The Mariners Tale

“Land Ahoy!”

His First Mate
not more than two feet away, still doesn’t see Hinemoana coming.

“Bring her about hard & fast
& shut your bloody mouth boy!”
after the full force
hits the stern with a swift kick
aimed right up the Jacksie!

She giggles.

It’s an entertaining Port
full of surprises, guffaws
& sudden gusts of wind;
her Devil’s Tongue
quick as lightning
her Siren Song
slipping in & under.

He lays it on thick.

He would feed me grapes
if it weren’t for the Oyster’s, Swordfish, Tuna, Salmon & Lumpfish, a good bottle of Veuve serving up a concoction of frivolity with a sharp spank on the arse for good measure.

No sea legs required here.

Our naked flamboyance
barely creates a ripple,
our island paradise
looking out over the sea
from a safe distance —
your bridge.

I can see the stars up there
& planets
my world seems bigger
brighter
I stare transfixed into space
but I am not lost
I feel strangely nestled.

Green Tree Frogs
& the hope of a Vine snake or two
keep my curiosity peaked.

Michael rows
his boat ashore.

I am not unlike an island.

© Copyright 2013, Jodine Derena Butler. All Rights Reserved

REBLOGGED on Dream Big Dream Often

Lady Lazarus & the Voice of Ratified Reason

“If I had the grace to fall apart respectfully, there would be no need for enlightenment”. JD Butler

He’s using me, I’m using him – both of us working on a palatable means to several ends & everyone’s happy on the dance floor, except me / Lady Lazarus, fully loaded

machinations mimicking my madness & everything I have survived is temporarily erased from my memory / the neglect, the rapes, the con artists & the turning of blind eyes. The violence

of insanity, cleansing the last of my contemptible dirty pieces. A ruse in the end, designed to ratify my plea bargain, still set to drown in a sea of toxic shame, churning

out green bile – something the dogs love to salivate over.

/

It all sounds so depressing, except for the sun that continues to rise; refracted light beams infiltrating my cracks,

forcefully illuminating all remaining fragments of hope that haven’t yet marvelled at a setting sun. I am thankful.

If I had the grace to fall apart respectfully, there would be no need for enlightenment, you would all marvel at my unadulterated halo & drop to your knees, prostrate

but I am a mere mortal woman. No God could ever carry me across the sand or walk on water or set me down on the island of my choice,

without some sort of comeuppance; paying the ferryman requires nerves of steel / I lack the will to either live or die,

in peace.
© Copyright 2018, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved

Imagination

Hyperbole

“You colour my world igniting synapses into hyperbole…” JD Butler

Cairns Birdwing Butterfly

I saw a beautiful butterfly today, green with hints of red & yellow, not dissimilar to how I feel about you

I am reminded of transformation

My solar plexus squirms, churning up a cacophony of nervous tension & something else 

Breathe, I tell myself or I fear I might pass out, fear having a lend of me

I tell myself you’re not him, over & over angry that even now his incubus infiltrates my psyche, penetrating my light

I’m an observer, always on the lookout for anomalies, my brain overthinking camouflaged sabotage 

You colour my world igniting synapses into hyperbole; my protection in overdrive & you are my stargate

*

Just relax. Take all the time you need, whatever will be, will be

(Fuck you & your pathology!)

© Copyright 2017, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved

Transient

Shades of Green

Creating a life

One sweet green leaf at a time

Entrusting my self

© Copyright 2016, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved

Crisp

Belinda the Brush

‘Come back here you little Pelican’
she mocks, her grin beaming
the littlest Princess tears off
at a hundred miles an hour
in the opposite direction,
her grin making a perfect pair
but where is Belinda?

‘Belinda the Brush is hiding somewhere and I want to brush your hair’

we sing, looking in all the usual spots
the bookshelf, the dressing table
in the bathroom before
she’s finally located on the chair
in front of us
the littlest Princess settles herself down
and we begin the next verse

‘Belinda the Brush is brushing my hair,
Belinda the Brush is brushing my hair’

What will it be today my love,
a ponytail or a plait like the witch?
A plait.

Julia Donaldson has made an impression
so I break into a witches cackle

We have some minor complaints;
those pesky knots require a change of tact,
under my magnificent spell
the job is done, satisfaction
filling my heart, hers brewing the buds of patience, temperance and pride

‘Belinda the Brush is brushing my hair and there’ll be no bullshit there’

I love my littlest Princess.
Our destiny entwined like my fingers through her hair
she doesn’t know it yet
but Our Lady watches over her
with great grandma, and granny working her magic almost daily

I can see all the kids,
you and me (and grandma),
green grass blue smoke,
my Harley
still under wraps – our home,
where the heart is
resonating in your drums

One day I will learn how to cook and teach my littlest Princess how to knit like Nana

© Copyright 2015, Jodine Derena Butler.  All Rights Reserved

Rheumatic Stigmata

The bed creaks like your bones
that moan and groan
that slow grind through clenched teeth,
that need between the sheets

~

It’s August now
as cold as it gets here in Winter.
I’m buying an electric blanket
to warm you through; least I run you through
with my lasciviously pointy finger!

Still, I wrap my legs
around your freezing appendages,
making a spoonful of sugar
while you lick the cream
from your Cheshire 😀

I can’t help but bear your stubborn,
stoic Far North Queenslander pride;
pleasured simplicity, complicit
with your Will to burn the wick
at both ends, ajoint screaming
a string of profanity

In Summer, I knead
your splintered lamb shank
while you shovel nutrition down
with a tincture of mindfullness,
layer upon layer of oil, and Green Tea
setting the scene for a modern beer

I find it hard, to watch your tenacity
come face to face with Dachau – Grim
barking out his contempt
while she ducks for cover in sewage…

We have to make the trip worthwhile
or its all for naught; she signs a cross
Pope John Paul II raised the host
because he had all the respect in the world

for Mary.  Sometimes I wonder
what will become of our inheritance
if the light at the end of the tunnel
really is another oncoming train?

We have to find a way through
our fragile past lives where we would
seethe on the outside and cower on the in,
if it weren’t for temperance; sharp edges constrained by blunt force trauma

In the meantime, I heat the purple wheat bag in the microwave
laying it carefully between the sheets

You know I love you most when you least expect it

© Copyright 2015, Jodine Derena Butler.  All Rights Reserved

RE BLOGGED on Dream Big Dream Often

Mr Black & the Muse

I’m addicted to you
& your crooked muse smile
Mr Black

I’ll have you
know
you stole my heart
rendering her useless;
undoing held together
your thick lens
penetrating.
drunk & debauchery

Incognito
for a moment
nothing existed
except obsession,
compulsion mimicking
lust & Mr Black
rose like a Phoenix
under my skin

Every day, an eternity
to wait for you
my muse feigning temperance
the door handle turns
& I pick myself up off the floor
giggle & take the piss
Mr Black doesn’t
waste any time

Concord flights of fancy
meticulous mind-numbing marathons
whatever the abandoned mood once was,
I’m yours
you had me way back then,
smashed, crash landing on my bed
the sun about to rise
on the last place we left from

My balcony:
a table & two chairs
the Great Dividing Range
filtered by my Veuve Clichot
you with your Winnie Red
threshold surpassed
a box of beers,
tartan shorts & flannelette

*

I make you coffee.
night owls wouldn’t normally complain
under ordinary circumstances
but we are far from that place
the buzz & bleep of mobile phones
alter-egos known or not
pierce our cocoon
we drag our arse into work

Dreaming, we see all the children
& Grandma
Mr Black runs amok
kids fight over whose turn it is
blue smoke & green grass
Yamahahahahahahaha!
my Harley under wraps
coveted like our memories

© Copyright 2014, Jodine Derena Butler.  All Rights Reserved

Catching That Butterfly

1.
miles away
collective unconsciously
meanders

through the tree’s
memories & nightmares interspersed
taking us back
to when we were Autumnal
seeding
sowing little reels of tape
monologue’s
weaving their way in
& out of us;
my imprint carving
out your name
as if you might disappear
in search of that wood
you left behind

we are like the wind.
she blows this place
stripping away the leaves
shredding bark
to Birch
& vulnerable

you remind me of Gulliver.
I am like Gretel leaving
a trail of bread crumbs
in case you find hunger
in Wellington

I see you

catching that butterfly
in that dream of mine

2.
Tijuana in the sunset
or is it dawn?
when the dust settles
& spray booths
become a silver lining

my partner in crime
one step removed;
Black & White
grey matter
masking the rusty holes
I’m tempted to poke

up ahead in the distance
mirage & cacti
& stoic self-pity
more solitary
than the tequila sun rising
on a hangover.
responsibilities best served
on the bones of our arse
in no man’s land

I see you

your sombrero
your poncho
your penchant for desolation
filtered by my Rose
& Tonto on the horizon
larger than life
living where two penny’s
don’t have a hope in hell.
charm pulling the wool
over bloodshot eye’s

3.
flowers adorn my living room
contrasting green
& pink
& white Lily’s
I am not afraid of death
I fear the cold
shoulders & backs
stealing blankets –
the rise & fall of sleep

seventeen
& eighteen years abroad
I live vicariously through you
your every move
a meta
physical
paradox.

magical thinking
unchartered waters
a tide on every pier –
I can pretend
to co-exist;
another time & space
where drama needs no theatre

I see you

I could leave everything behind
& risk all I have ever known
of love

Edited by Michael Rudd

© Copyright 2012, Jodine Derena Butler.  All Rights Reserved

Commit

Garish Green Skirt

imprinted eyes

in the back of my legs,

ankle to thigh

scarred

like staples in a seam

>

a permanent stocking

a cheap whore in a supermarket

>

a doorway leads to a red dress

hanging polka dots

too small, so I

s t r e t c h

into chaos

beautiful & ugly

>

a garish green skirt

frumps from my fruit

>

bare breasts too full

walk into a dream –

she sits in front of the mirror

blank _________

>

I sneak a glance

at my reflection;

I am topless, fat & ugly

>

where am I?

where is my baby?

© Copyright 2010 Jodine Derena Butler.  All Rights Reserved

Fey

An emotional midget lives inside my fettered mind. The sprite kind, green as the Irish, young like Danu’s children dancing, invisible to most save Fey. She is gullible, easy prey for those with nothing better to do – they say opposites attract: I am like rat bait.

She is not quite right in the head my sprite but don’t get me wrong, she might have a little hunch in her brain stem, walk around muttering under her breath, but she is conjuring up Narcissus in an attempt to fill up the holes in her white tunic.

How she came to be this way is a long story, suffice to say that public humiliation is akin to Oedipus Complex
with a tiny bit of Penis Envy on the side; there is nothing quite like having an orgasm at someone else’s expense.
If you are a man, well I guess you just grew a little taller, women, maybe just a little bit smarter.

My sprite has been known to feign a smile. Rather than cower in the corner, she has worn patches. I heard this one woman say she would never
have plastic surgery on her face, (in male company of course), then make an appointment to have her breasts enlarged, the bags under her eyes lifted.

I wear my heart on my sleeve most days melancholy. She plays while listening to The Pied Piper watching hoards of people leave single file.
Emotionally speaking, she is not known to accurately sift thoughts; binge eating her way into the Guinness Book of World Records, one defiant leap of blind faith at a time.

My wee lass likes to be alone, but craves the company of others so she doesn’t have to hide. Once upon a time there was no such thing as social isolation, the preferred title was Witch rather than loony toon. She thinks too much, trying in vain failing miserably; second sight may as well be as viable as the second coming.

In my mind, my confused emotional midget state of a mind, I am wondering where she has been and where I am going. Most days I re-live the past with distorted accuracy staring into the wide blue yonder sitting on my desktop. She looks out on to a Google landscape, straining. I can’t see the wood for the spam.

© Copyright 2010 Jodine Derena Butler.  All Rights Reserved

Boudoir

A green duvet and me
blue
Eeyore pyjamas missing a button

a gaping hole my solar plexus

books scattered
carpeted
the bed and the floor
three phones waiting
a clock ticking
a red candelabra
standing tall
white scented candles
mirrors and paintings

reflected image incomplete

a red slip
pillows
a thick winter coat, disembodied
folded towels
soft toys and clothes, strewn

careless

tissues not too far away
the bedside table ready
slatted curtains not really curtains at all
shafts of light
penetrating
my wheat-bag purple and warm

comforting

Klimts Women is wide open
to ‘The Kiss’
at the foot of my bed

© Copyright 2007 Jodine Derena Butler. All Rights Reserved

Mothers

Who says there is a God?
wishful thinking created by man
to control the masses; no
Mothers in sight – save Mary
but look
look what happened to her our Lady!
Mary Magdalene
will rise again
she will be known by all her names
fire, earth, sea and sky; Ishtar

we shelter in the rivers and forests
gathering all the sticks and stones

Mary emerald as the forest green
will ride with Rhiannon
her shoes of moss and lichen
her cloak of rainbow silk: transformed
eye’s like Innana shedding tears
as sisters mourn and do
& all that is dark and been before,
will shadow us no more

she has awakened in terrible wrath and has unleashed a whore

Kali destroys and  makes anew
Pele knows which heart is true
Abundantia  makes it very clear
there are no more second chances here

Gaia,  Papatuanuku and Ostara, forging ahead new life
Innana, Dana and Isis surrounding them with light
Athena and Mother Mary have much to undo and teach
Aphrodite, Ostara, Nemetona and Ixchel
Mothers of divine healing heart

all these Mothers will guide us through without the slightest flinch

she is all Mother and we recognise her full
we run with open arms, no fear
she restores our wayward souls with care
she cradles our broken hearts to weep
peace will be reborn again
where war has gone before with man
our raging rivers will forge and cut
ravage and avenge; our rivers
will shed tears of pain
new paths lest we forget

calling all our wonderous women
our voices banshee wail
we will hear them in our hearts full throb
and never fear again
here comes Persephone from the dark
the first to see the light,
Demeter fills an earthen jug that overflows with tears
she gently wipes her daughters feet to cleanse away her fears
and without Mothers no seed will grow
and so they must obey

but men are men, God or not
and evil still prevails
our Mothers cast all seeing eyes
and none shall let them pass
Zeus may watch with Ranginui
for both have known this day
Hades left enraged behind
his plans for her subdued
for she is with the Mothers now
a war he cannot  rule

Persephone is free at last
Who says there is a God?
for Goddess rule this world or ours
Papatuanuku birthing fruit
my Maiden showing me the truth, wary as she treads
my Mother prays the safest journey our Mothers forged ahead
my oldest Crone will rest her bones on her dying day
and sisters will be reborn again and again
woven waxed and waned

© Copyright 2010.  Jodine Derena Butler.  All Rights Reserved

My Absinthe Heart

I touch the sacred
waters of my
absinthe heart

tender, vulnerable
fingers slip into
pink ambrosia rivers

where liquid flows
languorous, from her
red half-full cup

shaken if not stirred
my pale hands tremble
in her wake, laudanum

where my hearts
drum beats black and blue
I trace a drop

spilling a cocktail
of milk
like my rhythm

my green
absinthe heart
is bruised

© 2009 Jodine Derena Butler. All Rights Reserved

I Met a Girl

I met a girl

Red lights blazing

flashing backstreet bars

in an alleyway

shadows silent behind

lamppost’s, thin stripped

light bouncing off

her shoulders, Medusa

scantily clad

dancing through her

fractured halo,

stockings hiked up

high, lest the cold

penetrate, short skirt

on latticed silhouette(s)

tiptoes pointing

slipping in behind

taxis. Threadbare

pockets strain

fingertips smooth into

green folds;

a handful of jewels

lining her silk purse.

© 2009 Jodine Derena Butler. All Rights Reserved

First Published in Side Stream ‘Poetry From The Fringe’, Issue 19, 2009

http://www.myspace.com/sidestreampoetry