Snooker

Simon “Hurricane” Hudson prowls the snooker table

Like any good mixed metaphor would.

A modern day Pythagoras

He triangulates his shots.

Meanwhile his rival, lion-heart "Rocket" Richard,

Not to be confused with Lionel Richie,

Is on his mobile Googling

How to play the perfect “snooker”.

And the two Perfect Pauls

Discuss the latest football,

While “Whirlwind” Wendy sits in judgement,

Knitting the night away.

At long last Simon plays a stroke!!!

And rattles those unrelenting jaws

Of that elusive pocket yet again.

The game rolls on.

But where the hell is Simon?

The clock on the electricity is running down

But where is Simon?

Where is he?

He’s at the bar

Telling barman Nick how Rochdale

Will win The Cup one day.

Hurray, he’s back to play again.

Cascading planets collide into new orbits

As they did in the Primeval Solar System.

We play on,

Safely keeping those precious balls

Away from those black holes

They call the “pockets”.

We try to pick our shots

(At those pockets lol)

But all we keep potting

Is that white one.

Maybe we should switch to Billiards,

Or pot some plants instead.

Paul Butters

© PB 17\8\2017

The Joy of Socks

I get sent socks at Christmas,

So I can have safe walks.

When I tell my friends about this,

Everybody talks.

There is no innuendo,

Nothing to confess.

Without those cushioning blankets

My feet would be a mess.

I know a friend who knits socks,

In many different hues.

So long as she keeps knitting,

Our feet won’t have the blues.

So Wendy sock it to ‘em:

All that stitch and purl.

Make them good and roomy,

So our toes don’t have to curl.

No chance of any frostbite,

With these things on our feet.

For comfort on a cushion,

These socks just can’t be beat.

Paul Butters

Antimatter Universe

Let’s go to an antimatter universe

Where hot ice solidifies

Under the black light of the freezing sun.

A world where short giraffes hide beneath

The tall grass, amongst low trees.

See those high plains, watery deserts and low mountains.

Slow flies crawl over red skies

As turtles and tortoises speed around.

Here, hot sun is an oxymoron

And everything is downside up.

Or if you prefer we could visit a realm

Like on “Red Dwarf”

Where time flies backwards:

People formed from dusty death

To live and grow youthful

On the way to an inevitable birth

And death again

When parental ovum parts from sperm.

Paul Butters