Hyperbole

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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

Euphoria 

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“I observe you – watching your every move. You’re watching everyone else…” JD Butler


Embodied euphoria

spreading outward like your ‘Albatross’, set to soar; crowd surfing your way into Heaven

You ride it like the wind

steam punking up your moves like they’re going out of fashion, reinventing the wheel & cogs kick up a gear on your deck

Euphoria kicks up a storm in my heels, my flapper tassles set to sidle sidelong into your heart – if I could retrace my steps, pulling my own heart strings

You set the scene in red

parasols with frilly bits line your periphery, reminding us of beauty & love can still be found in all the right places, in more than one heart

I move in time to paradiddles, rhyme & unreasonable expectations, underneath a canopy of tune swinging my way into bliss & unwelcome trysts

You, ‘row your boat’ to freedom in the stars without wind in your sails or decompression, relying on faith & kindness; your current is like lightening in fractals

*

I observe you – watching your every move. You’re watching everyone else, until the parties over & you find me

For a nanosecond I am smitten, before I find myself too afraid to feel


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

Loop

Rabbit Court

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There has been a shift in me; side lining the old ways, finding hope where there was none, obstacles I once circled, dismantled cages my lion once fixated upon, the enemy – my feminine intuition

strength, I found without glasses raised in my periphery far beyond any sudden obscurant deviant landscape filled with Kings Pardon’s, crystal clear upon reflection – I’ve changed

my stipplings more fluid than transparency could have foretold a straight line in the beginning, my wagered war under siege, till it and I spilled out, replacing what was left with artistic endearment

I unpack my bundle now, denying lace doilies on the armrest and turn my back on your silhouette; wallowing in self pity, my demons are fornicating with your rosary beads, lambasted in disquiet

I have witnessed your demise and I too descended into Hell, double standards raping and pillaging my identity, till she was as bereft, staring your demons down so you could see yourself

I am raised from those ashes, I am emblazened wearing a Red beacon-like flag, my Phoenix set to soar North never looking back, for if I think of you, I am at once torn left blindside and I refuse

I stand alone in my dock; my blue eyes pierce your reign, my laser beams cutting through all those cloaked illusions you conjure, for I burn inside you, igniting scrolls of discarded deadwood you can’t deny

Let us be done with this shade! You can’t have your old school tart by eating her, out of business or waltz her off her feet with your inflated ego – the facts are irrefutable betrayal, denial won’t save you

falling into that rabbit hole, that jester court ball full of grandiose promises, all but a mirage in my crystal; my Goddess is much older than your crucified false prophet, and I am no Martyr for a lost cause

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

Polish

Purple Rain

Image

image

My father, Malcolm Roy Ball, Vietnam 1967-1970

War Torn

our world is being torn apart
I threaten conflicted outbursts
in remembrance of him
and them

*

My great grandfather’s fought in WWI
My grandfather’s in WWII
My father in Vietnam

He protests in his own way
no purple reign on his parade
or Prince
to overshadow
dvd’s re running over blue
and red clashes – violent flashes
of memory
in black and white snapshots
of the fallen
and homeward bound comrades
of Malaya and Singapora

They were shafted
in one way or another
left to ponder life
and death
still

images Napoleon could not reconcile
nor the English continue to suppress

I don’t think he will ever forget.

‘See that guy there?
He had his arm blown off
and that one hung himself
a couple of years ago’

His way of keeping it real
as much as for him
as for us, who are held captive
in his momentum

They were drenched in Orange, Red
and Yellow agents
descendants of a Purple rain
then left to fend for themselves
amidst a wrath and fury
one can only call ignorance
blinded by a politically correct
notion of compassion

They were only nineteen
and nothing compares to youthful
enthusiasm; to be not unlike
their forefathers

Teenagers today
get their psychedelic fix
whining and dining on a scourge
that has become a pandemic –
a demonic frenzy
of self indulgent arrogance!

Mary-Jane makes
a Nightingale of pain

Today is ANZAC Day
I am both proud and sad

I have a legacy to uphold
and if it weren’t for those men
and women who experienced trauma
I would not have known complex PTSD
or to let my mind take me
to a battlefield of my own design

In remembrance of them
and parts of my self
lost forever,
I like the eulogy of
walking in the purple rain

Lest We Forget

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

Prince, Street Art Eulogy

Uniform

Common Threads

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‘Tapping in’ by Jonathan Solter

I’m nearly fifty, but I feel nigh
on ninety on a bad day.

This past week has been absolute
Hell on earth.

I’ve been triggered back
to being a child.

Losing her felt like losing
innocence; myself years ago. 

Traumatized, I thought
about ending it all.

The relationship.

But to my credit, my common sense intervened, giving me a serve. 

My man became a man in my eyes.
Not just another man.

Not just any old man.
My man.

Trauma has an ugly side;
it brings people to their knees

where they may as well be pissed on while their down there.

I am so worried for her…

/

How to reach me in that state, is almost futile. 

Almost.

I hear them knocking, butting their heads up against my wall, the double

thick English brick kind; multiple layers of insulating red. 

I pretend it’s nothing more, nothing less. 

“I don’t care”, I resign.

But then my beautiful man drew,
drawing me a shoebox.

Explaining how pain lives, dies
and re-lives inside my brain.

Overwhelmed with grief, I lift the lid
crawl inside and relive my dark past

over and over. Ashamed. 

He lifted my chin, to meet his gaze.
He held me. Loving me more

in that one single moment, I trusted.
“It’s no good” he said.

/

At the 11th hour, we failed. Let down, we had no voice. Mute

blind, deaf and dumb in one single sentence.

The system of things is definitely flawed. 

Corrupt?

That would be making an unjust statement. 

For those in the hot seats, forced
to call the shots, know many lives

are at stake. It must take its toll.
But I have no sympathy.

Our truth was not heard. 

Our fatal flaws not even our own; her
actions (or lack there of), denied.

A resounding ‘NO’ echoes through
my shriveled neurons finding dead

ends. My synapses have nothing
left to ignite. 

My family are in shock. 

My family was slit right down the guts; entrails threatening to turn us inside

out. We were split.

/

Here in our beloved home away from home.

He said, “you cant carry the torch
all on your own”. 

He said “I can’t watch your fire fade to black, your candle flicker in the wind”.

Sinking

deeper into that hole; my abyss dragging me into its darkest depths.

Broken. 

I could no longer hold my fractured pieces together. 

In my mind I dispersed like a million stars on a clear night. 

/

My self died a little bit more that day.

In my room with four walls,
no windows, no doors and no light

my world ceased to exist
and everyone in it.

It’s time to let go, heal.

He gave me hope.
understanding beyond anything

I have ever experienced
through years of therapy

1.  PROBLEM: Being torn.

I think of my beloved stepdaughter.
Everyday.

2.  INTAKE:  Its difficult

coming to terms and all that
that entails I cannot reconcile.

3.  PROCESS: Grief

Pain \ Anger / Trauma \ Up / Down
bracing \ myself for a hell ride.

Depression.

4.  STRATEGISE: Break –

down my past, hurt and forge ahead.
Gathering strength, wisdom and hope.

5.  EXECUTE: Eat.

Drink (water). Rest. Cry. Garden. Bathe.
Write to heal, even when my body

wants to heave. 

/

I look after my family.
Nigh on three years now in my own

special way. Not in a traditional way. 

I’m a hopeless cook.
I don’t appreciate housework.

I’ve been neglectful at being
the proverbial ‘good’ housewife.

My desire to grow flowers, fruit
and vegetables is my compromise.

Growing something edible to put in
the kitchen – for someone else to cook.

I hold us all together in many ways. Focusing on her safe and sound.

Consistent.

Loving, gentle kindness; watering
our gardens together.

/

Our home is beautiful.

Everyone finding that remembered
piece of themselves there; a sense of

belonging my own children lack. 

I want them to say, “I’m coming home”.  I want my beautiful, bitter, twisted

naive, angry children to come home too – to me and my family. 

It’s ever too late to love
and to be loved in return.

/

Finding trust again – she is as resilient as I am loved, unconditionally.

We watch the sun rise and marvel
at the light that shines on all of us.

I will learn to forgive but never forget.

I tend the earth, ripening my fruits
finding pride in nurturing my love.

I read. A cuppa, kiss and a cuddle regenerate my dreams. 

I wake with no nightmarish thoughts,
finding only more I can do to make

my garden grow. Knowing she is being
loved all the while.

/

Right now I need peace.

I love my family. Jason, Madison
La Donna, Whisky, (Carmen), Karmin

Leisa, Seth, Harken and Ronan.

Still too young (bar one) to see
the wood for the trees or realise that

not all flowers smell delightful – except the Rose.

/

The world doesn’t owe me a God damned thing.

My children will learn a much harder lesson than I.  

I forgive them, and I always will, over and over.

The thing about trauma is that it can only hurt us if we let it.  

I refuse.

/

(Myles will remember he said something similar.)

I hope you are smiling wherever you are my friend.

© Copyright 2015, Jodine Derena Butler, ‘Poetry Out West’.  All Rights Reserved

She Sells Sanctuary

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Photographer/stylist: Ra Kai

It’s quiet outside.

her ears adjust, vicariously
searching out cracks/
a radar mind

finding edges where paths
begin & end
& life circles.

inside her four walls
escape & sigh breath
carbon dated memory

each time reflected upon
once/ a crudely stirred softly shaken sonic echo

a lawnmower cuts
more than
the grass/

in between two or more spaces
she chooses
to wipe away the years

sealed red letters/
sifted thoughts more like
ocean liners

her past full
of Pomegranate blossom
seed

she sells her sanctuary
in blocks/
cubed quarters

organised delivery
ensures a safe return
of a very sure thing?

but not now
there is nothing left to steal.
she sells her sanctuary

from her living room
& chooses life
letting go

/

his miniature shoulders
resemble an old man
Led Zeppelin

his sticks are bundled/
all he can see
is the highway

© Copyright 2010 Jodine Derena Butler.  All Rights Reserved

Creativity Creeps

Creativity creeps
under my skin
in an almost
random fashion
except for those
side steps
opening up doors
into nooks & crannies
filled with
Magenta &
Pthalo Blue

Gesso plastered
canvas tarps
fill in my gaps
so nothing that
isn’t meant to
be there
can infiltrate
or seep
or overflow
its boundaries

I determine
every brush
& stroke
& all deliberate acts
twist into
congealed
afterthoughts

It’s like watching
words escape
from silent mouths
in silent Black
& White movies:
each shade
of imaginary sound
is transformed
into translucent
Reds & Yellows

A diadem of jewels
to gush over
& revel in
its magnificence
with every
new idea

© Copyright 2010 Jodine Derena Butler.  All Rights Reserved

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

Construction War Zone

1.
hard hat
gun war
Great Depression
old
grandfather

he went to war
he was a driver
he smoked Three
Kings tobacco
roll-your-owns

his hands built his own castle
memories of old England

many nails
red paint
strong stiff upper lip
hard
times

his lips would bleed
every time he ate
an ice-block

/

this battleship grey nail head
reminds me of a war helmet

2.

hard hat
nail gun
Global Recession
young
husband

he lived on a farm
in the King Country
he drank Waikato
with his mates
& Willie

his hands built his own house
with number eight wire & fence posts

many nails
green paint
strong stiff upper lip
hard
times

his feet are sore
from walking around
in steel-capped boots all day

/

this construction site
is kind of like a mine field

© 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

Dysthymia

D don’t mind the melancholic meanderings
of my psyche, festooned fervent ranting’s;
water-coloured lines distilled over time.
Y         you see what you want to see.  I
have no control of yours.  my only comfort is
the willingness to breathe life into otherwise
contrived lives.
S          see (ing) through opaque, leaded glass
cathedrals; coloured splendor giving
rise to the muse in me.  the sun in words
rises in the east with the future
and time.  I cannot see past the red
hue on the horizon.
T          the yew – an ancient tree.  synonymous
with dead wood; revered branches
of old. wisdom once gained, lost long ago
on mass hysteria.  I digress.
H         hunger pains
perverting the cruelness of lust rage and longing;  layering, serves
to cushion psychic blows.
Y         yearning only serves to belittle
normality; a figment of the imagination.
feeling isolated from the masses is probably
a blessing in disguise.
M         madness,  inviting
a semblance of restored faith to jaded
emotional jigsaw puzzles; sequestered
identities, like my idiosyncrasies. mundane
existence is tangible evidence that
conflict earns respect and
honour akin to martyrdom.  subjugation
I           intelligence? is nothing more than that of
the Descartes and Hippocrates of yester-world,  doomed.
archangel’s like Michael are
condemned by their own father;  there are no
mother’s in sight.
A         a deliberate oversight in my book.
It doesn’t matter at the end of the day,
mental illness is like God,  everywhere
but it’s only called dysthymia on a bad day

© Copyright 2009 Jodine Derena Butler.  All Rights Reserved

Excerpt First Published by Like Minds Like Mine, 2010, ReTHiNK the Meaning of Madness, a Respond-Response Community Art Project, ‘Ethosphere Exhibition’, exhisbited at Te Karenga Gallery, Auckland

Feijoa Wine

Feijoa wine
organic
freshly squeezed
9% of nothing
but sublime
with an Apple base
no comparison
to additives
or preservatives
that pickle the brain
and nauseate
the mind.

The next day
fine and sunny
ready for another
sip, savouring the
yellowing heart
my nectar.

Soft on the palette
liquid amber pale
sparkly
like bursts of invisible
spontaneity,
aesthetically pleasing
to the soul yet
refined,
non judgemental;
yours evenly
tempered and
carefully constructed
subtle – calm.

Feijoa wine trails
with bubbles
lining up, titillating
my nose
my lips quiver
anticipating
my mouth waters,
our juices
mingle into lust
full thoughts.

Sensations swollen,
red cheeks peek
our virginal
sated body’s entwined
everytime divine
just divine!

© Copyright 2009 Jodine Derena Butler.  All Rights Reserved

My Kind of Haiku

A Stone

like my heart

can be polished

You are sleeping

I watch

knowing you are safe

Tears

like screams

run silent

The window

catches the sun

warmly

Red lights reflect

lives of strangers

entwined

I listen

to the sound

of love breathing

I watch

you come and go

I am in awe

© 2007 Jodine Derena Butler.  All Rights Reserved.

Carpenters Tale

My memory recalls
a time in the sunshine
at Christmas
those many years ago –
running and firing
the pistol drenched
us in tears
it was yellow
and red
like the times I bleed
like the time before that time
I thought I was dying
you remember laughter?
it comes and goes now
like a nervous leaf in Autumn
long after Summer
on the horizon
in the blue ute
down Tamaki Drive;
music loud
me singing a heart
shaped note in tune
I hoped
you’re bright Red tool
box taking pride
of place in the back seat
may as well.
You fell over me
warning you alarm bells
would soon wake you
for work
remember?

© Copyright 2008 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

Incubus & the Nymph 

Incubus circle
in delayed formation
my nymph
debilitated and abandoned now
satiety a vestige
of reckless abandonment
elsewhere
pledged allegiances suffer
stuffed down the gullets
of imploding rivers
seething Red
in distaste
indecent proposals are
swallowed whole,
recalcitrant yearnings
succumb to the dirge
mountains begin to crumble
the ingratiate turns
her back, again
rock and debris fall
on deaf ears
on deaf ears, my
dwindling reserves
purge the last of my resolve

© 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