"programmes" poems
The Will-of-Strength, firm and subtle at Peak
Sought to follow his Elder and charge his Day
With Weight-Lifts and Fork-Bells conquer Relief
Took a Sling from his Semi; Shot the Green Elf
Who flew around the House and tampered his Rage
To learn such Programmes like Responses and Growth
But Confident as he was to draft his Age
Shot the Green Elf again; His Candles grew Old
The Candles! Left there on a Muddy-Cream-Cake
Waiting to be puffed by a Cold, Moral Bite
Till the Drogbas arrived and brought their own Bake
Then the Party resumed; Screams sparked in Delight.
And the Green Elf, sleeping, spoke in the End:
"Manhood be your Goal; First make me your Friend."
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 12:34 AM UTC
She was the strangest football fan I'd ever met,
Between match programmes and leaflets she hid Nietzsche and Thoreau;
Philosophy being a bright passion of hers,
It all seemed so natural in her visage.
On days, she'd hum You'll Never Walk Alone
While turning delicately the pages of a new text,
Smiling at the words that appeared before her on the page.
Dorian Gray, she took time to point out,
Kept her fascinated—
But it was always going to be Nietzsche,
And the first time she strummed the pages of Thus Spoke Zarathustra it was as if the humming had turned to fire,
And she was melded with the page.
I would believe only in a god who could dance.
If you asked her who she favoured,
she would reply back with a chirp,
the Russians!
And hold to you a copy of Dostoyevsky,
Crime and Punishment, she said, was her fascination
And she'd as fluidly as ever switch back to the fixtures.
Never passion, always fancy.
It was as if viewing herself through a third party lens.
Her passion for the game,
As mysterious as her gentle touch on softer pages.
How could she love so drastically?
Football, her passion,
But her books were her mystery to all, to even herself,
And the quiet murmur of Nietzsche, her nectar.
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 12:34 PM UTC
Film and television cameras:
Roving eyes for many of us.
But are We the cameras on the world
For an audience somewhere out there
Beyond the stars?
Our world: a studio for countless films.
The animal race a production crew
For programmes watched by spirit beings.
And who collects these reels of Life?
Where is The Director?
What Company employs us all?
Those with feelings of Déjà vu do ask:
Which Take are we doing now?
And Minds of Science claim
We can Forward Fast or Rewind.
It’s one great mystery of course:
The longest journey of them all.
A soap opera to beat all others:
This film called “Life”.
Paul Butters
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 5:30 AM UTC
You whose Right Hand makes Custom on his Plaque
I take it you are his Cherrymost Friend
And Teeth-Marks suggest you follow his slack
To soothe your Way for an un-ending bend
Poor Sun-Stricken Diver; Bitten for Cause
Tells his Screaming Board to keep him at bay
Whilst waiting for his turn, his Fans at loss
Tried to reach out in a respectful way
There is some Magic in how you perform
I think in Truth that kept your Muscles strong
Now, as I advised your Buddy to reform
Would you allow and keep such Record for long?
Seriously, watching Programmes with those Two
Invites a Rogue Question: Who's poking Who?
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 5:01 AM UTC
often always
I am the
lone
Cameraman
New Year,
I only see the fireworks
through
a screen
in the misty weather
I remember
catching shots
through the window
of the car
... and waiting
and often Dan and I
share shots
and cameras
and Lightroom programmes
...and Bueno Bars
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 1:36 AM UTC
Tribes matter more than research,
jobs dished on ethnic network,
as academics are left to die
at the thrones of sadism
and selfish megalomania,
proffessors more illiterate
as reading culture succumbed to death,
to pave way for money culture,
harvested from parallel programmes,
that takes the beautiful
and the academically incompetent,
to the university at mercy of their wallets,
where the proffessors renew their sinews,
on the french chicken by parralleley style
on the tops of the female parallel students,
as they inspire them with new culture,
of laziness,twiterature and cyborature,
face-booking for unique *** partners,
as books are left to be dust ridden
on the miserable shelves
of ramshackle libraries.
