Poetry Is

 

(Picture credit - Dreamstime)

Poetry is word-music

Word, word music.

Is soul, spirit, magical mystery

Quintessential essence

Of love and beauty.

 

Iambic and other rhythms and rhymes

Are optional

For, again, poetry is soul.

The Word is King.

Any word.

 

Tit

A singular word of double meaning:

Lickle bird and nipple

No waxing lyrical here

Just a bit of lit that’s bound to fit

Uninterrupted

Brief word

Amongst sesquipedalian articulations

And rapturous birdsong that echoes through the forests.

 

So leave that doggerel alone.

Let your heart sing

Freely

Your spirit and soul

Shining like a supernova

Resonating through our minds.

A concerto of verbal sounds

Played with our inner voices.

Literary art

Expressed in musical notes.

Poetry.

 

Paul Butters

 

© PB 22\5\2024.

Journey

 

(Picture Credit - John Falter on Smithsonian Postalmuseums)

Wispy wheat fields wave in the wind

As the train chugs through

Along the track of Life that circles

To bring you back where you began.

 

They say The Journey is the thing:

Meandering through river cut valleys

Between towering mountains.

Rivers running down to endless ocean

That drowns our globe

We call the Earth.

 

Kids wave from the windows of that train

A custom of love for fellow humankind.

All aboard are full of hopes and dreams

And fears

Anticipating all manner of things

At their destination for the day.

 

Many have gone to the seaside this way,

While others have travelled for work

Or even a new life.

Our ancients may have been nomads

And modern folk too must sometimes journey.

There’s no place like home,

But first you have to get there.

Go safely everyone.

 

Paul Butters

 

© PB 19\4\2024.

My Id

 

(Picture Credit: ...Dictator com)

Deep within the labyrinthine recesses of my mind

Lies my Id.

Or Subconscious, 

Or whatever you will.

So when I sleep and dream

My Id presents me with scenes

Full of seemingly incredible detail:

Countless objects set before me

In a wonderfully vivid landscape.

 

How on Earth does my Id store and display

All these amazing things?

Or is it conning me somehow?

 

For my Id loves to taunt and tease me.

With dreams of finding myself undressed

In public.

Stressful nightmares of being given impossible mental

And practical challenges to complete.

Of being lost and unable to find my way

Home.

Endless journeys by train and bus

Travelling the country in my quest

To get back in the bosom

Of my loving family.

Bee swarms and nasty infestations of bugs.

The Forbidden Planet had its “Monsters of the Id”

And on rare occasions I have woken to continued dreams

Of snakes and people who shouldn’t be there.

And that Giant Eye!

God forbid my sleeping dreams should invade reality,

Somewhere in the Twilight Zone.

 

But on the plus side, my dreams can be filled

With seemingly original music

And pleasantries I’d better leave

To your imagination.

Wink, wink.

 

Paul Butters

 

© PB 29\1\2024.

Waxing Lyrical

 

Time to wax lyrical,

Time to shout from the rooftops,

My words rolling like thunder

Across the whole wide world.

 

No mardy moods

Or negative vibes.

Time to replace killing with care

Hatred with love

Tree chopping and ploughing

With planting and wild growth.

 

Let emotion sing as music

Love and care

Musical words

Called poems.

 

What are we doing?

What are we doing with our planet

And it’s folk?

Aliens from other worlds might ask

And wonder whether to intervene.

 

Re-education is required

Getting us back to the ways

Of Mother Earth.

Teaching us to let go

Of our egos

Our lust for mere goods

And territorial land-grabbing.

It’s not what you have

But what you make of it

 

We only live once

And not for very long

So I say again

Love life

All life

From the tiniest ant

To the loftiest tree.

Enjoy a giraffe

And savour the aroma

Of a bower surrounded by flowers.

 

Let’s grow more forests

Teeming with life

Clothed in mysterious mists.

 

Unite together

To end poverty

And strife

Cease all wars

Treat everyone with respect

As equals

All free

All loved equally.

 

Paul Butters

 

© PB 29\11\2023.