Thursday, March 21, 2019

Pandemic Now




image from benheine.deviantart.com


Pandemic Now

“Disasters are an opportunity for the worst of
humanity--and the best”.
A.G. Riddle, Pandemic.

Trump becoming President was broken news,
like being told you have Stage 4 cancer. 
We knew there were dark days ahead.
We awaited the nausea and callous pain.

Like being told you have Stage 4 cancer--
it was the political Fascista variety;
we awaited the nausea and callous pain.
Who knew the depth of his malignancy?

It was the political Fascista variety.
It attacked our spirit and our heart.
Who knew the depth of his malignancy?
His twisted darkness is infectious.

It attacked our spirit and our heart.
We knew there were dark days ahead.
His twisted darkness is infectious.
Trump becoming President was broken news.



Glenn Buttkus

Pantoum

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Wednesday, March 20, 2019

Blackthorne--Episode 90




image from pinterest.com


Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Ninety

Second Wind

“Never give in. Never. Never. Never.”
--Winston Churchill.

1(two-shot) Cut to edge of town. Buck mounted on 
his tall red, and Johnny Eagle on his muscular silver.
2(sound cue) in the distance, music from the dance
band still escaping from the Grange Hall.
3(medium close-up) Buck; flashback. 
4(wide two-shot) Salina was watching the dancers. 
Buck was tucking his shirt into his pants. They walked 
over to the weapons table.
Buck: Do you want to stick around?
Salina: Christ, no--I’ve seen the elephant.
Buck strapped on his guns. 
5(tracking shot to the door) She grabbed his arm, and
tugged him toward the door. 
Salina: Well, big guy, the piss is in the pickle barrel 
now.
Buck: Yup, it might could be.
Wallace and Johnny waited for them at the open doors.
6(cut to exterior) as the quartet walk out onto the porch.
7(two-shot) Buck, over Salina’s shoulder: Sorry about
the ruckus--but Thor didn’t give me much choice.
Salina: Rod, you have nothing to apologize for.” 
Wallace: Seems to me that it’s Thor who is the sorry
sonofabitch in this affair.
Salina took her father’s arm. You sure know how to 
show a girl a good time. She kissed Buck on the 
cheek. Dad will walk me home. You boys try to stay
out of trouble
8(cut back to the edge of town; the two shot) in the
present.
Johnny: Let’s ride, boss.
9( cut to day-for-night--overhead drone and ride-bys)
Buck and the Eagle rode miles in silence, galloping
through the moonlight, the white stallion matching
the strides of the long-limbed strawberry roan. 
10(sound cue) mandolin and cello over rapid
hoofbeats.
Then they cantered, trotted and walked. The horse’s
hooves found pebbles to clank on, their breath
was visible in the crisp night air. as was a mist
from their muscles.
11( medium two-shot, slow tracking)
Johnny: I fear we may have crapped in our own
straw. I doubt that Bronson will still be in the
mood to listen to your plans now. 
Buck: He’s a businessman first, and a big
brother second. He’s greedy enough, and clever
enough, to overlook this latest entanglement.
I’m not going to worry about it.
Johnny: Remember, he sent men out to kill you
after your run-in with Paulie.
Buck: Uh-huh--I figure there will be some killing
done before this is all over. 
As the horses picked their way through the
deep shadows, the Eagle stared up at the night
sky: The moon dances Wovoka.
12(sound cue) Indian branch flute.
Buck: To scare away the white eyes, and bring 
back the buffalo. You know, I was a pretty good
runner--it wasn’t a bad life.
Johnny, out of the ether: Men like you also killed
a lot of Indians.
Buck: The sea of hair is mostly gone, but the
Indians are still here.
Johnny: No, not really. It’s men like me that are
still here, men with blue eyes and white hearts,
wearing cowboy boots and denim shirts.
Buck, searching for levity: Hey, I never even met
your mother.
Johnny: We both know that you have had squaws--
so a man like you did.
Buck: Damn, son, I thank that man. You are a prince
and a warrior in both worlds, red and white, and I
need your great strength and wisdom in both of them.
Johnny: We will chase your dreams, and fight your
demons together!
They spurred their rested steeds back to a gallop,
rushing toward the ranch. Bats and barn owls heard
them coming from a half-mile out.



Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Friday, March 15, 2019

Allahu Akbar




image from depositphotos.com 

Allahu Akbar

“Praise the wonders of God, whether we call him
Allah, Jehovah, Yahweh, the Great Spirit, or
Allthatis.”--Abu Bakr.

Hate must not replace Love.
Bullets are never kind.
Automatic rifles bark death.
Muslims are not safe.

Bullets are never kind,
even in Christchurch.
Automatic rifles bark death,
even in New Zealand.

Even in Christchurch,
murder interrupts prayer.
Even in New Zealand,
sanctuary is stifled by slaughter.

Murder interrupts prayer.
Automatic rifles bark death.
Sanctuary is stifled by slaughter.
Hate must not replace Love. 



Glenn Buttkus

Rogue Pantoum;
short lines, no rhymes

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub MTB

Thursday, March 14, 2019

Dark Samaritan




image from art4god.com


Dark Samaritan

“If we were to leave this world tomorrow, we were
not asked to have been perfect, but we were asked
to have made a difference.”--Molly Friedenfeld.

What if Death wears a warm smile?
Perhaps it has kind brown eyes.
It could be an embrace, not an X-file.
We must accept every body/thing dies.

Perhaps it has kind brown eyes.
It might encase you in a loving glow.
We must accept every body/thing dies.
Your soul gets a hug, not a blow.

It might encase you in a loving glow,
as you journey forward toward the light,
your soul gets a hug, not a blow.
It’s a celebration, not a fight.

