Tuesday, January 17, 2017

Christ was a Carpenter


image from latitudegallery.com


Christ was a Carpenter

“The things I make may be for others, but how I
make them is for me.”--Tony Konovaloff.

I like to surround myself with things made from wood;
cabinets, tables & chairs, trunks, boxes, floors and
carved art. I take a small wooden sculpture or bowl
& stare at the grain, and run my fingers over their
polished sides--somehow feeling connected to the
dense forest, the steaming jungle, or even the desert
arroyos. Those who work with wood, whether to build
things or create art, are using primordial skills that
predate those who work with steel, iron, concrete or
plastic.

I have a pair of woodworking friends.
One is a former student of mine who
fashions writing pens out of blocks of
imported or gathered wood. The other
carves tiny wooden vases & pots, like
furniture for Thumbelina, of every shape,
hollowed out, fitted with lids. He could 
sell his carvings, but he prefers to give
them away as gifts for friends & family.

Both of them have outfitted
    their own wood shop, with several
         sizes and types of lathe, planers, and
              fifty kinds of cutting, sanding, and polishing
         tools. They both make out little hand--
    written certificates, identifying the wood
used, its history and locale. They
were excited to show me how they
order exotic wood samples from
Africa, Europe, Asia, South America
and Australia from the internet.

While I was in Hawaii, I bought a couple hunks of wood
and carried them home for my artisan cronies. Politely
they both showed me less expensive samples on-line.

Trees create clean air,
then become lumber, crafts and

artful shelf huggers.


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub  

Thursday, January 12, 2017

Blackthorne--Scene 56


image from guns-pictures.drippic.com


Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Fifty-Six

Confrontation

“Confront a corpse at least once. The absolute absence
of life is the most disturbing confrontation you will ever
have.” --David Bowie

1(sound cue) French horn & Indian branch flute.
2(medium close-up) Bronson, still sitting up on his
ornate saddle: I see. Well then, big fellow, if that’s the
straight of it, who might you be?
3(two--shot) over Bronson’s shoulder. Buck: The name
is Buck.
4(close-up) A small look of recognition crossed Bronson’s
face at the mention of Buck.
5(sound cue) acoustic guitar chord.
6(close-up) Buck: Rod Buck--I used to live around here
when I was a kid, before you took up residence. I’m told
my ranch is that place you’ve trying to buy--Antlered Buck.
I came home to fix the place up & raise some horses.
7(two-shot) over Buck’s shoulder. Bronson: Alright then,
you’re the man, and Johnny’s just a hired hand??
8(close-up) Buck: I’d say he’s a lot more than that.
9(close-up) Bronson: Understood--but tell me, were you
figuring on building your herd by starting with some of
my horses?
10(crane shot) up behind Johnny & Buck, angle on the
five intruders, four standing next to their horses, with
Bronson still mounted on his golden steed.
11(reverse crane shot) up & behind the five men facing
Buck & the Eagle and the big black growling dog.
12(medium close-up) Thor, his voice a little high pitched:
So, Honcho, what’s the play?
13(sound cue) piano & snare drum brushing.
14(two-shot) over Thor’s shoulder, Johnny, still calmly
infuriated: This is total bullshit, and you all know it. There
are no brands on any of these strays.
15(three-shot) over Johnny’s shoulder, angle on Thor and
Bronson. Bronson: It’s a sad fact that I’ve got legal claim to
any stray grazing on my dirt--certainly a hell of a lot more
than a couple pokes riding over it.
16(medium close-up) Buck: Can you prove to us that this
land belongs to you? I mean we saw no markers or fences,
nothing to convince us this is not open range.
17(voice-over) angle on Buck’s face. Bronson: 
Let’s just say I prefer it that way.
18(tight close-up) Bronson: But anytime you 
want to light a shuck over to Silver City, our
county seat, you can verify my claim.
19(sound cue) blues guitar slide & saxophone.
20(two-shot) Buck & Johnny, with Buck chewing
his lower lip his eyes on Thor.
21(medium wide shot) The three wranglers, their 
hands free, hovering over their pistols, and Thor
with his fingers cramping, more than ready to whip
out his .38 and shake lead in all directions.
22(sound cue) a raucous cacophony of sudden
overlapping gunshots.
23(medium wide overhead drone shot) Note: 
probable flash-forward-- Thor’s right hand was a
blur as he drew his Lightning Colt .38, as two of the
hired hands drew their Colt .45’s and the younger
one drew his Navy Colt .36, as Bronson drew his 
fancy Smith & Wessen .38 --countered by Buck’s
right hand filling with his Colt Thunderer .41 and
his left hand drew his sawed-off shot gun, as 
Johnny’s throwing knife was mid-air headed for
Thor, soon followed by the deep crack of his
Winchester .30-.30.
24(jump-cuts) Buck and the Eagle are wounded
three times each. Bronson is gut-shot, Thor has
been shot in the face & has a knife buried in his 
chest, two of the wranglers are slain, one head
shot, one heart-shot, and the youngest hand is
still standing, unscathed and shocked.
25(sound cue) the crackle & echo of 20 gunshots
executed in ten seconds, thundering across the
empty landscape.
26(two-shot) the actual present moment, Buck:
So what of you think, Johnny?
27(close-up) the Eagle: I say no fucking way! 
Chatawa is ours. If it killing they want, they have
stirred up the right rattlesnake nest.
28(close-up) Bronson: So it seems to me, Mr. Buck.

