Where would I be
Without the Internet and Tellee?
Yes it’s telly I know,
With its glitzy glow.
They’ll be watching down there in Walthamstow.

X Factor, Big Brother and many a quiz,
They are the equivalent of ol’ Show Biz.
They say we are ruled by all this media,
That all those videos are a bad idea.
Without them though it would feel quite queer.

Newspapers now have become old hat,
There’s not a lot we can do about that.
I seem to live in Facebook Land,
But many say it ought to be banned.
They bury their heads in that golden sand.

The Google answers my every question:
Lots of info for my digestion.
Facebook’s full of gossip and chat,
There’s every scope for acting the prat,
So if you don’t like it, just Take That.

I’m on the net most every morning.
Sad to say, it never gets boring.
(Though it still might carry a Government Health Warning)!
Near Noon I have to drag myself away,
But not too many kids are out to play,
It’s video games for them all day.

Any kids about, they’re on their mobile phones.
They’re starting to look like devoted clones.
They hardly look where they are walking,
Busy reading and occasionally talking.
The traffic they are always baulking.

To real life they pay no attention.
They all deserve to be in detention.
I have to wonder how brainwashed we are,
Let’s go on a show and become a pop star.
It’ll soon be empty in the bar.

Social Networking is what they call it,
So very easy to install it.
Instagramming is now the thing,
It’s all about the imaging.
There’s nothing like that internet ping.

So there you are, The Media Rules,
Thanks to all these technical tools.
Soon there’ll be no need for schools,
But will we make geniuses, or a flock of fools?

Paul Butters

© PB 5\9\2015.

Oh Mr Spaceman, it seems a long way off,
Since you landed, carefully, on a lunar spot;
Standing at the station gazing at the stars,
On our way to Walthamstow to spend happy hours;
I recall that day, vividly, holding Roger's hand,
Thinking how wondrous,
And lucky I am.

Love Mary **

All saints day
One for the romantics too
Standing under a cherry tree
In the wrong spot
There's a beauty in a face covering
But you couldn't tell

The dog are doing laps around the track
At the Walthamstow Racecourse

Blind Spot.
Full Stop.
Steady walking
Like breathing
Quiet all the needing

Blind Spot.
Full Stop.
My pen tries to point out
What will be saved
What goes to the grave
I can't tell which is which

Blind Spot.
Full Stop.
Is it the preparation?
Is it the situation
Is it ripeness?
I want to write it down

Blind Spot.
Full Stop.
Get away from me
Let me breath
Let me breath
I'll be ok

GERTIE.  

A family of nine
Mother died
Father took a gun but no one knew
He blew
For the sorrow was too much
I heard.
But you my children's Nana
With your country life
Potato digging
Outside toilet
Did not expect
A Rolls Royce
You came to visit regularly
And at our door
My children stood
Arms wide for your smile
The smell of lipstick
On their cheek
At each third weekend
Roast beef in paper bag
Toys and sweeties galore
At first I found it hard
Different flesh I suppose
But came to love you
As my own
A second mother
Not home grown.

And when you died
At eighty
From a brain tumour
I felt I had lost
Someone I could trust
Stoic saviour of my soul
Whose knitting
I have still.

Love Mary

To Aunty Betty my children's wonderful Nana from Walthamstow. Thank you for all your love and I m

They're stepping things up
by
closing things down
and keeping us safe in
old London town.

An old man told me
that the country
is going to the dogs,
I said,
not Walthamstow
that
closed years ago.

Pastimes are taken away every day,
a little bit here and dab on some fear
then they'll take a little bit more.

When they close down the subway, the railway,
the day will be darker, the streets will be busier,
will we be any safer or just tired?

Italian stiletto
Talk of artificial islands
A water bound Streisand
There’s movement on the second floor

No loyalty or obligation
Just disproportionate
False dawn’s and sleeping giant’s
And fractious separation

Feedback Old Bailey, peel, perfect pitch
Too many bells, in Shoreditch
Arlo’s and De-Borah’s infest Bromley By Bow
Coming to Leyton, then into Walthamstow
Earring’s for dogs, Marmalade in Coffee
Remember Mr.Men, now the Mr.Many
Feedback St.Clement’s, peel, perfect pitch
Too many bells, in Shoreditch

I’m not seeking an opinion
Or approval, logic dictates
A stunning lack of foresight
Vampire’s become victims

Joke’s are obstreperous children
History enshrined in wood and wire
Imagineer’s and funster’s
Snap, crackle and K-Pop

If I remember, nobody could wait
To sell their plot and move away to Essex
Mary-Le Bow held no charm then
In Maggie’s smoke and mirror’s property fix

Feedback Stepney, peel, perfect pitch
Too many bells, in Shoreditch
Occasionally yes, but basically no
Rebranded idea’s, everything’s retro
Hirsute Wally’s and Wilf’s as far as the eye can see
Don’t try the slang, son, you ain’t got a Danny
Feedback St.Martin’s, peel, perfect pitch
Too many bells, in Shoreditch