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 5:01 AM UTC
The intense heat of summer begins to relax
Damp sticky air gradually changes to dry, comfortable breeze
In the dark clear sky there hangs the bright full moon
All these remind the Mid Autumn Festival is around
If not the story of Chang'e, the Moon Gooddess of Immortality
The Mid Autumn Festival will have lost its charm
Family gatherings, festive meals, gifts giving and greetings
Are all important and popular in this joyful season
Autumn is also a significant moment for the students
College students will prepare for their new learning programmes
New friends, new lecturers, new courses and new objectives
Seem like a beautiful and exciting world ahead of them to fulfill
On the night of Mid Autumn Festival
Crowds of people go out together to the parks
Children play with lanterns and people share the food they bring
The beautiful moon brings lovers together, pledging their love to each other
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 12:20 PM UTC
I sit here again, my laptop on my knee,
Or rather, lay back in my armchair
Next to the lounge window.
Before me lies the clutter that is
My man cave.
If I just stare I see every little item
In glorious detail.
Yet even when asleep
I swear to you
I sometimes dream of scenes
Images of tables, cities or skies
Every bit as detailed as real life.
Which begs the question:
Where exactly IS this wonderful “Mind” of mine,
That can so accurately record and reproduce
Such multi-coloured panoramas?
Is it just “in my head”
As scientists assert,
Or is it located “somewhere out there”,
Even beyond the stars?
Am I merely squatting
In this body of mine
Until the day that I pass on?
And when I do pass over
Will my soul go whizzing down
Some spiritual “connection”
Back to where my mind is based?
I say again, we may all be but cameras,
Recording films and “programmes”
For other minds
Beyond this realm.
Even for Angels.
For it’s only through US
That this marvellous universe
Is brought to life.
Paul Butters
Jun 12, 2017
Jun 12, 2017 at 12:05 PM UTC
The Riche brothers and sisters
compile the remainders
of Manchester City programmes
from 1958 onwards, rusted staples asides
in a shuttered room,
Moorhens and crab apple bloom outside
keeps their e bay cottage industry bearable,
residual poverty waxes and wanes,
children always inheriting Granddads' stuff.
Dec 12, 2012
Dec 12, 2012 at 4:36 PM UTC
Janice walked back with you
from Harper Road
where you’d been shopping
for your mother
for sugar
in a blue paper bag
and flour and eggs
and other items
on the list
and Janice
with her red beret
and red dress said
what was the book
you bought
in the newsagents
the other day?
it’s about Robin Hood
you said
and his Merry Men
and I’m half way
through it already
was he for real?
she asked
I guess so
you said
I’ve seen programmes
about him on TV
and Maid Marian
who’s she?
Janice asked
Robin’s girlfriend
you said
and sometimes
in the boring bits
of the programme
they kiss and such
but I like
the fighting parts best
with swords
and bows
and arrows
you added
my gran said
violence solves nothing
Janice said
as you both walked
into the Square
and she said
she heard it some place
that those who live
by the sword
die by the sword
but I don’t **** anyone
you said
I just pretend
to sword fight
the bad knights
or sometimes fire
my bow and arrow
at the pram shed door
imagining it’s the drawbridge
of the bad knight’s castle
o I see
Janice said
sounds fun
you can be
my Maid Marian
if you want
you said
so long as you leave out
the kissing bits
she stopped
and looked at you
don’t you like kissing me?
she said
you looked at her
in her red beret
and red dress
and white socks
and brown sandals
her hands holding
the bag of shopping
from side to side
sure I do
you said
if it’s ok for Robin
then I guess
it can’t be too bad
good
she said
can I use
your sword too
and help fight
the bad knights?
you nodded
and walked on
and she followed
but don’t tell Gran
Janice said
or she’ll tan my backside
or so she said
the other week
don’t worry
I won’t say a word
you said
and sure
you can use
my other sword
Maid Marian does
on TV
so guess
you can too
and that was that
and you climbed
the stairs in silence
to your mother’s flat.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 6:03 PM UTC
Hard to describe, this pain in my side,
left lower back, when it chooses to attack,
always the same , it’s almost a game,
of pain and tears, nearly shouting in fear
that it’ll never cease, ever leave me in peace,
It’s a knife twisting, you know? Please make it go
So I take to my bed, nearly out of my head….
No moving like that, flat on your back,
TV on and stare, at the daily programmes there,
on offer for you, as you stick like glue
to your bed for a week, in your task to seek
a way of holding your head, to hear what’s said,
about House Sales, and Attic’s, Cash, and Antiques
Switch off your mind, just stare blankly and find
a way to con the brain, not to feel pain
soon you go numb, maybe just playing dumb ,
the pain eases to bearable, not even swearable,
like toothache it lingers, as you **** with your fingers
but better that way, surely than it was yesterday
and tomorrow?, we’ll see, maybe switch off the TV?
Oct 12, 2010
Oct 12, 2010 at 2:47 PM UTC
You saw a closed door,
I saw a building that wore on its skin a way to go outwards,a way to blow in and let me begin to show you that a,
blue is but colouring, we mix it in dreams
greens,reds and yellows that float upon beds freshly made, where everything laid down is painted a dull brown,but here's a surprise,
pull out the dyes from the eyes that see closed doors and open your mind to the buildings that once wore,
once swore,
one more spell in bedlam,
well,the madman and comic books,given comic looks by quizzical people who can't understand, will stand by the opera house with a cap in his hand and beg programmes from top hats and mink wraps,
and morning slaps me in the face as if the lady had a place to test my theories when I'm weary.
Back in bedlam the corridors with more than doors that hold the screamers,dream of leafy suburb lanes,
suspecting that they're not the same as pisspot crazies,daisy chain the locking gates,automatically prostrate and the man with pentothal will come,we'll tell it all,of how the colours came to call,and we sat down to tea with ice cream cakes and made by me I'll have them know,they always do.
They will go and leave me in another hallway filled with evening primrose blue but smelling antiseptic red which ties me back into the bed.
Tomorrow ,
what the building wore will definitely be a door and nothing more,
I'm getting out of bedlam soon,no more laughing at the moon or seeing things that are not there,
In the end we all turn square and block out dreams,inferrring that, the world's not round
it's bleedin' flat.
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 12:03 AM UTC
After years of marriage,
We are now gnarled ,symbolic old trees,
It's fruits ripened and matured,
In fine tune with each other.
While I nap he watches his sports channel,
Then he dozes and I watch my favourite programmes.
We share the same bowl of soup,
I don't mind if he slurps,
He does not mind if I spill some.
We have fun in the kitchen,
He helps me to cut the veggies and do the dishes,
If I admonish him for not doing them properly,
He gives me a toothless smile.
People would think we are fighting,
But its natural for us to speak loudly,
We are hard at hearing.
He loves cake,
He is my best cake mixer,
They come out soft and fluffy.
He drives,
I am his guide,
Stop, go slow, turn right ,so on.
Sometimes my friends and I meet to have coffee,
He goes out to meet his cronies in the park.
He enjoys to tease me or put me down,
I just shrug him off,
"Away with you old man"
I tend to nag a bit,
He does not mind.
At end of the day after a toothless kiss,
He holds my hands tightly,
Looks at me lovingly and says,
"We have made it so far love."
Jun 4, 2018
Jun 4, 2018 at 10:22 AM UTC
The man who lived on the silver screen
Was never the real hero to me
for he was the man who worked the side-door
And let me and my Mum in for free.
Back in those days the heroes were many
Tex Ritter and Roy Rodgers were just two
The cowboy films were always the best
Watching those I never felt blue.
But the real hero to me was my granddad
Who attended the cinema side-door
He'd trained engineers till retirement came
And the side-door job paid for a bit more.
There were stories of robbery and mayhem
Tales of magical mystery and fun
And we were always let in through the little side door
The moment the programmes had begun.
Everyone sat there in the darkness
When suddenly all the screen lit up
And the sheriff rounded up al the bad men
As our hands went into big popcorn cups.
My granddad was as good as those cowboys
He took me to my first cricket match
I remember once when the ball flew at me
He put his hand up and made a good catch.
He served his country throughout the First War
as auxiliary he served through number Two
He was a fine man who everyone loved dearly
He did good things just like heroes do.
They don't give medals for just being a granddad
They should do when they are the best
Now I have grandchildren of my very own now
I just hope that I too pass the test.
©Joe Wilson - My own personal hero...2014
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 2:05 PM UTC
At five in a morning they scavenge about,
Punters at a car boot sale
Searching for bargains with torches.
Why the lights?
Because it’s still dark.
Why dark?
Because it’s SEPTEMBER.
September: the month when the kids go back
To school.
When bowls goes indoors,
Snooker starts;
Cricket draws to a close,
As bad light stops play.
Premiership football into its second month
And Rugby Superleague into the Playoffs.
Telly programmes that have run all summer
Grind to a halt
And Winter TV takes over.
“Question Time” is back
Along with parliament,
Though Boris soon closed it
This year!
The nights get longer,
Minute by minute
And soon those leaves will turn
That lovely golden hue:
Ironically the mark of Death.
Thoughts will soon be turned to Christmas
As we steel ourselves
For another Winter.
Halloween and Bonfire Night
Are coming soon.
This year we have “The Brexit Deadline”,
A new distraction
Drawing our eyes away
From the eternal passage
Of time.
Paul Butters
© PB 23\9\2019.
Sep 23, 2019
Sep 23, 2019 at 6:15 AM UTC
Art makes me smart
So I'm not like a jam ****
Eating ice cream makes me beam
Like a beautiful queen.
Playing cool games with my friends
Brings up fashionable new trends.
Writing stories of all kinds
Helps me to open up my mind.
Wearing the mot gorgeous dress
Shining and glittering like a princess.
Baking stuff is so much fun
Especially when you make a delicious chocolate bun.
Watching action programmes on TV
Helps me learn great moves from Jet Li.
Seeing birds flying high, spreading their wonderful wings,
These are some of my favourite things.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 2:39 PM UTC
Two maggots in an apple
chew from opposite sides
both think themselves alone in the apple
and fulfil their biological programmes.
As they wiggle closer to the core
they begin to feel the fruitless reality
of slipping from nothing
to existence to a memory in solitude;
of squirming in silence from the skin
to the core and out of the apple
As they draw closer still to the centre
this sense of an underlying
futility moves from an inarticulate feeling
to a logical, painful truth
and as they both bite into the core they are crying and desperate
for their string of experience
to be batted by the cat
of meaning.
In this state they felt each other
in the dark of the core of the apple.
Nothing needs to be said
as they writhe and roll together;
as the wriggle and wrap in unison.
Coming to rest in a loose knot,
lightly gripping the seed of the apple
they feel each other feel each other
they feel the apple rot around them
and the rotting of their bodies.
In the dark of the core of the apple,
wrapped around the seed,
they learn to be satisfied with
the pointless
journey through the apple.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 11:20 AM UTC
Maybe Tomorrow
False hopes of a generation, tell-tale signs of a broken nation.
Tower blocks decayed and grey, different types of vermin hide away
In the shadows, in the cracks
No one around in case of attacks
Monoliths of misery reach for the sky, where poverty lives and the forgotten they die
Hooded teenagers like outlaws of old count out the money from the powdered death that they sold
Scarred burnt out vehicles, faded police tape a constant reminder of ****** and ****
Violence is hidden behind every door, bruised ***** faces the badge of the poor
No food on the table, no shoes on their feet, for love and affection they have to compete
Girls on street corners sell love at a price and for one fleeting moment life feels so nice
Time rages on and bodies grow old, nothing to show for the dreams that were sold
Men with no prospects sit and decay, on broken sofas they watch the TV.
Where people and programmes have nothing to say
Old soldiers sit and dream of before
Storming French beaches and fighting a war
Remembering old friends who forfeited their lives, for this now septic country where misery thrives
No police presence in this modern Gomorrah, things will surely get better I’m not sure just when but maybe tomorrow.
Apr 23, 2017
Apr 23, 2017 at 11:38 AM UTC
This is what comes of it, living abroad
you become used to programmes
talking about what it's like to shop
somewhere & the upkeep of capitalism
that very much has downsides
just as back home, communism had.
And now your prime minister is cutting
aid to the sick, disabled & the poor
& is almost shouting
' Arbeit macht frei'
from the Westminster rooftops
& calling in psychiatrists
to label those unwilling
to work as 'mentally ill'
e.g one step from ' undesirable',
which is, ironically, a similar thing
to what they did back home
while an aged Lord takes drugs
with prostitutes & an MP
claims hundreds of thousands in expenses
'Arbeit mach frei' ( germ) - a **** slogan, roughly translates as ' Work gives freedom'.
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 7:51 AM UTC
Clocks spring forward and watches, too... computers follow suit,
So nine's now ten, it's true, it's true... when Spring comes, that's quite cute...
And so, this day, time Marches on... this hour changes hands,
And blessed are those who know it's gone... according to Man's plans...
I'll change each clock at home today... each watch that's working still,
From nine to ten, yes, straight away... and won't that be a thrill?
Then my recorders I'll reset... so that they're up-to-date,
So that the programmes I still get... not early or too late...
Has my TV updated now? I wonder, yes or no?
If not, I'll change it soon, somehow... if I must make it so...
Must I change Freeview and Freesat... and others just like Sky?
If yes, at least, when I've done that... I'll prove how time can fly...
It's only once a year for this... till Autumn's back again,
Then it's all change! Oh, my, what bliss... when nine replaces ten...
Denis Martindale Sunday the 25th of March 2018.
May 2, 2018
May 2, 2018 at 10:55 AM UTC
Fay managed to get out
while her father worked
and she came
and knocked at your door
and said
You want to go out?
Sure
you replied
and you both went down
the stairs of the apartment block
across the Square
and down the slope
up Meadow Road
crossing over
the bombsite
behind the coal wharf
and on to the main road
where you walked along
side by side
Let’s see what’s on
at the movies
you said
and you stopped outside
the movie house
and peered at the programmes
Fay said
My daddy doesn’t think
movies are right for children
he says they’re sinful
and full of lust
and ***
and greed
and she stopped
and stared along the road
at the people passing
and the cars and lorries
going by
on the main road
and the evening air
choked up with fumes
and the street lights
giving a false perspective
It isn’t all like that
you said
Some movies are about love
and laughter
and people enjoy going
it takes them out
of their dreary lives
Fay said
I’ve never been
inside a movie house
never seen a movie
Well why don’t you come with me
to the matinee on Saturday
I can squeeze some money
from my dad for the two of us
Fay looked at you
and seemed interested
but then said
No I can’t
if my father caught me
there’d be hell to pay
and apart from the lecture
on the immorality
of the arts and such
he’d belt me some
and not let me out again
for some time
and you said
Ok but some day
you’re going to find out
things aren’t always
as the parents say
then you’re going to
have to find your own road
and walk your own way
and she looked sad
and walked away
from the movie house
along to the subway
and down the steps
into the bright lights
and noise of traffic
over head
and you touched her hand
and she gripped yours
and you walked down
through the subway tunnel
she in her flowered dress
and brown shoes
slightly scuffed
and you
in your tee shirt and jeans
and you pretended
not to notice
the bruise on her thigh
which caught your eye
as she skipped along
her dress rising high
as she went holding tight
your hand
her fingers wrapped
about yours
and up and out
on the other side
of the subway
with its bright lights
and evening sky
and too many questions
and not an answer why.
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 4:04 AM UTC
We speak a common language
We are friends
We have been friends for over a quarter of a century(1 old 1 new)
We have never met
You and I would never have known each other
But for fate.
Fate turned a postman up my steps
He dropped a letter with a US stamp on the mat
From the first introduction I was smitten with my postal friend
She encompassed all that was red, white and blue.
Pretty, funny, generous and kind
I felt in comparison like an ugly sister to Cinderella
American TV programmes, American music,
John Hughes movies, she lived that life
I was Ally Sheedy to her Molly Ringwald's 'Breakfast Club'
I watched her grow through letters, she I in turn.
We journeyed the 80's the 90's the naughties and now the 1st decade of the 21st century together.
We both married, we both suffered sadness and joy
Highs and lows.
You still have the hair of my memories
You still have the smile of my memories
You still evoke a time of innocence for me
You still evoke my smile
Yet, now we approach our 40's
Born anew, the US is changed, Europe is changed
We remain joined as always through words.
You my American friend.
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 7:16 PM UTC
Much like the Mayans thousands of years before,
Granting 2012 the honour to host
An apocalyptic end of the world,
Peruvian shamans now declare
2017 the year
Of turbulence and widespread war.
The healers thus reunite on a hill,
In the capital of Lima to perform
Cleansing rituals able to prevent
The fatal clash between North Korea and the US.
It comes at a time of heightened tensions
Between the two countries over
Threatening nuclear missile programmes.
An unprecedented inferno ignites the night of a West
London residential skyscraper burning
From its second to its twenty-seventh floor
Unleashing the worst nightmares
Of its sleeping inhabitants
And the courage of sleepless fire-fighters.
Colombia's Farc rebels hand over their weapons
To United Nations Inspectors
As part of historic peace accords,
While the President declares,
“Peace will be built little by little,
Like a cathedral, which you build brick by brick"
Revolutionary forces no longer armed.
Migrations creating social unrests
People fleeing their threatening nests,
As mayors plead governments not to let
Any more in and ministries ask, cities to absorb
Two hundred and fifty thousand more.
Coast guards relentlessly saving the drowning ones.
US Attorney General denies, having undisclosed meetings
With Russian officials in Washington hotels.
Any suggestions of collusion with the Kremlin described
As appalling and detestable lies.
Agency’s investigation into Russian political meddling impeded
As Intelligence believes in conspiracies. Memories of Cold Wars
And Bond movies where the ‘traitor’ was lucky to be fired and not shot.
While doctors announce people over 75 taking
Daily aspirin after a stroke or heart attack
Are at higher risk of major and sometimes fatal
Stomach bleeds than previously thought,
Anthropologists excavating in Morocco
Find fossils of potential ancestors, the oldest sapiens retrieved,
Tracing back our steps to 300, 000 years before present.
Across the ocean, somewhere in Arizona,
A man heading to a retirement home prepares,
Cleans up his garage with the help of a neighbour
And finds a 15 million dollar ******* he ignored
He ever had.
Jun 15, 2017
Jun 15, 2017 at 4:58 AM UTC
Footsteps in the hall
a light beneath the door
the smell of lilies
in my sleep
lingering warmth
upon the sheets
mail delivered
only to be marked
"Return to Sender"
with a personal note
on the back of the envelope
***"I wish your letter
found them well
I suggest you
re postmark it
addressed to
Hell"***
Tv programmes rerun
that are abysmal
the weather forecast
is for a little more drizzle
scented candles mask
given their arduous task
of completely obliterating
the scent of your skin
Ten thousand questions ask
Were I to be your last?
One word, no mistaking
S I N
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 3:02 AM UTC