lost

by John Butterfield

a city
Glasgow
streets tenaments and factories
roads and underpasses
all look alike
in the dark
street lights occasional
signs missing
night
where am I
my destination is somewhere in this direction
somewhere
there was a sign post back there
but now
where am I
in the Glasgow dark
Partick's unfamiliar side streets
intensity of panic increasing
how do I find my way home?

shy

a meditation by John Butterfield

there are lots of new people here Lord

people I have never met

yet because they are here with me

they must be like me in many ways.

the first impressions confuse:

they all look so confident and assured.

they all know why they are here,

but if I imagine personas from their appearances

just as we mostly do when we see a stranger

I will scare myself into yet more shyness

and never get to know

who they really are

and perhaps will have missed

finding a new friend.

the funeral gathering (or too many masons)

by John Butterfield

dark suited with ties and yet not smart

in a shiny Italian way

but very respectable

they chat comfortable

man to man with each other

as they, followers of "the craft"

looking inwards to one another and

tolerating those outside their sacred circle

en masse attend the funeral

as the deceased was one of their own.

they seem unfriendly

but perhaps that’s because I am excluded

from this secretive inner clique

of lower middle class masons

and happy to be so

Prayer

by John Butterfield

Beating your head

on a rock

can surely be easier

and more satisfying

than this endless round of

asking

petitioning

hammering

and yet never seeming

to get in the door

no matter how hard the battering

standing always on the portal

in the hope

that the householder will

someday emerge

and reward his persistent carollers

if only for their persistence!

touchy feely overload!

By John Butterfield

A touchy feely person

in a touchy feely place

greets each other person with

a touchy feely embrace

but someone not acquainted

with these touchy feely ways

gets emotional indigestion

from such touchy feely days.

In this state of intoxication

or touchy feely overload

confused by rules not understood

instincts may explode

and the touchy feely backlash

causes self reflective pain

instead of bringing comfort

brings aloof disdain.

Scamp

Scamp was a puppy

A little yellow puppy

who bounced round the house

and barked at her name

She was so bonnie

She was a real cutie

She caused us such anguish

when God called her home.

Poor little puppy

Bundle of affection

was not strong enough

to fight the infection

The veterinarians healing

and powerful injection

Couldn’t stop God from taking

My little puppy home.

I mourned my little puppy

and missed her little footsteps

missed her squeaky barking

all around our home.

I hope there is a heaven

for little yellow puppies

who give mischievous affection

until God calls them home.

 A poem celebrating our puppy Scamp’s short life.   RIP

Blue Silence

by John Butterfield

Silence leads to light

lighter than white, but blue

as the name, much repeated

calls me deeper into the otherness

which is the sameness

but also the selfness

which defines and values

and raises perception

to make love visible as fireflies.

Love flows freely

from deep inner wells for

love cannot remain within

and still be love.

Peace flows in gently.

Calm: to later radiate benevolence.

Here I am free,

united and loved,

loving and present

waiting but not waiting

in the light

that is brighter than white:

the dawn blue of silence.

Train Journey

by John Butterfield

I never remember the scenery

nor the stations that we pass

but the passengers in my carriage

are part of life's rich farce...

There's the boy with the headphones

whose music is so loud

the we all can make out the lyrics

over the noise of the crowd.

There is the lonely older lady

who tells everyone her woe

and the beautiful young women

That men want to get to know!

There is the friendly girl with the trolley

bringing drinks, candy and snacks

and the grim ticket collector

who ignores all the wise cracks!

We rattle along for hours

in our own little world

enjoying the drama of the journey

all human life unfurled.

God Present and Speaking

By John Butterfield

God is present as we confer:

in the conflicting voices

struggling to consensus.

God is present in small voices

contending with the volume

of the powerful shouting.

God is present where principles

can't allow convergence or

ambiguous common mind.

God is present in argument:

weeping with the defeated,

rejoicing with the victor.

God is love and God is justice.

When love and justice triumph

then God has spoken indeed.

Earth beneath

by John Butterfield

Beneath our feet: the earth,

a celestial ball floating in the cosmos;

old rocks ancient as time;

huge, eternal, home to all we know.