it’s up to you.


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Tuesday, January 10, 2017

Bridges of Hope


image by Glenn Buttkus


Bridges of Hope

“Men build too many walls, and not enough bridges.”
--Joseph Ford Newton.

Poets know that words
    are the concrete and steel
           we need to build bridges--
    words that can touch,
                      have effect,
                      penetrate deeply
                      cajole gently,
                      elicit joy,
                      celebrate liberty,
                      create affection,
                      conjure love and
                      reinforce positive ideals.

Most friendships, family units &
diplomatic solutions to volatile situations--
all are bridges,
all connect two separate sides,
all provide access & egress,
whether made up of rope & nets,
                                 cable & iron,
                                 wood & nails, or
                                 skin and bone--
these bridges are essential as
they complete disparate factions
and emotional bonds.

                         Still, one must accept not
                     all bridges are bright and
                  shining, sweet & smiling,
               for there are bridges, like
            the infamous one from El
       Paso to Juarez that can lead
   to a hellish haze, deception,
danger, and even death.

    Defective bridges, like the old
         one at the Tacoma Narrows,
              dubbed as “Galloping Gerty”,
                 can fail and fall down. It is indeed
                 sad that sparse government funds 
                 that are allocated are less than 
                  adequate to bolster our nation’s
                  crumbling infrastructure.

Hell, I drive across bridges daily
that sway, creak and wheeze--which
leads me to nightmares of a bridge
disaster, where my car drops hundreds
of feet into chilly dark water, and I must
facilitate an escape from the vehicle
while underwater.
                   
                   These days I have more broken
                    bridge nightmares than those 
                    where I’m caught in a house fire,
                    being eaten alive by a grizzly bear,
                    or being shot while shopping at a
                    mall, working at the office. eating
                    at a restaurant. or watching a parade.

On a happier note, as a photographer I find myself
fascinated by bridges of all kinds, and I snap images
of them like others do of cathedrals. For me, trestle
bridges are the most interesting, their naked steel
girders and massive rivets reminding me of those 
super--structures reaching for the sky on new buildings, 
and those celebrated photographs of steeplejacks sitting
on suspended girders eating lunch.

Bridges are needed
to span gaps, relationships,
and grand ideas. 

                 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Thursday, January 5, 2017

Dark Days


image from istrumpevil.com


Dark Days

Darkness, darkness--
I have found the edge of sadness,
I have found the edge of fear.
--the Youngbloods.

For some of us it’s
Armageddon, and for some
others it’s rapture--
as darkness clenches its fists.
Government has been
made up of mostly career
politicians throughout, but
the time has come where upon
people’s anger and
discontent have led us to
electing outsiders, and
non-politicians; praise Zed.
The Donald smirks and
tweets like a school yard bully;
appointing fat cats, gene-
rals, and kiss ass sicophants.
The media quakes
with each new story, each new
transgression--throwing up their
hands--rolling their weeping eyes.
So buck up boys and
girls, for we’re in the shit now,
must learn to dog paddle to

stay afloat for another day.


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Tuesday, January 3, 2017

Blackbird Blues


artwork image by Jinny Nieviadomy.



Blackbird Blues

“Blackbird singing in the dead of night--take these
broken wings & learn to fly.”--the Beatles.


Winter froze the moonlight into knotted braids
of pale rope that swirled in the icy blasts,
oscillating their shadows, so it appeared

that the landscape had become a piano
keyboard & a laughing lunar invisible pianist
plunked out a wind waltz, creating a woodwind
musicale out of the dancing black & white keys.

On this night, the leaden skies of ebon evening
turned into red weeping blood, a startling
stigmata, throbbing with some unknown despair 

as a solitary raven swooped through the sticky
thermals, its feathers growing heavy with steaming
plasmaic mist, only being clearly seen as it

winged sadly past the moon, on the hunt, predator
not trickster, cawing in its mina bird tones:

“All is madness--dystopia has descended upon us
& stupidity was the worst virus we endured last year.”

Blackbird flying in
darkness with lunatic grace--

searching for the truth.


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Thursday, December 15, 2016

Blackthorne--Scene 55


image borrowed from ebsqart.com


Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Fifty-Five

Alacrity

“So, in the way of writing without thinking, thou hast
a strange alacrity in sinking.”--Thomas Sackville.

