ s lives,
To garrison each strong point
Till the British would arrive.
Their tactics were pure suicide-
They could not hope to stand,
But their strategy was brilliant
Meant to rouse a sleeping land.
Sure to die of a snipers bullet-
Or a British firing squad
These unabashed Republicans
Held out against long odds..
Bloodied by the Rebel guns,
The foe paid dear for ground
The general post office was in flames
as their gunboats shelled our town.
The week crawled past and Dublin burned
The post Office glowed White hot
Pearse watched his troop dwindle and fade.
Faint from shell and shock..
They surrendered to be crucified
In Imperial British fashion
And by dying saved their country.
Their deaths brought her resurrection.
The British with their firing squad
Could ready, aim and fire.
The Brotherhood by dying
Could persuade, convince, inspire
Upon the graves of these patriot men
Was the seed of a Nation sown,
their struggle at the post office
Still captured in itsʼ stone.
Dec 18, 2011
Dec 18, 2011 at 8:20 PM UTC
So many things happened
So many years ago.
You hitch-hiked to have tea with Mammy;
But not me.
You scaled the Mount to succeed;
Without me.
We slid the Fiat into a Rambler,
Before your big night.
The front got bent out of shape,
But we still went,
Drinking whiskey from the bottle.
Nothing stopped us. We couldn't bother.
We stayed at Sean's,
Or various friends,
At Inns, or canvas tents;
All were means to our ends.
It was fifty years ago...
Half a century of years;
Decades of joyous laughter,
With many unanswered tears.
Oct 1, 2022
Oct 1, 2022 at 8:34 AM UTC
Looming here since forever,
Death now seems much closer.
Guzzling oil hovering over,
End has struck the hour.
In the cockpit, the air is stinking,
Reminder of an unwashed mind.
Trick or treat with enemy calling,
Killing their unsuspecting selves.
Oh Satan!
Wretched enemies of humanity,
They unleashed the zombie army.
Why don't they go out to fight?
Left that role to the zombies, yeah.
Father Time will settle scores,
For this Father is a log keeper.
Exploiting civilians for gains they do,
Taking them just as junk in the room.
Wait till they all revolt, yeah!
When in darkness, put on the lights,
Shadow play from childhood calling.
Dropping explosive **** these birds,
Hand of Doom has struck the hour.
Night of Finale, Satan waiting,
Hide deeper, the nukes come calling.
Burning homes, factories & inns,
Satan shying, wraps His wings
Oh Satan!
Jul 23, 2022
Jul 23, 2022 at 9:27 AM UTC
I treat beef like lions in, the Ramada inn, dying to sign into the luncheon,
go to work,
I punch in,
these beefcakez, is munchkins, my dough nuts, and bunch Keens.
We Brady Bunch,
and Punch like Kens -sheens.
we punching through functions
like a bunch of alienss at the Days Inns working equations off all kinds of ocassions, mostly Caucasian, facials so amazing, when their facebook, if they face them..I page in,and they page Kim, to let him, know that I'm waiting; the appointment meant, we dating, no promo, so stop your hating. take a selfy in the **** stop ur waiting. ctrl, alt, delete. there's no.escaping- staple the email to your upper lip, recycle trash every other weak in. *** Ginny, run, Freddy creeping. slow, creepy walk, Jason mask out the Lake Inn, my neighbors laughed, Chevy chasing there *** child's play with a ****** hockey mask, i'm up to task. dog had a limp,so I made him part of the cast! Bruce Lee kicked, thier ******* *** I'm talking full body cast.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 4:08 PM UTC
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 “Willy’s Beer”
From Cleethorpes.
Paul Butters
© PB 10\5\2018.
May 10, 2018
May 10, 2018 at 12:39 PM UTC
Music is my strongest scent
When the softest tune
Triggers all of what it meant
To come to grips with the end of sentiment
I traveled far in this bed
Came to a tunnel
At the end of my head
And in the light I saw a dream
Where I froze all memory
In a tray next to my hearts glow and gleam
I pull it out when the melody begins
Love letters and holiday inns
Cubes of desire in glasses of gin
In dreams, in misfortune I try to melt
All of which your heart ever felt
Oct 22, 2009
Oct 22, 2009 at 1:12 PM UTC
Yellow is ***** or is it? I know a lot of yellow people that think like dishwashers
spinning turning loose their causes for finding likeness compatible. I know people that like to machinify the living and talk about furniture as if it heard the rumors in the fabric already supposedly threading. I know people that lust after red draping rooms thinking it more desperate than the sun I’ve seen them click at it looking directly into the lighting of things making drama more dramatic than modern living. I’ve heard people make relationships out of these resemblances as if every eye had an ear to be heard without looking making silence appear chilling but every bit thrilling. Was it just yesterday a girl confessed she named her plants with each passing lover? There are people that attach themselves to objects so violently they fall in love with a chair a chair worth a thousand words more than it gives in its cedar vintage dress but that’s just one chair. I know people that vacation to inns retreat to estate sales to hoard stories in bracelets and oil lamps tracking floorboards with time uttering words no longer used like duvets and chesterfields and smirking into their dusty reflection from an embroidered hand mirror. I know people that would buy used postcards. Yellow. All I’m saying is I know people that avoid white at all cost.
Jan 29, 2012
Jan 29, 2012 at 1:41 PM UTC
a man of letters
who pens
upon
trivial matters in convivial inns
where his life is spent
almost invariably
in tatters ..
Jun 5, 2025
Jun 5, 2025 at 8:06 PM UTC
meandering paths, blind turns
unfathomable milestones, sand built inns
rarely comes across the shiny black tar
imparting hope, embracing dithering steps
yet, set aflame by desires we tread on,
hurting ourselves onto the
path vanishing into the oblivion
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 12:21 PM UTC
I could write you a letter every day
Instead I filled every May with letters of the alphabet:
A time came for passing through road side inns and
Beaches where you stroked every grain of sand from the
Corners of my face I hid my smiles ensewn on your
Designs to play with my hair stained with sweat and
Every sweet word and edge of your books cutting through my
Faint heart for friends that needed fixing
Grunge rock, emo punk screaming through lungs
Halting for a beat on your eardrum
Inconsistent dates, intolerant of my sarcasm because you are
Jokes made on table tops, bingeing on laughter until I threw up,
Keeping score of words, broken promises and mistakes,
Looking at everything wrong with staying but
Maintaining the balance of a smile and ugly crying at night,
Nicotine in every breath I am consumed in
On top of you on a bench or a bedside table we were
Poetry half-baked excuses so I don't
Question everything we risked to stay, stay alive
Remembering long walks and feeling infinite and the
Same soulmate-seeking sentiment,
Temerity served with every glass of alcohol and
Understanding why you woke up just to fall out of love with
Vicious cycles you can't keep up with getting tired of me but
Who knew things transpired to make way for
Exes and hoes to keep up the act of all the temporary.
Your happiness is above mine but yesterday, remember
Zigzag lines and lies never to coincide
Daydreams and delusional memories
to be replaced with
watching me see who you really are for the first time
as you look through someone else's eyes and feed
her temporary smiles that fill the void
Making it out to a vision of me you can't replace
the taste, the touch, the haste to forget
Like counting backwards and shapeshifting.
Three words that will never mean anything.
Two anxiety attacks per week.
Once we were real and pure
but pitch black and we are back to
Zero.
Sep 24, 2017
Sep 24, 2017 at 12:19 PM UTC
caught inside agenda and pressured by hysteria
terror catches at throat,
mimicked by an echoed note.
smoked-out-in-columns-of-purgatory,
why is that?
Noise pierced the air and sat at rail-road crossings,
walking back to old fashion--
country inns -out of- a rainstorm's wind.
wandered the point to follow,
the hollow that swallows
tomorrow
and
i saw myself be-musing
way stations
and caught a ticket,
-back-
to apathy.
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 1:37 PM UTC
Hauling *** on I-10
with a billion galaxies
exploding
in an array above me,
I descended on Deming,
crystal jewel city
twinkling madness,
a desert oasis
where nobody exists,
except super eights
and day inns,
barred prisons
capturing
exhausted motorists
& some are ***** houses waiting.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 4:13 AM UTC
My clothes are familiar and I blend in well
the shops are quiet and do not sell
I drive on regardless each day the same way
a sagas myth is here to stay
the welcoming inn a buzzing hive
clothes unpeel and emblazoned I rise
in short sleeved blue Jim Jams with clogs of noir
to follow tiled pathways and stairwells on high
scale the walled harbour and tide
gloves now cover along with gauzed hair
levy labelled with cóem and time
a mask of no air
a visor upon my stare
gloves that give birth in a pair
entering the abode
the door is unsealed
la dévastation is revealed
with each breath mists my brow
stifled sounds and blurried spectres
angels wings unfurled
amorphous canoes float among modulus forms
each suspended on ripples that care
moorings avail the fare
pure is the air
each a lifeline
engaged in dance
the lines waver
a harmonious swell
take gauntlets and bib
many hands take hold
the canoe is in white water
capsized and adrift
what’s up is down
and down is sound
the turbulence unfolds
blue now runs red
muscles unwind
eyes now a veiled
dreams on thin air
eyes are the story
telling their all
prepare, engage, and consider
action stations now all
the canoe revives
eddies are restored
the brows repose
the eyes belighten
a canoe is transformed
the moorings are loosened
our chance to assist
the derrick is grasped
air finally comes forth
a canoe breaks loose
a belling arises and then one more
steers an outstretched hand
the lines are gathered
the harbour protects all
a poem is written
an eloquent enigma
each number makes news
a zero the grail
summoned by home
the inns light fades with the distance
a refreshing shower
a cooling drink
a warm meal
tired eyes, fasten shut
the canoes float past
my eyes open but nothing stirs
I mouth in silence
'yield thou viral hold'
May 9, 2020
May 9, 2020 at 7:32 PM UTC