Sky

The sky: an ever-changing canopy,

Endless variety.

Black at night,

Punctuated only by stars and moonlight,

And clouds by day.

Cloud-ships sail along an invisible sea,

Scowling black clouds,

Or fluffy white palaces of snow.

No end of shapes and forms,

Yet sometimes formless mists.

Clouds that are net curtains

In the window to space,

Or growling black monsters

Firing deadly lightning-forks.

If we’re lucky,

There aren’t any clouds at all,

Just blue from horizon to horizon

Everywhere you see.

Golden-red dawns and sunsets

Contrast well with deepest blues

All colours and hues.

By night and day, Moon and Sun

Play Peekaboo behind those clouds.

And stars forever twinkle and swirl

Along the Milky Way.

No words can adequately capture

The beauties of the sky,

It just gives God’s Believers

Every Reason Why.

Paul Butters

Ode to Summer

(Picture Credit - Saga Holidays)

Season of sun and sand and sea,

Holiday time for you and me.

Daylight right ‘til ten o’clock,

Don’t forget to wear sun-block.

Sitting idly reading Keats,

Watching kids with buckets and spades;

Sparrows with their frantic tweets,

Flying high above the glades.

Oh it’s great to be so free,

No more snow or ice for me.

Even mugginess is okay,

So long as it’s warm throughout the day.

Swimming in that so cool pool,

Sure beats sweating back in school.

Summer is my favourite month,

Whoops my rhyme-scheme just went Whoomph!

Nothing rhymes with month you know,

But let’s forget about that snow.

Let’s laze instead on lawn or beach,

And keep a beer within our reach.

Paul Butters

Me, Paul Butters

(Me, by Me via my laptop camera)

I’m no author, novelist or poet.

I’m just Me,

And don’t I know it.

I don’t need to be classified,

As long as I’m writing, I’m satisfied.

Typing out words, line by line,

I don’t care if they don’t rhyme.

I don’t care if my verses don’t scan:

I’m not always an Iambic Man.

I just say what I gotta say,

I’m not worried about any pay.

Words come to me without much bidding,

The world of its evils I hope to be ridding.

I love to spread lots and lots of Love,

Bringing peace to all like a messenger dove.

Things of beauty bring joy, John Keats rightly said,

To make us sleep easy when we go to bed.

So I’ll paint what I paint,

And sing what I sing,

Just letting those words

Do their magical thing.

Paul Butters

© PB 13\11\2015 (3).

(This poem had more than 10K Views on “Hello Poetry” com !)

Just 4 U

(Picture Credit - Education Sites)

K, so here’s the deal,

English will change,

Goi!

Gr8 eh?

Lol.

B4u know it, all changed.

Fyi some call it Textese or SMS Language.

But through will become thru

And though of course tho

Anyway.

Goi.

K so this poem might not trend,

But I’m way ahead of my time,

That’s my Msg.

N2u tho that may b.

That things must change,

That is.

8 it don’t u?

Such g9.

Scary Tbh.

4 me and 4u.

(Bm&y).

(I prefer you as yu it’s tru)

Just Gfi is wot I say.

Even when Prw!

Somy?

Sotmg.

Soz

Laters – Sbtsbc.

Ttfn and bfn.

Say.

Sit my friend.

Paul Butters

Forbidden Planet

(Picture Credit - Forbidden Planet by Tix dot is)

This planet orbits a yellow sun like ours.

It is in the Optimum Zone to support life.

Sure enough it has a wide variety of flora and fauna.

Highly intelligent life has evolved in its seas and oceans.

Its continents, however, are dominated by a species of primates.

Over the past 300 of the planet’s years they have developed

Some fairly high technology.

But they remain carnivores

Who regularly commit genocide.

They cut down swathes of natural forest

To grow chemically protected

Genetically modified nutrition-sources.

And they mine their planet empty

Of its mineral riches.

The planet’s ecosystem is being rapidly destroyed

By them.

Socially and psychologically they remain primitive.

Yet they possess the means to blow their world

To pieces.

With heavy heart I have to advise

We sign this planet

“No Entry: Off Limits”

For the foreseeable future.

“Forbidden” indeed.

A planet we call MW Orion 8478-3

That its natives call

That ever so common name:

“Earth”.

Paul Butters

Love's Labours

(Picture Credit - Chippy by RAF (Ironically))

I took her for some fish and chips,

We had a reight good time.

The two of us kept locking lips,

It really int a crime.

But then she saw this pilot bloke:

It really wasn’t fair.

Though I’m a super Trekkie clerk,

She saw me as a square.

What she saw in him I’ll never know,

There really was no reason.

But off she went with him, oh no!

It felt just like a treason.

Those fish and chips are getting cold,

With no-one there to eat ‘em.

Them mushy peas have gone to waste, be told,

But she prefers to cheat ‘em.

There are more fish in the sea they say,

And now I’m talking females.

Every dog will have his day,

I’d better watch my emails.

Paul Butters

Me and You

(Picture Credit - Red Head Reading by WSAP Academy)

I’m The One,

But so are You.

It all depends

On your point of view.

I write,

You read.

I sow

The seed.

No love songs

You will get from me.

Nothing sentimental:

Bull-dropping free.

We share this world

You and I.

Together we can

Reach the sky.

Your imagination I will seek

To fire.

Whenever I can,

I will inspire.

Well, dear Viewer-Reader,

It’s time to go.

I hope you enjoyed

This “Poetry Show”.

Paul Butters

First Love

(Picture Credit - Students by ExploreYourDegree com)

It started when she said Hello

Over forty years ago.

She was the only one to do so I suppose.

My heart was twanged

And I wanted her so bad.

Still it pains me so today,

I couldn’t find the words to say.

All I got was unrequited-love sick blues.

I couldn’t eat a thing

For weeks on end.

At a party she sat alone,

Seemingly aloof,

‘Til someone else stepped in...

Hindsight says she didn’t like me anyway:

She criticised my teenage spots

And the way I danced.

I wasted so much time on her,

Spurning others for my senseless crush.

Giving up only when her long distance boyfriend appeared.

Since then I’ve always guarded

Against getting emotionally involved

Before being socially involved.

It has been said that I’m aloof,

Staying on the fringe,

Avoiding commitment.

You have to take that risk

They say,

There is no other way.

I’ve seen the pain that “Love” can bring,

Romantic songs I will not sing.

I’d rather stay here on the shelf,

Peacefully living with myself.

Paul Butters

Lazy Sunday

(Picture Credit - Marc Anthony Lounging by Brownplanet com)



Ease your way

Into Sunday,

Monday’s here soon enough.

Friday’s best,

Time to rest,

The week was tough.

 

Boozeday Tuesday is okay

I must say

And Table Tennis Thursday ain’t bad too.

Wednesday’s fish and chips are yummy –

They fill my tummy,

Washed down with a brew.

 

I love Saturday sport,

Who would have thought

I’d get set in my ways?

Such is my week,

Hardly unique,

But on Sunday I laze.

 

Paul Butters

Coral Cove

(Picture Credit - Flickr com)

Forests of coral adorn the rocky ocean floor,

Sheltered here in this sky-blue lagoon.

See the golden sand, shining through the still waters,

Fringed by plumes of palm.

The warming sun is smiling,

Flanked by fluffy white clouds.

Gulls are calling

Over the whispering sea.

A tropical paradise

Punctuated only

By impromptu showers.

Those colourful corals

Swarmed with teeming fish

Of every hue.

This is the place

To be.

 

Paul Butters

A Wider View

(Picture by NASA)

If God exists

He or She knows All

Is Everywhere

And Everywhen

And lives beyond

Space and Time.

For so it is to be a God.

 

She is far too great

To concern herself

With this grain of sand

Lost in the vastness of our Multiverse.

 

Our words can’t hurt Her,

Maybe make Her smile at most,

Even as we take Her name in vain.

Our petty squabbles

Are but fights

Amongst the ants.

 

She Loves all Life,

Though some be sacrificed at times

For the Greater Good.

 

I ask you all

To open your mind

And see us through Her eyes.

She cannot want us

To martyr ourselves

Or kill those who are different

In race or creed.

 

She will not give us Heaven

If we sacrifice our lives

To kill Her creatures

That she made

With such magnificent grace.

 

Above all else She is a Loving God,

Cherishing ALL that Lives.