1(wide crane shot) behind the five riders, with Buck 
& the Eagle facing off against them.
2(sound cue) Cheewa growling.
3(medium close-up) One of the wranglers : 
I may have to shoot that damn dog.
4(overhead drone shot ) high above the seven men,
then descending down toward them. A buzzard flew
across the frame half-way down.
4(sound cue) wings flapping over seed rattle.
5(two shot) Johnny’s flushed face & Buck’s knitted 
brows.
6(medium close-up) Buck : Your land, you say, since when?
7(sound cue) piano chord--off key.
8(medium close-up) Bronson : Ever since I’ve been running
my herds out here.
9(tight close-up) Buck : Just how long has that been 
going on?
10(two-shot) Over Buck’s shoulder, Bronson : Hell, it must 
be over a year now.
11(voice-over) Thor : More like two years.
Bronson: Yeah, I think you”re right, brother.
12(four-shot) Johnny : As far as we knew, all this was open 
range. Thor spat : Now you know different !
13(sound cue) saxophone & snare drum.
14(medium close-up) Johnny Eagle : Alright, gents, how’s it 
going to be?--his voice was like a taunt cello string, his 
cheeks fluttering, his body one tight muscle.
15(medium wide shot) Johnny & Buck with their backs 
to the camera, as an awkward second creeps by.
16(tight close-up) Buck flicked off the snap on his holster 
holding his sawed-off side arm.
17(camera pans smoothly, swiftly) over the faces of the five 
riders; they all saw him.
18(medium solo-shot) Bronson rose up slowly in this stirrups,
the fancy leather creaking, crossed his right leg over the neck 
of his palomino, then leaned on his elbows, staring intensely
at Buck, before smiling broadly : Well, Christ on a sawhorse. 
let’s all take a breath here. I’m sure that you boys worked 
real hard collecting these shabby ass jackrabbits.
19(close-up) a prairie dog stuck its head up from his burrow,
chirped, & ducked back down out of sight.
20(medium close-up) You god damn rights we did !! snapped
Johnny, his anger smoldering in his eyes.
21(two-shot) over Johnny’s shoulder as Bronson calmly
continued to smile, the man on the high pommel, in control--
Now I want you fellows to understand, I am still hoping to 
keep this visit in the “warning” category.
22(sound cue) French horn & banjo.
23(tight close-up) Bronson : The only problem is, it just 
would not sit right with my men if I was to let you off Scot-
free.
24(two-shot) Buck & the Eagle stood in silence--waiting.
25(close-up) Bronson : I’ll tell you what, in order to make
everybody happy, how about this--you give me the 
Appaloosa--and thank-you by the way for capturing him, my 
own crew couldn’t get it done--and for the present I’ll just 
pretend not to see those other jugheads.
26(close up) Johnny, through clenched teeth : How about this
--you eat shit & live.
27(medium wide crane shot) Bronson remained in the saddle,
but the other four men rose up in unison & slowly 
stepped off their mounts.
28(sound cue) muted coronet bleats.
29(two-shot) Bronson: Not a smart play, Johnny.
Thor : You fucking breed, we could take all the horses, and 
then stake your sad butt on a fire ant hill
30( quick-cut, angle on Buck) I wouldn’t do that if I were 
you.
31(sound cue) snare drum bap & seed rattle.
32(medium wide shot) Thor turned toward Buck, his hands 
on his hips just above his gun belt, his voice low & calm
: I don’t know you, Hoss, but believe me, unless you want to die 
today,  you need to stay out of things that are not your concern. 
This business is between this damn Indian & my brother.
33(two-shot) over Thor’s shoulder--Buck : I’m sorry, fella, but
you’re all mixed up.
34(medium close-up) Bronson : What are you jawing about?
35(close-up) Buck : Johnny Eagle works for me. These are 
my horses. He can’t give you anything. You need to deal 
with me.
36(three-shot) Bronson, to Johnny : Is this true?
Buck set his jaw, & the Eagle nodded yes, eying the
Rifle near his bed roll, & flicking his thumb across the 
sharp edge of his throwing knife.                          


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Tuesday, December 13, 2016

Time Travelers


image borrowed from monolithic.com


Time Travelers

“We could warp space-time so much that you
could go in a rocket & return before you set out.”
--Stephen Hawking

Quantum physics
meets
meta-physics
on a gossamer thin thread
of time--                   
                              a transparent throbbing vein,
                            shaped like the living split
                          between the left and right brain.
                              

                              Beyond the veil, time is
                        reputed to be superfluous,
                    where past-present & future
                  are One;       perhaps linear,
                                       perhaps circular,
                                       perhaps amorphous.

Beyond our tiny galaxy,            a cosmos within
a billion-billion universes          a cosmos within
gyrate like hungry pinworms    a cosmos within
devouring rotting flesh,             a cosmos within
like mountains of granite          a pea,       within
being crushed into infinite        God’s half acre--
grains of sand. like munching   beyond 
molecules in a dust bunny--      comprehension,
                                                  beyond
                              imagination, beyond thought;

those stars behind & beyond those dead ones we
see in our night skies, because we are barely able
to cope with the notion that travel outside of our
galaxy will require leaving our body behind in some
sort of cryonic stasis, embarking on a soul journey
after we learn to fold time & penetrate black holes,
expanding our minuscule consciousness--also
consider that

traveling beyond the beyond will only be the
beginning of our cosmic selves, & most certainly
we’ll need poets along on the journey(s) to insure
that posterity will accurately chronicle the 
tumultuous tale of humanity turning itself 
inside-out, to witness Time being filleted 
like a fat flounder, split open to the white
meat, probed, smoked & deboned.

We must become time
travelers in order to be

at one with our gods.


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub