Not an early bird by nature, more a lover of candlelight and lamps—low lighting as darkness falls inducing sleep naturally when needed.

Work and lifestyle, enforces an abnormal routine, out of rhythm like a bad karaoke song gone wrong.

I coax unwilling sleep, like a sick patient force fed as darkness falls, but my active mind roams along dark corridors, through mazes reliving moments recent and long gone, until I drift restlessly in and out of consciousness, awoken abruptly by
the rising sun.

First published Dreich 2021.

Supporting BLM doesn’t dismiss rights of the people next door.
It doesn’t instigate
a race riot or provoke another war.
Supporting BLM doesn’t mean, that other cultures don’t matter too.
It’s just a call for solidarity
from me and you.

Black lives didn’t matter; according to the history of the USA,
a country that built wealth on suffering,
a place where slavery and segregation was ok.
To change the mindset of the masses and to fight racial hate,
a movement was set up
to challenge and motivate.

There’s no order to human suffering, but we must defend human rights
It’s a harrowing call, to us all:
black, brown, yellow, and white.
It’s time to pull together, in times of strife
as a global community
It’s our duty to protect every life.

Black Lives Matters, is a statement about a society that doesn’t care:
unless it’s vocalized
the world will remain unaware.
Every day black males are brutalized and killed by members of the law
for just for going about their daily lives
but now’s the final straw.

Yes, every life is important but it’s a necessity to hold the guilty to account.
To deliver a strong message
that the safety of black lives is paramount.
Word choice isn’t meant to exclude others or say they aren’t valued as well.
It’s just focusing on an important issue
that we need to confront and quell.

© Sophia Butler 2021

A bitter sky hung above, people pushed past,
wanting to get home, on tenterhooks. Birmingham,
home to division and Enoch Powell, prophesising
‘Rivers of blood.’ Racism ingrained, transfused via
jokes told by Stand-Up comedians in working men’s
clubs and 70’s Sit Coms.

Hostility hid behind waving Union Jacks as fascists
met in the old Civic Hall, a city struggling to breathe
air so full of hate. Roads lined with a sea of blue
uniforms, flexing Perspex defending ‘free speech,’
repelling protests by defiant opponents and youths
armed with resentment.

An area intrenched in history, The Old Crown and
smiths who forged swords for anti-Royalist rebels,
during the English Civil War. Challenged again,
insurrection, hurled bricks, breaking glass, Digbeth
a battle ground, defying a time when racism was
an Englishman’s right.

Published Ink Sweat and Tears (2023)

Wind bends branches like women waving
handkerchiefs, farewelling loved ones off to war.
Sheltered in a cozy cocoon behind a window,
I’m mesmerised by the storm.

Light taps, harden on double glazed glass, as
the long descending driveway removes flooding,
quick as an overzealous waitress whipping away
unfinished plates, eager to get home.

Summer avocados fall, emerald, green, stolen
miniatures waiting to brown like a sunbather
drizzled in oil, crushed by a fork on top of fresh
artisan dough, ripped away.

Fine lacquer mist becomes a torrent; I luxuriate
in the comfort of an onlooker, as wild weather
rocks vegetable boxes, a mosh pit where only
some will survive the remains of the hurricane.

Contentment of self-satisfaction melts away,
as those caught in the eye of the storm are
remembered, battling elements as nature wreaks
havoc, sweeping away a lifetime, as I enjoy a
day at home.

First published in The Dawntreader (59) 2022 (UK).

Bombs, invade neighbouring skies peppered grey with
fragments of architecture and body parts. Another
unwanted war begun destroying homes, cities crimson
with blood.

Delusional despots, conjure up old empires, redrafting
history with shifting boundaries and torn up peace deals,
claiming lost lands, clutched by the throat like a helpless
child.

Civilians offer lives, brandishing cutthroat blades, women
warriors made tough from hard times prepare to die
than surrender and endure existence under dictatorship.

Delivering death wrapped in empty promises like a shroud,
the world waits as the games begin and thousands flee,
joining an immense army of unwanted refugees, pitched
on waste land.

Sanction’s stall, impotent in a globalised world that feeds
off each other like post coital spiders, cannibalism where no
one is safe. Bold threats create fear, wondering what next?

First published Red Poets 2022

We were reeds on the water, young girls sheltering
from shock of life, sylphs hanging on air struggling
against tides. Evolving pubescent forms longing for
womanhood when we would be free to fly alone.

Long hair and gentleness cut away in revolt as
hard eyeliner eyes hid fear, no entry lines believing
sensitivity to be a fatal flaw, a weakness out of
sight, never wanting the world to know who we
really are.

Womanhood broke rules, dark mythical sirens hair
flecked with red, ran riot, exploding hydrants,
playing with self-destruction and other devilish games
encouraging accusations of madness and witchery.

Strong wills caged by conformity, age, and time
reignites through storytelling and tales of terrible
times when witches tied to stakes were burnt alive
for being themselves and telling truths.

© Sophia Butler 2023

There’s a cabin on the hill where one day I will
write. Built with love, housing hope and dreams
pushed aside until work no longer pulls at pockets
like needy children and my life is my own. A
retreat dressed in remembrance with furnishings
reclaimed from the past, a constant reminder of
who I’m meant to be.

On the small deck, a wooden table for two, safe
space reserved for sipping tea from transparent
wafer-thin china cups, drained, filled again. Views
of golden mornings on hazy hills where punga
trees recline and pines push high. Pockets of
paradise undisturbed by faint sound of happy
children across the valley and my words unheard.

The once wild grass banks, covered in clumps
of flowery splendor, slowly encroaching on pebble
paths. Tangled fences of passion fruit vines strung
along like lights with deep purple bulbs. Heaven
on earth for a person worthy to express and create.
Kept clean and bright, sacred space for the future,
like a shrine where one day I will write. 

There’s a cabin on the hill where one day I will
write. Built with love, housing hope and dreams
pushed aside until work no longer pulls at pockets
like needy children and my life is my own. A
retreat dressed in remembrance with furnishings
reclaimed from the past, a constant reminder of
who I’m meant to be.

On the small deck, a wooden table for two, safe
space reserved for sipping tea from transparent
wafer-thin china cups, drained, filled again. Views
of golden mornings on hazy hills where punga
trees recline and pines push high. Pockets of
paradise undisturbed by faint sound of happy
children across the valley and my words unheard.

The once wild grass banks, covered in clumps
of flowery splendor, slowly encroaching on pebble
paths. Tangled fences of passion fruit vines strung
along like lights with deep purple bulbs. Heaven
on earth for a person worthy to express and create.
Kept clean and bright, sacred space for the future,
like a shrine where one day I will write. 

 

Pretence was a tool to erase the other self,
                                    new life remodeled with
           carefully covered tracks,
and ‘white lies.’
 
Semi-truths sacrificed family,
                                and love, hiding the invisible half
     bringing sleepless nights, 
and self-loathing.
 
Opting for a fighting chance of success,
                                in a monstrous world where a drop of
‘black blood’ sealed
 a person’s fate.
 
Genetic tests reveal tragic tales, digging up
                                  buried secrets in white family plots,
taken to the grave,
in fear of ‘One- Drop Rule.’
 
·      The one- drop rule was a social and legal classification that was prominent in the 20^th century in the US. It asserted that any person with even one ancestor of black ancestry is considered black.


Published Poetica Review 2022