Forget the ancient histories

Of warring and strife.

NOW is where we are,

And now is the Time

For Love.

 

Paul Butters

The Way

There is no need for all this strife,

All that’s required is Love of Life.

Religions and philosophies all seek Good,

Trying to get us out of this wood.

All you need is Love, The Beatles said,

So let’s put Evil and Hatred to bed.

 

Christian, Muslim or worshipping Buddha,

Atheist, Humanist, Taoist, Shinto, Hindu, Wiccan or any other,

It doesn’t matter for you are my Brother.

We’re all the same in God’s loving eyes

(Whether you believe or not)

From mighty whales to tiny flies.

 

Tigers bite and wasps do sting,

But each of them is a black and gold thing.

Life is precious in every form,

We all get beaten by that storm.

 

Give us a wormhole and we will find

Countless exoplanets that’ll blow your mind.

In the swathe of the universe we are but a speck,

Prepare yourself for an endless Star Trek.

 

But first we need to put our own Earth right,

And now it’s such a sorry sight.

Having technology is all very well

If all you can make is our version of Hell.

The human mind is far behind I hate to say,

We have to find the Loving Way.

 

Paul Butters

 

© PB 25\8\2015.

Sound

(Picture Credit - Chicenter com)

A poem is built with sounds

Liberally littered with alliteration

Rhyming reason

Aspiring assonance

Up metaphorical mountains.

 

Each letter plays its part.

A cast of cascading chords

Making mystical music

For the discerning ear.

 

Operatic musicals from the Muse:

A crescendo of noise

Or sometimes

Whispers in the winnowing wind.

 

I write because I must,

Because I need to

In answer to

The Call.

 

Paul Butters

Sun

(Photo Credit - Vitalsurge com)

The Sun’s beaming smile

Bathes the plains with gold.

Lord of the heavens,

Circled by your sons

We call planets,

Your searing heat

Keeps us warm

And well.

 

I love the summer

With those shiny beaches:

Radiant reflections

Kissed by sky-blue surf.

 

Sun, you are a surge of nuclear bombs

Devastating the darkness,

Destroying the frosts of outer space.

 

Blindingly beautiful

Yet you redden evening clouds:

Red sky at night delight

Indeed.

 

Ball, orb, sphere, call you what you will,

Sol if you prefer.

The pale moon mimics you

Even blocks you at times,

But you are never eclipsed for long.

 

The sky is your playing field

Though the starry crowd is hidden

From your fiery light.

 

See the sky brighten

Just before dawn,

Then witness the birth

Of another fine day.

 

Paul Butters

To Be

 

(Picture Credit - Morethanasunday faith com)

I will be,

Or I will not be,

When I die.

The logic goes.

More likely the latter,

But who knows?

 

The Bard was right:

A simple choice

Between

What is

And what isn’t.

 

Unless you take the Spiritual View

Or even

Reincarnation.

 

What might I come back as?

I have to ask.

A lion or an Ant?

 

Is everything a dream?

Or just some Godly idea

Of a Joke?

 

The Truth

We Seek.

 

Paul Butters

Holy Spirit

(Picture Credit - Pentecost by Jacqui on Swordofthespiritnet)

The Laws of Physics say

That Everyone Dies

And is Gone:

Every blade of grass, insect, man and woman.

Every sentient being.

From Big Bang to Big Whatever.

They all Die.

 

Yet is there more than this?

Something of the spirit.

More than ghosts

And poltergeists.

An afterlife

In Heaven.

Another Realm.

 

Some say that when you die

You re-join The One Being,

Let’s call it “God”.

 

Your individuality may be gone,

But you become part of that Super-Consciousness,

The One,

And thus Remain.

 

The logic of this is frightening:

It means that I am part of God,

Just going through a phase

We call Life,

In readiness for

For Ever.

 

You too are part of God

And logic dictates

That I am my own Mum and Dad,

My sister, friends and everyone else:

Mother Theresa, Hitler, Shakespeare

And Eddie The Eagle.

 

I am a wasp, a lion, a dolphin, a tree

Maybe even a germ.

Another poet

Commenting on my poems.

I’m even You.

 

Better get on with it then.

I’ve got plenty to do!

 

Paul Butters