Take off your shoes and socks and feel

the warm glow of the planets heart:

beating, rotating, cooling, warming, growing

microbes to macrobiotics; plants and fauna;

evolving, rooting deep down, transpiring

communicating in systems: complex and free

relating in relationships: interdependent

free from the control of human force but

under the hammer of human hands.

All across the globe people

in various states and tribes

look at the earth and find

pointers to different gods,

forming different communities,

showing the way that life should be

when across the deeps the spirits yearning

leads us ever slowly home;

finding shelter from the storms.

In ancient times people learned

to live in harmony with their home

planting and using what was for their need

and making ready their contentment

then as they saw that others had

developed in different ways

they didn't know how to cope

they made war on the not understood

and put up walls to divide

and keep safe their little plot;

their small share of the sacred whole.

Today we know those powers

we see the walls everywhere

but we have lost sight of the sacred state

lost sight of our connectedness

lost sight of the earth – our place

the shared ground beneath our feet

united by our common home.

Eden

God

when you were in Eden

you were mean.

You treated Adam and Eve like kids;

you would not let them grow up;

you wanted them to say as your dependent babies in paradise

and never think or create anything for themselves

which was an abomination:

because you had made them like you

with the same urge to create

question and control

that was your nature.

I do not like the god of the garden.

Thank God that God grew up

later in the bible

and learnt that there was a better way

by letting go

and giving away freedom

for his offspring to make their own mistakes.

A lesson every parent has to learn.

Robina

Is it the curse of living to the great age of 101

that only four people come to your funeral

and with the organist and the minister

they are all being paid for being there.

In those 101 years what ever happened

to your four brothers and five sisters

and their numerous offspring

did you outlive them all

or loose touch through the ordinariness of passing years?

you were liked in the home

and always pleasant for a chat

and share chocolate from one of your secret stashes

where were your friends?

surely you must have some friends younger than you?

how lonely it must be to outlive all your friends

and never married, were you used to being alone?

but though we are all alone when we make our final journey

from this life

it doesn't seem right that there is no one to say farewell in love:

thanks for the pleasure of knowing you.

go well you have been good to know.

In its own inadequate faltering way that was what the liturgy did

recognising the value of life and the love that surrounds us all.

Go now, little soul and rest eternally

in the presence of all who have loved you

and all you have loved

in the presence and source of all love.

Another day

by John Butterfield 

sunrise

lifting hope

and expectation

of possibilities

that only

a new day can bring

each dawn

takes me further from

past disappointments

and mistakes

and on

towards the bright hope

of new days not yet born

so I go on

step by step

creating a path

not yet trodden

with enough light from the rising sun

to illumine my feet

as the destination

becomes defined

in the early morning light

Tha Anchor

By John Butterfield

My life depends on ironwork, anvil forged

in nocturnal sea loch swell.

Wind: gale force eight.

The tempest howls; the rigging rings.

Sea state: rough.

The yacht rocks with violent swings

Visibility: poor.

Low cloud; the rain lashes; splashes.

Outlook: deteriorating

All is wild, disturbed and crashes

Far beneath angry black the barb bites

sludge, slime, weed and shale.

In my bunk, cosy, comfortable

sleep amid the ferocious gale.

Trusting the strength of every link

and the weight embedded deep below.

Adultery (Matthew 5:27)

by John Butterfield

Jesus said,

It is not the sweaty consummation,

writhing: energy to ecstasy

that is most destructive.

Much worse are the mental

unconsummated fantasies

that override commitment

and undermine reality.

That give imagined passion

the motivation and power:

dreaming driving drawing draining

relationships in the real world.

What can compete with the unbridled unreality

of obsession that leads to a madness of dislocation?

fulcrum

by John Butterfield

a fulcrum, as I understand

is a point at which a tipping can take place

a point at which things are balanced

and can go one way or the other

so a fulcrum is a delicate place to stand

for a wrong word or action

could tip you off

never to go down the right side

for if you unbalance the wrong way

it will be almost impossible

to get back up again

Fulcrum point of balance

where its up to you

no pressure

jump