Tuesday, July 26, 2016

Parched


image from factnet.org


Parched

“We have been living through a time of sorrow. Our
seed remains seed, but our nostrils are dusty.”
--Warren Eyster.

The Earth is in crisis, yet again.
      This time we are calling it Global Warming.
              In our Southwest, rivers are quickly turning into
                          trickle streams, and reservoirs are drying up
              into silty puddles--but damn, too often when it
      does rain, it hits like a torrent, as vehicles hydro--
plane off highways into overflowing ditches, and
terrible flash floods roar down 
dry arroyos seeking victims.

                 Republicans inform us, in their incredible ignorance,
            that we are delusional, that global warming is nothing
         more than a liberal illusion, while we watch glaciers
melt, & Venice & New Orleans lose streets to the sea.

I tell you there is a drought in politics as well,
where anger stimulates stupidity,
where democracy limps like a lame dog,
where liberty is losing its luster,
where fascists, racists, bullies, and bankers seed fear
into a cash crop, reaping millions of misguided supporters,
where justice becomes a slut, bought & sold, as lawyers,
judges, & politicians strut arrogantly like a den of whore
mongers.

When lips are parched,
we pray for rain, but we must
beware of deluge.



Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub        

    

Friday, July 22, 2016

Beliefs


Myself as Henry Albertson in THE FANTASTICKS.


Beliefs

“I had therefore to remove knowledge, in order
to make room for belief.”--Immanuel Kant.

I sincerely believe that Donald J. Trump is the actual
embodiment of Benito Mussolini, with the sentiments
& trappings of George Wallace--but today, like the
President of Mexico, who first likened him to Hitler,
if Trump somehow becomes the next President, all
of us will have to gird our loins, tone down our rhetoric
and somehow persevere & endure his reign of racist,
isolationist, bullying, arrogance, and sexist dictatorship.

I once passionately believed that I would become a
successful actor, being classically trained & superbly
ego-driven, but alas, though I had the talent & became
a professional for a decade, I never really made a decent
living. So when teaching beckoned, I answered the call.

I really believe that our world is upside down at the moment,
as unreasonable manipulated fear inhabits all of our lives.
Radical Islamic terrorists, like filthy nests of lethal rodents,
will hide & proliferate in plain sight & be very difficult to
eliminate or eradicate. I fear that my young grandchildren
will continue to be affected by this latest Crusade.

I used to believe that one day I would become a famous
writer. I do love to write, & I continue to excel in every form
of writing I have encountered--fiction, non-fiction, short
stories, novels, poetry, essays, reviews, & technical prose,
still favoring writing first in longhand--and yet, my creative
writing has never given me an income, & the hoary dream
of being published has morphed into a 21st century new
form--whereby the sainted pulsating internet allows my words
to visit every corner of the globe, & fellowship with other
writers has replaced avarice & ancient imprinting.

I have always believed that my eye for composition would
enable me to become a terrific photographer, but for most
of my life photography was too expensive for me to explore.
Yet, wonderfully in this digital age my dream has come to
fruition, & the inexorable reaches of the cyber realities have
allowed me to solidly connect with photographers all over
this busy planet, & yes, my own images now daily grace more
than a dozen international photography sites.

Belief is comfort.
though absolute truth can be
elusive & rare.

Glenn Buttkus 

Posted over on dVerse Poets Pub

Thursday, July 21, 2016

Octet Bytes


image from falconhobbysupply.com


Octet Bytes

“Fall down seven times--stand up eight.”
--Japanese proverb.

When those damn flames lick
at your feet, just reach for the
fire escape & rise above the fire.

******************************************
Shadow bars on basement windows
only hold back weak dreams, depressed
souls & broken fingers.

********************************************
If one bears witness carefully, they
will notice that some curbs & culverts
make geometric love to sidewalks.

**********************************************
A cemetery cross that becomes overgrown
by nature, is happy to reclaim its corpse
beneath the busy loam.

************************************************
The tight reel of angry barbed wire could
still recall the bloodshed in Lincoln County
& the crazed look in Billy’s blue eyes.

*************************************************
Fire scars on a burned building run terrible
& deep, beyond reconstructive surgery, 
calling for demolition & rebirth.

*************************************************
My father only used the best Bell jars to store
his spare nuts, bolts, & washers, nailing the
lids to an overhead beam.

****************************************************
I had the sweetest dream, being very parched
I found a Coke machine in the jungle, & I just
happened to have the right amount of change.


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Wednesday, July 20, 2016

Go to Hel


image from pinterest.com


Go to Hel

“I doubt not but Dyggvi’s corpse Hel does hold,
to whore with him.”--Snorri Sturluson.

Isn’t it fascinating that in Norse mythology, compiled in 
the 13th century, independent of or oblivious to the long 
established Christian concepts of Hades & Satan, they 
dogmatically clung to their own version of the Underworld, 
where Hel was the designated Goddess of Death. Thought 
to be the daughter of Loki, as a punishment for her father’s 
indiscretions, Odin appointed her as the ruler of this realm, 
the Halls of Hel, that was counterpoint to Valhalla.

Described as tall, gaunt and fierce, half of her visage was
like a blue skeleton, the other beautiful flesh. It certainly was
bold, even in mythology, to place a woman on the infamous
throne of Satan. For me, this kind of conflicts and detracts
from the sainted mother mythos that most of us subscribe to.

She lived beneath the
third root of Yggdrasil, and
was death below life.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Tuesday, July 19, 2016

Strings of my Heart


painting by claudia schoenfeld.


Strings of my Heart

“You have to give your whole life to the cello-when I
realized that I went back to the guitar.”--Richie Blackmore.


Yo-Yo Ma, childhood prodigy, has thrilled the world
playing his 1733 Montegnana cello, that is worth
2.5 million dollars, on 90+ albums.

Two Cellos captured my interest a few years ago,
comprised of classically trained cellists, Luka Sulic,
from Slovenia, and Stjepan Hauser from Croatia.

Elton John & I weep upon hearing a cello’s perfection.


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at the fabulous dVerse Poets Pub

Today we do a Sevenling regarding music using one of 
Claudia Schoenfeld's paintings as the header image.

Monday, June 27, 2016

Home Alone


image by shutterstock.com


Home Alone

“The strongest man in the world is he
who stands most alone.”--Henrik Ibsen.

I rose from
          fevered sleep, as
                       summer’s rosy disposition
                                 has overheated my nights,
                        and had breakfast alone;
          for my Rose of Lolita
traveled without me;

as I nursed my              My complaints stood
swollen legs                  in rows, but sunshine
back to health.              overrides self-pity. 
                                    

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Q12

Tuesday, June 21, 2016

Summer Enters Stage East


image from flickr.com


Summer Enters Stage East

“The summer sun was not meant for boys like us--
we belonged to the rain.”--Benjamin Alire Saenz.

Wanderer moon,
pale, ghostly wisps, turned slightly sideways,
smiling a faintly ironical smile,
yet partially a sneer,
as the edge of your bottom
lip curls up like a cur,
at this brilliant, dew-moistened summer morning,
as the tangerine forehead of the new sun
bursts scorching, like boiling Pomeranian spill,
thrusting itself confidently over the cold shoulders
of the foothills, bathing my back yard in gossamer
golden fleece,
then a detached, sleepily indifferent smile,
because the moon shift is over
and your companion night has fled,
even though you lingered to watch
the dawning;
a wanderer’s smile,
as you pokey-Joe amble, shuffle and tease
with your tiny fading farewell.
If I should buy a shirt your color,
even as Saul’s rising was so searing, it made
the many colored roses in our garden an electric hue,
and the morning’s mandate was very clear--
it would be a Hawaiian shirt day--red, white, & black petals;
and put on a necktie of sky blue--
just thank the retirement gods that as I glance at my tie rack,
it conjures mirth, smiling as I choose none of them for attire.
where would they carry me?
The day promised to be so achingly bright & clear, I knew
I needed to snatch up my camera & head down the Orting
highway to that pasture where the 1935 Ford pick up
sat rusting--for while the light was right, I needed to snap
images of the patina blemishes & broken headlights.


Glenn Buttkus

Inspiration poem, Summer Song by William Carlos Williams

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub "Poetics"


         image by glenn buttkus