dust cloud heavy
in an apricot sky
cottonwood mucker
under ambrose pale
whippet and shepherd
mill at the earth patch
yellow birch hangs
over red bench park

combine shavings
in crack rust brown
scissors chips fall
at the back stop
whiskey jack looters
sing patented chords
siblings (and 2 wheel enthusiasts!)
give thanks

joyous retrievers
master the criss cross
bare maples stand
at settlers way
barred owl and blue jay
whistle in the fore-wind
ghosts
and goblins
pull on the seeds

wind gusts belt
over the west gulch
a blood rush churns
in the chilling fall morn
hallowed grounds still
at the midday
quiet reflections
of the afghan
and hound

jumpers unite
at the oxbow
route runners bend
(on a sultry foray!)
meadows exposed
in the framework
ball parks empty
with pennants past

barrel dirt favors
the brew house
crimson and copper
find bracken ridge gate
harvest hands savor
the honey and hops
blankets of color
for a winter's hatch

brush fire kept
under steady peruse
bark bites fly
and embers glow
pine cones drop
from the timber tops
3 wick candles
grace the dinner place

shiver and ******
at the piper's call
cob web dew
on the shadowy gates
a chilled mist mellows
the season's return ~
poets and artists
and dreamers awake

Skyward glints,
another hint from another sun,
London runs down,
daily commute over and out.

And how the weekday work is
coming to an end,
but what do they work on whilst 5 in the evening?
Spreadsheets saved in significant folders,
word documents in for a week on Monday,
presentation notes to be written, rehearsed, re-wrote and printed?

‘Beds, beds, beds,
prime town centre property To Let’
Broken brick buildings sit, they belong
to internet auction sites and in estate agent windows.
There’s no flow in this town no more.
Whatever river of commerce that once ran through here
has moved onto, and into, another course,
oxbow lake suburb by Government force.

It rains in the North.
Jewels in the tarmac,
rings in the walls,
stars behind the factory noise,
sound hidden behind an all-car-call.

My broken skin, my broken hide,
months of thought, a hunger for home.
Far flung, further thrown,
back to the up-north-hometown,
hometown of the known.

Dry veins branch the dead gulch
cinder cones set on a marble tan scape
fanning sands sketch ephemeral
fossil plates fold under columns of gray

Mountain back steep at the crevasse
sinkhole spots form on parallel nine
sulfur pipe stems from molten ash
withered shrubs and crumbling spines

silt fields cover the foothills
swayback shed near the Whipple tree barn
tumbledown shacks form the patchwork
from goat canyon ranch to big bison farm

Salt lakes fractured in amber
sickle-bush cut at the bowline knot
a half-moon traced by the viper
oxbow streams and valley grot

The rivers
          that oxbow
             slither
    down the Cumberland drain
        in May
                 SWOLE
M-E-A-N------F-a-t-----P--R--E--G--N--A--N--T,
         hungry pregnant,
walking the floor & opening the fridge pregnant,
drown your own mother for a nosh pregnant,
    cantankerously mad pregnant,
flowing from car to car, truck to truck and house to house,
   through crawl space, doors, and windows,
down halls, laddering stairs, licking banisters, cresting attics,
    feeding, feeding, feeding, feeding
on the stacked labor of years and years,
feeding, feeding, feeding
on unbelieving minds and dumb stares,
feeding, feeding, feeding,
     on "We've lost everything",
"Oh, my God."s
    and tears.

Waiting for the ransom of daybreak
For Oak boughs in care of Wisterias child ,
for warm ploughland breath seeking the chilled morning address ,
Sunbeams held in gray cover , windmere hillsides
in earthly redress
Lorn , incognito Cottonwoods hosting the Mourning Dove
rituals , Sapphire flowers mingle in wetted Thistle ,
Crescendo showers telltale an oxbow brook with
clear quartz reflections , bathing the Sawgrass banks
Crimson , Nutmeg , Sassafras scent surprise , Wild onion teasing
the Dawn palate , dark earth fragrance in colorful green disguise
Gravel road , broom sage borders beneath Hickory canopies ,
leading to home

My stream of consciousness is in full flow,
Tumbling down the page.
A cascade of words
Bouncing and foaming
Towards unknown seas.