As you journey forward toward the light,
it could be an embrace, not an X-file.
It’s a celebration, not a fight.
What if Death wears a warm smile? 



Glenn Buttkus

Pantoum.

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub MTB

Monday, March 11, 2019

Equinoctial Gales




Painting by David Hockney


Equinoctial Gales

The arrival of Spring cannot be communicated in
one painting.”--David Hockney.

The very air is spiked with auditory delights--a
saxophone bleating alto from someone’s attic,
a phalanx of snow geese piercing the clouds,
and a piper cub dodging their feathered “V”.

The mud-daubing wasps
are making nests in our eaves;
Spring has trumpeted.



Glenn Buttkus

Quadrille

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Q44

Wednesday, March 6, 2019

Blackthorne--Episode 89




image from pinterest.com


Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Eighty-Nine

Bare Knuckles

“You cannot shake hands with a clenched fist.”
--Indira Gandhi.

1(sound cue) grunts, growls and groans over a kettle
drum and a guitar.
2(overhead crane shot) as both fists found their mark.
3(cut to steadicam operators) The fight continues,
and it is filmed in real choreographed moments; no
jump cuts, or hand-held jerkiness.
          Buck let loose of the leg, and Thor lifted off the
floor, almost swallowing his tongue from the waves of
loin pain, and landed flat on his butt, sitting up; his 
face drained of color. Buck swung into the fog in front 
of him, cuffing the hardcase with an open hand, like a
sow bear does with her cub, catching Thor on the side 
of his head, knocking him to his back on the floor.
          Buck roared like a wounded badger, swinging
his arms wildly, thrashing and swimming through the
brain mist, working himself to his feet. His teeth were
clenched, his mouth bloody, and he shook his shaggy
head like a bison bull. There was a quiet moment as
Thor, to his credit, struggled to get up. His eyes were
red peach pits in his battered face. Buck waited on him.
Paul Bronson: That’s it, Thor. He can’t whip you! Now,
kick the squawman’s ass!
           Buck’s vision cleared, and he moved in while
Thor was still on his knees, lashing out with his boot
this time, smashing the gunfighter in the middle of his
back, pitching him forward onto his face.. Buck waited.
Thor lay there, growling like a wolverine in a trap,
blowing blood bubbles. He struggled to his knees again,
gasping for breath. Buck didn’t move. With a rasping
yelp, Thor pushed himself to his feet. He stood there
tottering back and forth like a drunk. One eye was 
swelled shut and blood ran from his left ear.
Buck: Give up--you’ve proved your point .
             Thor spit up red foam as he charged Buck
with his head down. Buck sidestepped and hit the
gunslinger on the top of the head, driving Thor to
the floor once more. This time, Thor lie as still as
a stone.
Paul suddenly pleaded: Stay down, brother. Stay
down--fuck him, he’s just too big for you!
 4(three-shot) Thor painfully got to his feet. Joe Hop 
and Paul Bronson helped him up.
5(sound cue) low murmur from crowd over a piano.
 Joe Hop: It’s enough. You did better than most of us
thought. I lost money on you.
Paul Bronson: It was a good fight! Everyone’s calling  
it a draw.
6(close-up) Thor: That’s horseshit!
7(medium wide shot) Everyone can see that you beat 
me this time, but the next time that we lock horns, Mr.
Buck, you better be wearing those big guns of yours--
and then we’ll play this goddamn game again; my way.
Buck nodded, closing his eyes for a moment.
8(sound cue) the music started up again.
9(overhead crane shot) the circle was broken. Folks 
began to dance again; for them the incident was over.
The red-headed caller began clapping his big hands,
and keeping time with one prancing foot.
10(medium wide shot) Buck walked without help.
Johnny carried his shirt. The deputy and Paul helped
Thor into a chair. Paul began dabbing at Thor’s cuts
with a whiskey-soaked handkerchief. The sheriff
followed Buck over to the spiked punch table.
Salina and Henry were standing there.
11(medium close up) Joe Hop: I got six months.
12(two-shot) Buck, pulling his shirt back on: What
do you mean, Sheriff?
Joe Hop: In six months, my term as Sheriff is up.
They don’t hold elections here. The town council
picks a man.
Wallace: I’m on the town council.
Sheriff: You certainly are.
Wallace: Damn it, man--it was Bronson’s bunch that
got you appointed. The rest of us figured you’d just
be carrying his water.
Sheriff: Somehow, I don’t think Mr. Bronson has such
a high opinion of me these days. He flashed a small
smile, shook his head, and melted back into the
raucous crowd or revelers.



Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Tuesday, March 5, 2019

Up from Darkness




image from inspirationseek.com


Up from Darkness

“Darkness cannot drive out darkness, only light can
do that. Hate cannot drive out hate, only love can
do that.”--Martin Luther King, Jr.

We septuagenarians--
can we find time to witness
the world righting itself?

For us, the time to be born
was during, or immediately following
WWII.

We have lived through terrible wars,
world and bush, when we were told
it was time to kill. Those who did
in the name of duty, and have lived
with their deeds, find themselves aghast
at the monthly slaughter of innocents.

Today, while watching the Ladies,
Liberty and Justice,
rend their garments,
and howl in pain and disgust,
we need to find time to weep,
and to work toward a time of healing,
                               a time to sew/sow,
                               a time to rebuild,
                                              repair and
                                              rekindle
our embattled democracy.

Too many of us have found ample time
to hate,
to point fingers,
to assign blame,
to take sides
to deepen the divide,
while fiercely judging our government,
                                  our times, and
                                  our world, but
the missing ingredient, the necessary
common denominator, is our absolute
need to make ample time
for love.



Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets