Thursday, June 22, 2017

Last Journey

image from deviantart,com

Last Journey

“Every day is a journey, and the journey itself
is home.”--Matsuo Basho.

Most of us will die at night. 
We clutch at hope during the day--
in darkness we give up the fight.

Whether it be wrong, or it be right,
somehow our soul finds a way;
most of us will die at night.

No matter our deeds, or how very bright
our inner flame, or how much we pray,
in darkness we give up the fight.

We hope to be greeted by the sight
of loved ones & friends, whose smiles are gay.
Most of us will die at night.

Yes, as we walk slowly toward the light,
in transition we will find our true way;
in darkness we give up the fight.

Moving up we approach the heights,
leaving our many demons at bay;
most of us will die at night--

in darkness we give up the fight.  

Glenn Buttkus

Tuesday, June 20, 2017

School Days

image by glenn buttkus.

School Days

“The two best days of school--the first
& the last.”--Anonymous

The country school house
was abandoned in 1960,
when there just wasn’t
enough children to merit
keeping it open.

Kids grew up and became hippies.
                                           drug dealers.
                                           line cooks,
                                           doctors &
leaving all the farms
to their aging parents.

The sign fell down after its post rotted. Wild grass,
thistles and brambles grew over it, making it
disappear for years; as it became oxidation’s bitch.

The dangerous curve 
it once warned about,
claimed the life
of a nine-year old girl,
three dogs, and
a couple of raccoons. 

For a time, the few children that were left, were all
bussed twenty-three miles away to a community
cluster of schools in a small town. Now those busses
are rusting hulks in farmer’s fields. Too soon most of
the small farms were bought out by huge corporate
combines & building contractors.

Where have all the child-
ren gone? Off to the wars, more

fodder for cities.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Monday, June 19, 2017

Pepper Me Timbers

image from

Pepper Me Timbers

“It was twenty years ago today,
Sgt. Pepper taught the band to play.”
--the Beatles

up from
a nap feeling
all peppery & shit--
sneezing, with black spots
in front of my eyes;

putting me 
in mind of Pepper
Flicks, like SALT N’ PEPPER
with Peter Lawford
& Sammy Davis Jr.

or sexy Angie,
Sgt “Pepper” Anderson,


Glenn Buttkus

Thursday, June 15, 2017

Blackthorne--Scene 65

image from


Cinemagenic Sixty-Five

Glory Days

“The greater the obstacle, the more glory in
overcoming it.”--Moliere.

1(sound cue) harmonica & guitar strumming gently
Voice over: Buck: That night the buffalo came again.
2(wide shot) It was after Midnight. The two-story ranch 
house stood tall & stark & dark. A large barn
owl chased some bats out of the ajar hayloft door. A
rabbit squealed in the distance as hawk talons ripped it.
To the left & perpendicular to the house, the long
low bunkhouse stood quiet. A full moon lit up the corrals,
cayuses, & rail fences.
3(sound cue) Cicadas, seed rattle, horse nickering, gentle
harmonica huffing.
4(dolly shot) moving toward the bunkhouses”s open door,
as it was a hot night.
5(tighten the shot, traveling over the porch & into 
6(pause the shot) just inside the door, allowing the 
moonlight to brighten enough to make out the big room.
7(travel across the room) toward the opposite wall, Buck 
was asleep in a bunk. Johnny slept on the floor, thin
horse blanket partially over him, his head on a light
jacket covering his boots.
8(sound cue) bull bison bellow over French horn.
9( medium close up) Buck rose up in the muggy half-light,
opening his eyes. His face & bare chest were wet 
with sweat. He looked down on the floor at the Eagle.
10(angle on Johnny) snoring softly, two of his knives on 
the floor beside him.
11(sound cue)horses stirring out in the night beyond
the door.
12(close-up) Buck’s eyes

13(flashback--wide overhead crane shot) 1878, the 
Republican campaign. Two dozen buffalo hunters had a
sprawling camp near the river. Just before dawn, the
horizon just beginning to stain the sky blood red.
14(sound cue) murmur, fires crackling, tin ware ringing 
metallic, over piano, juice harp & banjo.
15(overhead drone shots) traveling slowly across the 
camp, as hunters wolfed down beans, potatoes & coffee.
16(three-shot) a trio of hunters around a fire. Two of the men
were middle-aged, white-bearded & grizzled. Young 
Rod Buck squatted with them, holding a new Sharps rifle.
17(two shot) Old Hunter, over Buck’s shoulder : That is a 
beauty of a new gun. Do you like it better than your old 
Buck: You bet your boots I do. The Sharps is the best 
buffalo gun there is.
Old Hunter: Perfect time to get one, now that the buffs 
are scarce as antelope.
18(close-up) Young Buck: I know--just my damned luck. 
We’ve been out of Fort Anderson for two months, & 
our slim stack of summer hides don’t pay for our bullets.
19(two-shot) Old Hunter, over Buck’s shoulder: 
Remember in ’70 when you first joined up with us?
20(medium close up) Buck: Yeah, we’d sneak up on a 
ridge above those vast herds, sink our forked sticks, 
aimed into that thrashing, bawling sea of buff, and blast
away for hours. 
One day we put down a thousand of them, 
covered the prairie for a half mile.
21(close-up) Old Hunter: Yup, them was sweet times, the 
best of it. Not like now, when the buff know guns, run like 
deer, and have to be hunted--the wallows are near empty, 
the trails cold. Puts me in mind of returning to my home-
stead, & joining my boys raising cattle & corn.
22(two-shot) Buck: Shut your biscuit-hole. You’re bringing 
me to tears. You’d be a piss-poor farmer.
Old Hunter: Well, hell’s bells, right now I‘m a piss-poor 
buffman. Right now my left leg is deviling me. Think I’m 
gonna’ stay put today, lay up & suck on a jug. You’re on 
your own, boy.
23(medium two-shot) Buck stood up, cradled the new .50
caliber Sharps, behind his head, across his shoulders.
Buck: Do what you have to do, old man. You already taught 
me every damn thing you know. You’re half-blind & stove 
up--probably just slow me down anyway. But it’s a damn shame, 
cuz I got this feeling that some buff are out there waiting on me, 
calling my name. I’ll bring you a bull tail.
Old Hunter: You talk a good hunt, youngster--and there’s 
nothing for it but to get out there & get after it.
Buck: Damn rights.

24(sound cue) coronet, snare drum, & harmonica.

Glenn Buttkus

Thursday, June 8, 2017

Lai, Lady, Lei

image from

Lai, Lady, Lei

“So I will greet you with a tear in my heart
and a poem in my eye,”--Sanober Khan.

Not afraid to die,
that’s just a damn lie,
or not.

Stare into night sky,
pointing at star high
you bought.

Poets can be wry--
God only knows why;
so caught.


She was really cute,
a fact far from moot;
no lie.

Loving her’s a hoot--
my whistle does toot
and sigh.

Now I’m an old coot,
and she’s been my root
on high.


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub MTB

Tuesday, June 6, 2017

Birthday So Blew

image from

Birthday So Blew

“The day which we all fear as our last,
is but the birthday of eternity.”--Seneca.

My birthday is June 14th,
Flag Day,
a day I used to celebrate
surviving another year,
feeling colorful pangs of pride
about being an American;
pleased to be a Gemini,
hugging both twins--

but this year I discovered that President Trump has
the same birthday--damn his eyes. So now my ship
has stalled without a breath of wind in the sails, and
my personal patriotism has been disrespected.
                                                     diminished &

I suddenly feel like the love child of Mussolini, the step-
son of Stalin, a former Hitler youth, dirty cop--that my 
degrees are all from a Clown College in the Bronx, my
endorsement of Civil Rights has been revoked, and the
Feds sent me my Halloween costume--three KKK red-
white & blue bed sheets.

My wife tells me to take all my sorrow, anger, & angst
and make lemonade out of it. So far I’ve made 200
gallons of the stuff, which I’m told tastes like rat saliva
& is the color of blood in the urine.

My birthday has been
violated, but I will

still celebrate it.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Monday, June 5, 2017


image from


“You can look at my palm and see
storm coming.”--Mary J. Blige 

S T O R M (Y)

twisters on the horizon--

sturdy as hell--

die Kreigskunst--

the battlements--

like a dark cloud
over her head--

nearest port,
behind a sea wall,
at liberty--

my favorite mutt,
a homeless collie

that killed chickens.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Q44