The Day of the Lion 10/11/24
We stand facing the massive granite lion
Fronting the city's war memorial
In the sharp air seagulls soar
The lion is couchant, his fierce jaws semi-open,
As if swallowing a roar
The flag bearers under his paws
Stand ramrod straight,
Their poppies red as gore
Each man has a chestful of medals
Each ribbon stands witness to war
The city clock has been stopped.
The Flooers o the Forest echoes mournfully
The flags are dipped
Between and around us,
The invisible dead slip incognito
Those who never lived to see their prime
This is their day to be remembered
This is their sliver of time
After the silence, the ghastly spectre of war recedes
The regimental honours are raised
The town resumes normality
The dead with a chilly sigh
Retreat back into history
Roadkill
Half a wing flaps on the tarmac
Ripped from the body that lies 10 metres away
Once it was part of a whole
a sky diver
a cloud wheeler
a puddle sipper
a dung dropper
Once it was a creamy white bird
a scare shopper
a food stalker
a roof percher
a street gangster
Once it was a sharp throated squawk
Half a wing flaps on the tarmac
Tyre treads flatten it
With herringbone patterns
Tree
It started as a sapling, one foot tall
A baby, you could snap it with your fingers
Each year it stretched another yard to heaven
Drank the black milk of night, supped the warm food of sun
Slowly it rose up, silent to the stars
Daily it bounced to the breezes' buoyant rhythm
It lived in a city garden, paid no rent
The human neighbours found its presence irksome
There were complaints, it blocked one family's view
Another claimed its roots dug up the pavement
A third man threatened to sue if it made him trip
The tree, having no say in where it stood, made no response
In thirty years, it grew roof high
Then came the woodsman with climbing ropes and saw
He stormed up its sides, like a nimble squirrel
Slicing the tree in sections from the crown
A day and a half the landmark pine was lopped
Branch by branch, its fragrant needles dropping
Reduced to woodchips, all that grace and elegance
Fragrant perch of any passing bird
All that remained was a stump, blackened like charcoal
An empty space where a living thing had been
Larry Butler- Sukhema
Teacher-researcher-publisher-mentor
Everything he does is left of center
Born in Illinois, in Glasgow settled
Always calm…never seen him nettled
He cooks, he dances, he goes wild swimming
He laughs at death, check Living our Dying
He's a Tai Chi master, a meditator
He's the Scottish Lapidus main convener
He teaches renga and therapeutic writing
A Dhanakosa tutor his workshops are exciting
Join his playspace, read Autumn Voices
His therapeutic writing helps folk make good choices
Move on up, to the Maggie Center
Art on prescription, a well words presenter
Survivor's Poetry, hospice, hospital, retreat
Learn from Sukhema…join in. Pull up a seat
On Waking
A dream turns upside down
Thoughts scramble to stand to attention
Reality must be resumed
A lighthouse floats past a pier
The town house resumes its position
The market cross stops whirling
Through clouds of sleep
How will today roll out?
Like a flipped coin
Dropped in the wishing well at King's
A crab cripples out from a sea rock
Lobsters snap in their creels
Dawn breaks red as a wound,
A conspiracy of gulls patrol the streets
The warm cocoon of bed
Gives way to the unknown moments
That can turn on a pin head
Normal service returns with some interference
The Rough Sleeper
We who take running water cold and hot for granted
Who live in our warm houses with our flush toilets
With our phones, our TVs, our carpets
Our pets, our fixtures and fittings
Were disagreeably affrighted
When a rough sleeper decided to sleep roughly
On the steps of our theatre where some of us worked.
Peel away the feminist, Women are timid at heart.
This rough sleeper was not performing a part
He was the real deal
The first witness said he was dressed in black
Like Sweeney Todd. The rumour raced round the foyer
Like galloping consumption
At the next telling, the rough sleeper
Was a rampant paedophile, a Jimmy Saville monster
Soon, he had morphed into a homicidal maniac
A theatre goer offered to swear on a stack of bibles
She'd seen a machete, gleaming out of his jacket
Her husband who confronted him
Said that the rough speaker grunted like a yeti
Like a Neanderthal.
Having no point of reference to compare him with
The rough sleeper probably came from Saturn.
Aberdeen Beach
The tide rushes the sand, skimming over
The slippery surface, wiping it clean
Retreating, returning under oyster skies
Salty, luscious, it creeps to swallow the shore
Down the monstrous mawe of the grim North Sea
The wind is a fish knife slicing the day apart
A yappy terrier snaps at a wave
Shakes its sides in a shock of spray
Mother of pearl clouds roll by
Awash with a catch of gulls
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem