Our World From Up Here

Our world from up here

Vast scenes below then hypnotic

Sunsets far and wide

And warm until memories 

Like a canal flow gliding

Open to us and run free- 

Alive in the clouds but 

Below the moon still 

Glowing black like darkened

Emotion pouring to heal

And your voice to seal 

Echoed cries from their booming

The Hill of Crosses


This poem is inspired by a recent visit to the Hill of Crosses in Šiauliai, Lithuania. 


Ashed grey and weathered through

Surrounded some century’s

Past suffering not so different from our own.

 
To come and lay a sign

That love releases to save

Black memory’s, solidify some erotic emotions alluring

 

And then wander up and through the woven pathways

A child’s playground

Spiritual maze from loud cries of women weeping

 

To look up from the ground at them

And see some serialist horror

Scraped and scourged graveyard rituals

 

Only to feel also

peaceful serenity from suffering’s rock

Flowing with the river that sits alongside

 

Then to the other end

To realising that the mass continues

Around for acres of simple honoured vessels

REVIVAL

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Etched emotion opened

A basic can opener

some tainted past

Revealed, oppressed depressed

Stark compression released, deceased

Speaking to break the silence, altered

Alive not alone

Far from the floor

But escaping the lifeless lies through a stiffening door

Finding Home 

  

 If the home was just a memory that you touched once upon a dream
And even the stars’ brightness faded the closer to them you passed

Where could you lay the foundations of your heart?
If yet you received the greatest riches and witnessed the sweetest music

If you could part the waves and conjure the snowfall 

Where would the core of your heart cry back to?
If you reach the bottom of the ocean or fly beyond the highest mountains 

You must still make a home for your love and a life for your happiness 

But an armchair for the lost wanderer and a fire for his soul.

Hattie Butterworth

A Curiosity

A curiosity comes

And then it goes as soon as I realize

All I’m curious about has less than an explanation

No one knows what I desire to know

It’s not for me to ask what or how or why

It’s for me to do great, live well

Then die.IMG_1457

Courier of the soul- A poem

Performing is delivering a gift

From writer to reader, composer to listener

You decide the path and perhaps the packaging

But you leave the gift at the front door

Ready to be discovered, unwrapped and cherished.

The package was in your care

Responsible for its preservation

You may enjoy the recipients reaction

But you are not the gift itself

You yourself aren’t the pleasure you provide

Music is the gift and you are

Giver, lover, traveler and believer

Hattie Butterworth