Dedicated to the Transgender Community

Roses All Around Me

Lost roses in a gardened room

Stood gazing out a windowed pane.

And waiting for their chance to bloom,

Hoping (as flowers do) to gain

Belief that they are beautiful.

The roses felt the Garden’s scorn

When they refused to take their place.

Then shed themselves of leaf and thorn

And showed themselves (all stem and face)

As something new and beautiful.

They could not make the Garden see

That worth is not the way you’re born,

But how you live when you feel free.

And never again have to mourn

That no one thinks you’re beautiful.

There are roses all around me

And they are beautiful (I know).

They bloom whenever they are free

But they’ve so very far to go

(I hope they know they’re beautiful).

One day I’ll mourn the Garden’s loss,

After the final rose’s bloom.

When all is grey from winter’s frost,

And Heaven saves from final doom,

Lost roses, all quite beautiful.

___________________________________

Inspired by some of the most courageous

and genuine people I have met.

b

Vampires on the Fridge

A good friend of mine gave me a box of 200 magnet words (the type that goes on refrigerators) that were "vampire themed". The challenge is to ONLY use the words provided in the box. So far, I have written four poems from this box (the first four below). It was, to say the least, very challenging. The last poem is just a silly thought I had at work. Hope you like this Halloween fare!

_______________________________________

I will rise forever Hunt by moonlight Our ancient need to embrace Immortal with desire For your love _____________________________________ I am damned Demon and human With bloodlust Tasting your heart My teeth thirsting To pierce your darkness Save me From the undead night ______________________________________ I am Vampire Immortal The creature parasite A demon enslaved Drinking forever the blood Of the lonely Lusting to possess you Your fear tastes so sweet In my graveyard embrace You then undead rise We wander as moonlight will Eternal Damned to darkness Feed me humans too afraid Of life and desire Our hunger can never end ______________________________________ I am blackest evil An enemy to feed on a friend Destroying your lifetime Making you a victim Embrace my dead heart We will walk our lonely crypt Taste the blood of angels And desire moonlight Forever _____________________________________ Vampire Tan (or: I'm Smokin' Hot) Vampires want to suck you dry, Be you baby, broad, or man. They like their very pointy teeth, But boy, they hate to tan. They won't go to salons to brown So tanning beds are out. They like to go where blood is found And drink it from a spout. Don't expect them to oil up Or lie upon a beach. Expect them all to sleep in dirt Then suck you like a leech. Don't laugh at them or at their skin. Albeit so white and pasty. Just stand out in the sun all day, And worry you might be tasty. ______________________________________ Happy Halloween!

Christmas in June.

I wrote this for one of my best friends for a Christmas Party she invited me to. Her name is Husted, so "hustedian" logic refers to her. I realize I am 6 months late, but it was fun to write.

Just Like The Mayans

  

The Mayans wrote it down in stone

That our world would never end.

We got it wrong, like some forgotten

Song whose words we did not attend.

And with our dawn, we staggered on

Some happy, and some to fret.

Husted falls into the former group

Because “she ain’t done yet”.

So day to day and year to year

We’ll live our lives with relish.

Habitually playing down our smiles

And do our pains, embellish.

Our metaphorical stockings hang

Expecting a charcoal fare.

We are appeased, if not half pleased

When we find nothing there.

Christmas comes and then it goes

We plan, we drink, we eat.

We laugh, we love, and decorate

Our lives with friendships’ treat.

  

So Here’s To Happy Holidays,

(To waxing full PC).

Make a toast to our Hustedian Host,

And drink most merrily!

  

We’ll March into our futures-

As lambs, or maybe lions.

We’ll carve secure, just to be sure,

Our songs (just like the Mayans).

b.                                                           

 I hope everyday is like a holiday.

Let me know your thoughts. 

Newtown

After almost six months, I am putting out my thoughts about the shootings in Newtown, CT. Let me know your thoughts.

A Perfect Flake of Snow

Stifled in darkness so god doesn’t notice

The (‘hallmark moment’) sobs,

Will angels have any

Tears left for us

When existence slips back into

God’s pocket with the other lint universal?

When angels can’t stop their grief

We call it climate change.

Each tear a perfect flake of snow

Falling.

So many from heaven, drifting deep in sadness,

Recalling the last moment of laughter

From the littlest snow angels humanity can still cherish.

Perfect, tiny impressions of wings on

Fresh blankets of frosty, diamond white.

Looking back and beyond our chaos,

With ancient cheeks forever moist,

Weeping eternally for our lack

Of understanding of how it all works.

(To love another more).

Their hearts will break until time is silent.

Embracing forever (our lost) innocence

Of Newtown.

______________________________________________________________________ 

Brian O. Butler

8 June 2013

Challenge Poem

Hey Everyone...thanks for hanging in there with me. I am trying hard to get back to writing more...I am hoping that with the holidays upon us, I will get more time and inspiration. Today's poem is a Challenge poem from a dear friend of mine from Georgia. Dee G. wanted something inspiring. I hope this passes muster, Dee!   Let me know what you (all of you) think.



Of What Can Be…



He should have been blind.
20/20 hindsight stole away his vision
For a better life.
Doubting all he heard (about love)
He played it dumb & deaf.
Better off (by far) to stay unconnected to the world.
He knew only that:

despair is empty/cold/dark.
when it defines our lives it frightens us less
(as we starve slowly and burn to a cinder).

He was burned raw and brittle by hope.
Saw it all around him and how others were warmed by its light.
He languished in the smoke-choked shadows of loss and hurt.
Running for his life when the beams of dawn touched his skin,
He heard someone say (from somewhere near himself)
That there was no hope to be found anywhere out in the world.

At last someone understood his life of ashes!
Stumbling to a stop, he listened so hard he didn’t notice
That sunrise had kissed away his fears and was waiting on his hug.
Someone continued:

Hope is made from within, not found from without.
The only place you can “take hope” is from your heart.
It cannot be taken from the tables of others
Like leftover scraps of a feast.
Place your hope on the table of life,
Feast with others in the sunshine
And unwrap the world’s tomorrows in warmth.
Then you will not be soul-hungry (or life-burnt).
Now he understands that:

Hope is the fire of every star in the night.
When it defines our lives it fills us with the courage
Of what can be..

______________________________________________________

orn b.
24 Nov 2012

May you feast every day on the best of tomorrows. Let me know your thoughts.

Has been a long time since I published anything. Sorry about that. Will try and do better. So....today is a poem I wrote in April this year. It is for a friend of mine that went through a tough time and came out the other side better and happier. He never had a tatoo before, and when he got his first one, it was of a Phoenix. It was HUGE, and covered his entire back! I thought about the fact that he was a fireman at one point in his life, and how the metaphor of fire and rebirth plays in his life. He gave permission to print this poem, and for that I am grateful. I also have a challenge poem I am working on from a friend and reader in Atlanta, GA (thanks Dee!)

Phoenix Rising

Myth would have it born anew

From it’s own ashes.

Flying to the sun,

Awoken from death

To live again.

Brighter than the fire of life.

Legend would have it become

Like man.

Passion ablaze,

Consuming all it touches with

It’s first breath of sky and wing.

But I know it is a fireman.

Smoldering from the burns

Of his older, other life.

Glowing with embers of a slowly

Realized future.

Bursting from his burdens like

The blazing symbol on his back,

He rises to the challenge of

The dawn on his horizon.

Becomes like his dreams,

Immortal.

______________________________

Let me know your thoughts...

orn b.

From the Psychologist's Office

Hi Everyone! This poem was inspired by accounts of my soldiers telling different stories the same way. So often, soldiers feel guilty about surviving combat when a friend did not. The guilt haunts them in their sleep. This is a dark poem, but I want to let others know that for so many, the war doesn't end when our men and women leave the combat zone.

Survivor’s Guilt

In a resurrection
As sweet as the smell
Of pine trees on the
Hillsides of my innocence,
I laugh with you
While all about us darkens.

We start running to
Bunkers that shrink and fade
With each slow-motion stride I can muster.
Concussions (purple-white) rack my sleep.
I flatten
Clutching my sweat-soaked mattress
Shielding myself from murder.
Moaning awake (screams from my dreams)
You die again.
A victim of jagged shrapnel
(My survivor’s guilt).

Awake and dead again
I edge from room to room
In a security sweep.
Check my locks for violation.
Scanning my lawn for
Shadow craters in moonlight.
I stay awake in silence
Wondering when both of us will stay dead.
______________________________

Let me know your thoughts.
b