No planning here.
No structure
Or direction.
Just meanderings
And oxbow lakes.

Free verse unfettered
By Draconian Rules
Or dogma.
Odd rhymes thrown in
Perhaps:
Casual confetti.

So what should I type about,
Sitting here in my armchair
In the silence of my lounge?

The sky is full of clouds
A blanket over this
September afternoon.
Perfect conditions
For composing this poem.

Should I put the world to rights?
(How long have you got?)
Or just indulge
In some uplifting visions?

I don’t do emotions very much.
The cork is firmly closed
On those.
Recall my early loves:
All unrequited.
Crushes
That crushed my very soul.
Memories of crying inside,
Unable to eat
Or think of anything except
That longing for love
Which never came.

So no
I don’t do emotions.
And seldom reveal myself
As I just did.
I’d rather let my imagination soar,
My eagle eye -
A soaring cliché –
Taking in the sweep of space
And everything below.

I see trees
And animals,
Mountains, coasts and oceans.
People milling about.
A scream of seagulls soars above the sea.
Waves crash:
A thundering tsunami
Against the brittle cliffs.

I have many voices.
From soft soothing lullabies
To grand orations
Full of pomp and splendour.

Music plays in my head:
A crescendo of orchestras
And songs.
Freddie, Elvis, Bassey
Clapton, Hendrix and Satriani.
Ginger Baker, Phil Collins.

Reciting poetry
Within my brain
Is easy
After Bohemian Rhapsody.

So once more to the beach dear friends
With Brian Wilson
And his crew.
Let Sloop John B be launched
Again
Heading for oceans new.

At last a rhyme
As attention spans begin to
Wane.
Enough for now
My loyal friends.
I’d best bid you
Adieu.

Paul Butters

© PB 4\9\2020. First 3 lines Written 16\8\20 in my big paper diary.

And so you have come to this immutability,
Delivered by those forces, those fates
(Unseen, perhaps things of our own making,
Unshakeable in any analysis)
Complicit in our preordained rest and rust,
That which made that Ephesian,
Ruefully reading the eternal river
To see there was some eddy, some oxbow
Predestined as the end to his temporary journey,
Deposit his scroll in the great temple,
And such for all of us, then,
The marble chiseled and graven,
Final but for a few finishing touches,
The fate of all men, fated to dust yet invulvnerable,
Shadows brought to the precipice
Of such things which are inescapable
Yet chosen by us nonetheless.

The Last Bed We Buy

Grateful not to find myself
disembodied hovering high above
this stark cake of soap, gazing down
laboring to put names to faces, the couple
so familiar, side by side, palms down, still as

miller moths displayed on pins, I drift off  
to the drone of Bill or Ted, rumpled as
a morning after motel king intoning
soft or firm versus memory foam
or pillow top, hypoallergenic …

the last thing I hear before we fall
fast asleep spooning on a plush queen,
not too soft and not too hard, but just right,
satiny raft to ferry us the last stretch of river.
Waving like the Queen we float past the last new

roof over which we will preside, nod in solemn
recognition of our high efficiency gas furnace
apt to burn on years after I’m gone, applaud
politely what jolly well may be a farewell
drive north through the Tunnel of Trees

some biting October afternoon, weep
softly for our old squirrel chaser sawing
soft imprecations to hips gone tender some
blustery April night dog years from now, blow
low Bronx cheers in a fond adieu to life mediated

through screens. Even Bill or Ted knows that grace
lies just ahead around the next oxbow, leaves us
to dream, two dormice cupped in a leaf, rills
and eddies bearing us seaward, buoying us
downstream on softly rolling shoulders.

The Last Bed We Buy

Should I be grateful not to find myself
disembodied hovering high above this stark
cake of soap, gazing down, laboring to put
names to faces, the couple so familiar,
side by side, palms down, still as miller

moths displayed on pins, our salesman,
Bill or Ted, rumpled like a morning after
motel king, reading my mind, musing on
this pair of worn porcelain dolls
painted in chipped shades of hesitation?  

Soft or firm versus memory foam or pillow top?  

Hypoallergenic pipes Ted or Bill, the last thing
I hear before we drift off spooning on a queen,
one not too soft and not too hard, but just right,
a satiny raft to ferry us the final stretch of river.

Waving like Queens we float on by the last new
roof over which we will preside, a nod of recognition
for the last new water heater, too.  Applaud politely  
our farewell drive through the Tunnel of Trees

one biting October afternoon in the not so distant future.
Cluck our tongues for the poor dog snoring soft
imprecations to hips gone tender some coming
rainy April night.  Blow twin Bronx cheers,

fat, wet, and sloppy, as we bid adieu to one last
shameless act of televised hubris.  Grace lies
ahead around the next oxbow, two dormice
cupped in a leaf, rills and eddies conveying us
to the sea on softly rolling shoulders.

The serpentine and ageless liquid
   mercurial possessed snake
eternally swallowed
   since the beginning of time
   one unquenchable thirst to gorge and slake
slurping up an icy cold mountainous pebbly shake
   yet fresh as an irish spring
   using thy tongue o gaelic spake
   then tumbling down into the cavernous abyss
   subsequently carving
   a deep criss cross patchwork
   across the rock hard rugged topography
   like the handiwork of some invincible force
   commandeering a humungous rake
affixing legendary signature
   quasi-indelible grooves
   only for the near indomitable
   chiseled masterpiece
   to be erased, twisted then wrenched
   by that natural landscape altering phenomena
   identified as an earth quake
creating a fresh tabula rasa to begin anew
   inviting waters from on high to carve
   from the ebbing and flowing millennial currents
   which eventually find a more direct course
   beginning as trickling creek
   swells from winter rains
   and thence in summer while the sun doth bake
   when flora blooms and fauna prance
the firmament  then abandons
   bent elbow oxbow lake
as a former bend in the river.

untenable time cuts
against the oxbow

reading policy to an
era of locusts

mountains without
insides, simulacra optic

encoded social rent
cultish borders, conditions

dubious grain, bleached
establishments buckling

plow is to story
the regressive pixel

atmosphere circling poles
centuries undulating

-

entropy the way, ersatz
a litany for kindling

burn the canvas hour
my morning masterpiece

Somewhere a dandelion
clicks,

it starts
to put out seed pods--

A tadpole's metamorpho--
sis

reveals a little tree frog

The young one sprawls
with Shiva's love
The old one spars with Vishnu

A tree has breached the canopy,
Your crush just up and kissed you

Your capillaries dilate
Revealing what's inside
So wrinkle up your rosy face
But love, you cannot hide

And somewhere else, a songbird dies
Beside an oxbow lake
And both lay still,
And beautiful
And know the river's wake.

it’s not so much about
the mountains,
but the way they cut
     the sky, assuming space
     inch by inch.
kind of rude, really.

either way these aren’t
my mountains
and those aren’t my dairy
calves, huddled around
the lapis-filled oxbow for
midday siesta.

-

lately my hair tangles
in the wind,
not complaining.

Looking through, I saw a beauty smiling to herself,
she was an aurora standing by the bookshelf,

her scent diffused across the room,
I couldn't get my eyes off her shinny costume,

she seemed to have a bubbly outlook,
she probably came from kirkuk,

her waist as slender as a needle,
her hair as curly as a noodle,

her velvety eyelashes and her oxbow lips positively drooled with goodness,
she stood out amongst all with her sculpted figure and her shyness,

she had a pointy- dainty nose,
definately once had a foe,

her eyes were judgemental,
but she didn't look temperamental,

her lips looked like they tasted candy sweet,
looked strawberry and was complimented by her white teeth,

before i could go on and on,
she left the room making me crave for some more "bon",

I ran to ask her name but she'd already left,
i instantly felt my heart melt,

i ran out of breath so my heart started to pump faster,
that's when i knew my heart had a new master.

Poetic license I employ
to match inventive
wisdom and witticism
regarding (brother in law of mine
husband of eldest sister of same)
interspersing, initiating, incorporating
fabrication whenever possible,
and only the subject himself
can discern fact from fiction
and get a chuckle.

Re: noun polymath
and longtime resident
of Woodbury, New Jersey
story of his life
constitutes real cinéma vérité
depicting veteran jack of all trades,
and adept Morris dancer to boot,
whereby ankles donned with bells
while whistles fell from the house of usher
crowded house Aesop Poe's  

his rubbery shapely legs
bending vaguely resembling an oxbow
amazingly gracefully they meander,
when sharing an anecdote
then listener amply electrified
attired courtesy with rapt attention
donning brooks brothers
complimentary wardrobe
courtesy Durand thrift store,
and/or popular Goodwill

(though prices noticeably
steeper at the latter),
where he donates
and buys tools, tchotchkes,
gizmos, gadgets, clothes, and books
tests intricacy, viability of instruments,
lounges, couches and countenances
against being Lazy Boy,
nevertheless irresistibly shifting into supineness
around cozy davenports,

and to ease sofa ring takes doze
on comfortable recliner,
while engrossed reading
suddenly striking sitting inquisitive posture
(pedic) as revolutionary
humanoid lifelike mannequin
free advertising to expose
how Chat Generative
Pre-trained Transformer

(a large language model-based chatbot
developed by OpenAI
and launched on November 30, 2022,
which enables users to refine
and steer a conversation towards
a desired length, format, style,
level of detail, and language -
oh... and for your information
Monty the Python wrote these words)
suddenly artificial intelligence frozen

out and rendered obsolete
**** sapiens thinking prowess
as well as relevance of human species
grows undermined, overshadowed, enslaved,
et cetera, where twenty first
sentient beings of civilization
reduced to beasts of burden
scattered to all four winds
analogous to rolling stones
simians scraping the earth

using fingers as hoes
eventually survival of the fittest
evolution did impose
steely phalanges (the bones
that make up the toes
of the hand and the fingers
of the foot - ha) on common joe's
biden their time scaling Kilimanjaro's
three volcanic cones:
Kibo, Mawenzi, and Shira

keenly synchronized
trained scientific seismographs
linkedin with their sensory perceptions
helped maintain honed vigilance
former killer foo fighting goo goo dolls
rendered physiques tight as longbows
(actually stunt doubles
weathering bubbling lava mudflows)
amazing special effects witnessed
each spectacular rivaling, towering inferno

metamorphosing into jolly green
(rather orange) giant blob with green thumb
clowning around with FAKE bulbous nose,
indiscriminately spewing forth
liquid bedrock that quickly overthrows
entire bygone webbed wide world
swallowing prized archaeologically
ancient Egyptian and classic Roman civilizations,
where Nero played a mean fiddle
liquidating treasured chests of pharaohs

heaving, melting, repurposing sphinx
in accordance with pyramid scheme
Ponzi scam would long since crumble
and degenerate like house of cards
attesting to fraudulent
***** deeds done dirt cheap
composition and never hold a match against
pure clean fracturing conchoidal quartzose,
one divine comedy troupe rose
above the global liquefaction

affected climate change,
whereat the sheltering sky
offered no escape nor protection
against preternatural edge of night
as dark shadows
encapsulated outer limits
of the twilight zone
quickly extinguishing existence
of **** sapiens planet earth reconstituted
and seeds of life and white lily
omnipotent creator did transpose.

Act chilly
and bass sic hilly
HAPPY BIRTHDAY
completing number seventy five
orbitz, and after ye dip and dive
for another quarter century
(of course still attending
Cherry Hill Unitarian Church)
ye will be fêted oldest member
and maybe the oldest one alive.

at Henry Kline Boyer Elementary School

As a Halloween costume,
one year during early grade school,
my father got the brilliant idea
for his sole son to be dressed
with one of a kind getup.

Missus Shaner
(the talon clawed, shriveled
relic of a dinosaur,
who taught fifth grade)
gave me first prize,
and subsequently felt so convinced
about authenticity of this kid
being “privileged white trash”,
she notified another kid
dressed as a janitor
to dispense with me
in the school dumpster.

The sanitation disposal company
drove me (and subsequently
dumped yours truly
among the real *******
in the dumpster)
to nearest landfill
loaded with all kinds of junk
such as food scraps, recyclables,
and soiled diapers.

Over a short span of time,
the detritus commingled
into one noxious brew
of a despicable fly haven,
whereby jiggling lifelike maggots,
jumpstarted, lunched, and nursed putrescence
re: reeking and teeming vibrantly
with yum zuck for a swamp thing,
I seemed to be metamorphosed
into sewer rat as if by some cruel hoax.

Nothing prepared, neither sickened
nor violated senses
of smell, sight, taste, and touch
to the maximum factor
intolerant of odoriferous odious stench.

Each pestilential assault
issued an appalling refrain
courtesy Fiona Apple's:
The Idler Wheel Is Wiser
than the Driver of the *****
and Whipping Cords Will Serve You
More than Ropes Will Ever Do.

Before mine myopic bespectacled eyes
(smarting from constant comet drubbing irritants
(which glasses – rather bifocals –
caked with smudge good as naught),
stayed wide shut from inundation
of said corrosive gaseous shaped
oxbow lake comprising wreath like wisps.

Liberty vis a vis in sight
envisioned visibly threatened offshoots
of tendril spikes; snaking sneakily,
sordidly slithering silently,
yet straightaway as a scene
from some spooky sideshow
or “haunted house”.

This ugly slop
splashed upon mine formerly
pristine academic uniform
appeared near identical
to the grub hub (the lunch lady served)
splattered sundry speckles
sans sundry detritus,
which found me writhing with nausea.

Thee nasty muck and mire
found this formerly introverted boy
transformed into a sponge bobbing
squarely panting creature
from the black lagoon,
whose skinny sea legs  
sought semi-solid surface
to stand upright position amidst
variegated flotsam and jetsam.

Dishabille appearance acquired
a fresh splattered coat of rancid slimy
green eggs and ham with bacon
covered gangly arms
(among other bit pieces of moldy clothes,
food and iconic library oddment)
ricocheted unpredictably as trash truck
violently shook up and down
all night long en route on this highway to hell
found me thunderstruck
(before being buried alive in Moyer’s Dump),
which toxic brew would be declared
a Super Fund Site
and shuttered in the near future.

Once Robert Hall wardrobe
affixed with a capitalone fancyfeast
of grateful dead road ****,
kickstarter from some automotive contraption,
and plenti of fish heads
(with thine square pants
trimmed with lovely bones),
I felt indistinguishable
from regular riffraff riding shotgun.

When random trucker parked and stopped,
the awful bin laden made ready
to empty contents within the mountain
of olfactory noxious material.

A thought occurred,
that now might be the golden
(or rather **** steeped) opportunity
to extricate myself
from morass of mish mashed,
spud nicked linkedin kindled juggernaut,
icky first class bric a brac.

at Henry Kline Boyer Elementary School
interestingly enough landed me a grubhub grab bag.

I rooted thru poetry anthology of mine,
and came across an unpublished poem
by one obscure poet (me), whose trademark
wit and wisdom hallmark
cardinal characteristics
of posthumous fame and fortune
largesse most likely
tabby bestowed upon grand kittens -
appended courtesy Facebook
since none of my two (both
twenty something aged) darling daughters
opted to be fruitful and multiply.

Courtesy brainchild of dear old dad
(actually when alive
and in his prime, he happened to be spunky
as an overgrown lad),
unanimous assent between him and mother
(she also when young, his junior by a tad)
both agreed their quiet natured son
(yours truly plus younger sister)
best be outfitted as *******.

Anyway, as a Halloween costume,
one year during early grade school,
my father got the brilliant idea
for his sole son to be dressed
with one of a kind getup.

Missus Shaner – long since gone to dust
(the talon clawed, shriveled
relic of a dinosaur,
who taught fifth grade)
gave me first prize,
and subsequently felt so convinced
about authenticity of this kid
being “privileged white trash”,
she notified another kid
dressed as a janitor
to dispense with me
in the school dumpster.

The sanitation disposal company
drove me (and subsequently
dumped yours truly
among the real *******
in the dumpster)
to nearest landfill
loaded with all kinds of junk
such as food scraps, recyclables,
and soiled diapers.

Over a short span of time,
the detritus commingled
into one noxious brew
of a despicable fly haven,
whereby jiggling lifelike maggots,
jumpstarted, lunched, and nursed putrescence
re: reeking and teeming vibrantly
with yum zuck for a swamp thing,
I seemed to be metamorphosed
into sewer rat as if by some cruel hoax.
Nothing prepared, neither sickened
nor violated senses
of smell, sight, taste, and touch
to the maximum factor
intolerant of odoriferous odious stench.

Each pestilential assault
issued an appalling refrain
courtesy Fiona Apple's:
The Idler Wheel Is Wiser
than the Driver of the *****
and Whipping Cords Will Serve You
More than Ropes Will Ever Do.

Before mine myopic bespectacled eyes
(smarting from constant comet drubbing irritants
(which glasses – rather bifocals –
caked with smudge good as naught),
stayed wide shut from inundation
of said corrosive gaseous shaped
oxbow lake comprising wreath like wisps.

Liberty vis a vis in sight
envisioned visibly threatened offshoots
of tendril spikes; snaking sneakily,
sordidly slithering silently,
yet straightaway as a scene
from some spooky sideshow
or “haunted house”.

This ugly slop
splashed upon mine formerly
pristine academic uniform
appeared near identical
to the grub hub (the lunch lady served)
splattered sundry speckles
sans sundry detritus,
which found me writhing with nausea.

Thee nasty muck and mire
found this formerly introverted boy
transformed into a sponge bobbing
squarely panting creature
from the black lagoon,
whose skinny sea legs
sought semi-solid surface
to stand upright position amidst
variegated flotsam and jetsam.

Dishabille appearance acquired
a fresh splattered coat of rancid slimy
green eggs and ham with bacon
covered gangly arms
(among other bit pieces of moldy clothes,
food and iconic library oddment)
ricocheted unpredictably as trash truck
violently shook up and down
all night long en route on this highway to hell
found me thunderstruck
(before being buried alive in Moyer’s Dump),
which toxic brew would be declared
a SuperFund Site
and shuttered in the near future.

Once Robert Hall wardrobe
affixed with a capital one fancy feast
of grateful dead roadkill,
kickstarter from some automotive contraption,
and plenti of fish heads
(with thine spongy bobbing square pants
trimmed with lovely bones),
I felt indistinguishable
from regular riffraff riding shotgun.

When random trucker parked and stopped,
the awful bin laden made ready
to empty contents within the mountain
of olfactory noxious material.

A thought occurred,
that now might be the golden
(or rather **** steeped) opportunity
to extricate myself
from morass of mish mashed,
spud nicked mine
linkedin kindled juggernaut,
icky first class bric a brac.