Earth 2

 

Earth – you little blue gem:

Oasis in a great black desert.

Perhaps Unique

With your single Moon –

Queen of The Tides

Or one of millions of Earths

Scattered throughout Space.

Who knows?

 

Sky blue seas

Draped in cloud curtains

Hints of brown and green

On continents

Teeming with Life.

 

Paradise Planet

Rich diversity

Of plants

And animals.

 

Taken for granted

I’m afraid

By people too busy

To appreciate

Her beauty.

 

All they do is rip down her forests

Bounty hunt for trophies

And make her a greenhouse

Heading towards a Hell

Like Venus.

 

I hope they soon see sense,

Close down those ugly factories

Allowing our Earth

To cool again.

 

Does all intelligent life destroy itself

In the end?

Is this why space is silent

When we should be deafened

By radio broadcasts

From other worlds?

 

I hope not.

The choice is ours.

But first we must open our eyes.

Open them to the sheer beauty

And Splendour

Of our Mother Earth.

 

Paul Butters

 

© PB 24\9\2020.

Sleep-Dreaming

 

 (Picture Credit - Boston Uni)

Again I slouch on my couch.

Awake.

Conscious that I am me,

Composing this piece.

I have my memories

And see my lounge –

My Man Cave

With gardens outside.

 

But

As I’ve said before

When I fall asleep

Weird things happen.

In my dreams

Amazing stories unfold

As though I’m making films

Or countless TV clips.

Sometimes it’s like I’m on my computer

Again –

Living what I read

Or taking part

In streams of videos.

 

So many shocks!

Surprises.

With people now living or dead

In the real world.

 

So once more I have to ask

Who is feeding me these scenes?

Presenting me with crowds

Of people

Known and unknown.

 

Is it my Id, Subconscious, Unconscious…

What?

Some other person

Within myself?

Putting aside the Spiritual source,

Who is this Other Me

Who can’t be me

Because I am Me.

 

The Conscious Me is lost

In some Unconscious Realm,

Weirder that Twilight Zone

Every time

I dream.

 

We take these things for granted

Of course

Putting to the back of our minds

That we have no idea

About that fundamental question:

What is Reality?

 

Paul Butters

 

© PB 20\9\2020.

Cyberland

 

(Picture Credit - Universal Production Music)

In Cyberland, Microsoft is King

And we all pray to Google.

There is an Apple Resistance,

And Yahoo keeps on yelling,

But Microsoft is King.

 

Where did Jeeves go?

Remember him, you oldies?

A smiling Hitchcock fatty

You could ask things.

 

Remember Bebo and MySpace too.

But now we Snapchat through the day

And ask folk WhatsApp.

All in an Instagram.

(My Custom Dictionary

Is filling with new words).

 

So now it’s time for Tik Tok.

(See what I did there?)

That’s if the Americans allow it!

And much more no doubt.

Instagram Gratification

Flashing images

And clips.

No time for tedious talking

On landline phones

Or, heaven forbid,

Face to face conversation.

 

Writing – or rather typing – too is clipped

With lols & rofls & tbfs.

Lazy language

Tweets in textese

Fast and fleeting.

Facebook Funnies

With bouncy banter.

 

As a loyal subject of Cyberland

I do confess

To many an hour

Sifting through Facebook Memories

Even improving old posts

With coloured backgrounds

And sharper edits.

Addictive Internet indeed.

 

Yet

In years to come

Will we laugh loudly

At the mention of Google

And all the names I’ve said

Like we snigger at Bebo, MySpace

And Nokia Mobiles now?

 

The tsunami of technological change

Sweeps over our heads

Smashing the past:

Leading us

To who knows where.

For better or worse

Who can say?

Wherever we are going,

We are well on the way.

 

Paul Butters

 

© PB 17\9\2020.

Hassle

 

(Picture Credit - Rushed Mom from Single Moms Ask Sara)

The summer sun soars above the sultry sands…

Sorry your computer hit a problem

We will restart it for you

Error code – Gremlins from your latest Update.

 

Where was I?

The beach beams with delight…

You have Urgent Email

Your Paypal Account has been hacked

We need your bank details again

To protect you from villains.

 

Still on a standard gas rate?

You must shop around.

Use our fantastic cheap deal tracking

App.

 

Your internet provider technical department

Here.

Your computer is under attack

From Trojan Horse Maleficent-Ware.

You will lose internet connection in

Five hours unless…

 

We don’t provide cover for the drains

Under your house

Unless you take out

Our splendid insurance scheme.

 

Poetry Moderators here:

The word “Delight” is Not

Allowed here

As it has Sexual Connotations

And your style breaches our

Community Rules.

Suggest instead:

The finely grained sandstone

Reflects Sol light

Making my mood

More adequate

By psychological standards.

 

Sorry your computer hit a problem.

I give up.

 

(NB No Moderators were hurt

During the typing of this poem,

As they usually act

After

It is posted).

 

Hehe.

 

Paul Butters

 

© PB 15\9\2020.

War Weary

(Picture Credit - Britannica com)

It was hard in those trenches.

Cut off from the rest of the world.

Cold and wet

And muddy.

 

Left without the right equipment:

Brush handles for rifles.

The government sending the right signals

But sadly failing to produce.

We soldiered on,

Following the rules of engagement

Laid down by the top brass.

Keep your head down lad!

 

We dug in for weeks.

Not knowing what day it was.

No sense of time.

Our old routines long gone.

Nowhere to go

And nothing to do

But hide.

 

But then we emerged.

Looking forward to victory.

Marching heads aloft

Across the battlefield.

Confident that soon our boffins will come up

With some A Bomb to

Finish them off.

 

But wait.

The enemy isn’t finished.

Indeed it’s resurgent.

Gathering it’s troops

For a deadly

Counter-attack.

 

We may be war weary.

Fed up of the carnage

And having to hide

Like rats.

 

But, “Back to the trenches boys (and girls!)!”

Is the cry

From above.

Our commanders are in a panic.

They steer us to the nearest bolt hole

As Meerkats escaping a bird of prey.

For we may be weary

Of all this

But our enemy is deadly.

Our enemy?

You guessed it:

Covid 19.

 

Paul Butters

 

© PB 13\9\2020.

Streamings

 

(Picture from "Facebook" via Google)

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.