Thursday, July 20, 2017

Pluviophile


image from picturescollections.com


Pluviophile

“The way I see it, if you want the rainbow,
you have to put up with the rain--Dolly Parton.

The heat has turned Navy gray,
clouds cover day.
I heard the rain,
coolness the gain.

Temps at ninety in the Northwest
are not the best
way toward comfort,
much sweat to court.

My eight tomato plants do smile,
sipping awhile--
me on the deck,

breeze on my neck.


Glenn Buttkus


Tuesday, July 18, 2017

The Sanctuary


image by glenn buttkus


The Sanctuary

“Each of us has an inner room, a sanctuary where
we can visit to be inspired.”--Glenn Buttkus

It was an old bachelor’s apartment
      with liver, onions & fish still prevalent odors
adhered to the paisley floral wallpaper,
      with cigarette burns & tattered rips
freckling the 50’s turquoise carpet,
      with what might have been blood stains
under the narrow single bed,
      with very tall ceilings that were pock-marked
      with greasy popcorn plaster bumps,
an asbestos-ridden affect from the past, rife in
every dirty cluster,
       with ornate steel steam radiators against
two of the walls, dark blanched spots behind them,
        with a small kitchen that had several cupboards 
too high to reach without standing on a chair,
        with a squat noisy refrigerator that had a deeply
dented door & bent rusty shelves,
        with a cracked porcelain sink that had dark
mysterious stains & no plug,
         with a large bathroom, resplendent
         with an ancient lion-legged bath tub, and a 
six foot tall narrow vertical window
         with smoked glass to provide privacy.

From the alley outside, one could see the cheery
wrought iron barred gate that covered that window,
as if there were valuables or treasure inside, and 
the red ladder for the fire escape, within easy reach
if egress was ever a necessity.

The price was right--this
apartment would suffice as

a writer’s sweet den.    


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub  

Monday, July 17, 2017

Flicker Fun


image from youtube.com


Flicker Fun

All writing is about the same thing--dying; about
the brief flicker of time we have here.”
--Mordecai Richler.

Flickering
indicates motion
more than life.

Movies
flicker fast
fast enough
to appear
as clear images.

Insects
& bird’s wings
flicker
so rapidly
they hum.

I imagine that
at the point
of death,
reality flickers
ever so slowly
before
it finally

fades to black.


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Q44

Wednesday, June 28, 2017

Blackthorne--Scene 66


image from fineartamerica.com


Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Sixty-Six

Talons and Horns

"When a fish-hawk strikes its talons too deep in 
fish, beyond its lift, he is carried under and
drowned."--Christian Bovee.



1(medium wide shot) Young Buck, twenty miles out
of camp, mounted, his blood & mud soaked fringes
on his buckskin shirt dancing in the breeze, his back
to the camera, his new .50 caliber Sharps crossed in
front of him.
2(sound cue) cello & French horn.
3(smooth crane shot) rising up over the hunter’s 
back, revealing a small herd of buffalo between 
arroyos below him; landscape looking like a mini-
badlands; they were out in the open, feeding at a
walk like antelope.
4(close-up) Buck’s eyes--laced with sadness.
5(close up) the Bison monarch’s pink eyes.
6(dolly-shot pulling back) the old bull was a prairie 
behemoth, easily more than a ton of hair, bone & 
meat--twitching his tail, his hump more than six feet
from the grass, his pelt pure albino.
7(stop at medium wide-shot) a tiny herd of ten--two
young bulls, six cows, & two calves--one of them 
also an albino--a spot of adolescent snow in the 
yellow-green grass
8(sound cue) clarinet & coronet.
9(cut to two-shot) Buck dismounted, his Sharps in his
right hand. Over his deerskin shirt, at his narrow waist,
he wore his cartridge belt. A dozen brass rifle shells 
rowed across the back of it; pistol shells in the front on 
both sides. He unlashed a burlap sack from behind his 
saddle; a worn thin buffalo hide to lie on, several stick 
yokes to put the hex-barrel into, a dark brown box of 
cartridges for the Sharps.
10(sound cue) Voice-over (VO)--Buck: Stay loose, 
Rod; stay calm & bag all the adults. If I chase them 
on horseback, I’d be lucky to put down two or three 
of them. That albino pelt will bring high dollar over at
Fort Anderson.
11(medium wide shot) from behind him, the bison out-
of-focus in the distance. Downwind of them, he 
moved slowly on foot. He stopped at about 100 yards 
from them, pulling his tools out of the bag, lying down 
on the pelt.
12(sound cue) soft guitar chords under Buck’s (VO):
You’ve seen this before; deep breaths--you know 
that the ole’ bull will not run. The youngest bull 
will break herd formation & lead the cows & calves 
off in another direction-while the old albino, and the 
other  bull will stay & stand; possibly even charge 
me.
13(medium close up) Buck worked twelve .350 grain
brass-jacketed shells out of his belt, placing them in
a lethal row on the pelt. He wore the sawed-off by
then--taking it out of its snap-holster, & placing it
alongside the bullets of death. He picked up a pair 
of cavalry binoculars, & peered into them.
14(sound cue) high notes--viola & guitar.
15(cut to round telescopic image-medium close-up)  
The taurine was scarred up, covered with ancient 
angry horn gashes, one back leg was crooked after
being struck by an Eastern iron horse; hanging
from one white flank was a broken Comanche lance,
it’s twin crow feathers fluttering. 
16(close-up) Buck--thinking: You old monster. You’ve
lived long & beat the odds. I will hum your death song
because this morning will be your last wake-up.
17(slow rising crane shot) up to a seamless cut to a 
drone shot, rising a hundred feet higher, then static 
hold as Buck prepared for the kill
18(sound cue) hawk scree over violin screech.
19(hold wide-shot) two beats before a hawk drops
through the frame in steep dive; one blink before
fade to black.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN  

Tuesday, June 27, 2017

Have Mercy


image from pinterest.com


Have Mercy

“For those who expect to reap the blessings of
freedom--they must undergo the fatigues of
supporting it.”--Thomas Paine

To the coal miner,
who has been out of work for years,
now addicted to heroin,
who voted for Trump:
“Blessings be upon you.”

To the 25 year old veteran,
losing three limbs to a roadside bomb,
who now only has the VA 
to count on for help
to repair his mangled body
and tortured soul:
To be an American is to enjoy the blessings
of liberty, freedom, and justice for all.”

To the truncated Syrian family
living in a huge refugee camp,
having their single meal of the day--
moldy bread, rancid rice, & grass soup:
“Oh Allah ! Bless this food you have 
provided us.”

To the 12 year  old
newly initiated gang member,
who helped beat an old woman
to death for her tattered purse,
forced to go to church
by his grandparents
who he lives with,
since his father is in prison.
and his mother died of a drug overdose,
who is taking communion:
“Taste and see that the Lord is good--
blessed are the ones who take refuge in him.”

To the 15 year old girl
who is pregnant
after being raped by her father,
who no longer can be helped
by the under-funded Planned Parenthood:
“God bless America. You know I get things
done--and in the end, everybody likes me.”

--Donald J. Trump.


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Monday, June 26, 2017

Morning's Dance


image from upcscavenger.com


Morning’s Dance

“Morning has broken, like the first morning.
Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird.”
--Cat Stevens.

6:45 am, awakened by the ping of the sprinklers
being activated--and the thrush-thrush-thrush of the
sweet water sings me to my feet. Our temps already
in the the 90’s, the Pacific Northwest is sweltering,
and tender lawns need watering before the heat
blasts. With my wife traveling in Europe, I am the
one who must tend to our old tomcat at the back door
at the first sound of stirring within. His guttural plea
wafts like a crowing to neighbors.

I sit for a few precious minutes on our deck, sipping
tea, enjoying the brisk breeze, stimulating the lovely 
leaves to dance on the huge old maple across the 
fence. I shower quickly, wolf down some fruit and
yogurt before heading out the door, I have planned
a photography junket up valley in old town Kent,
before the onerous heat & oppressive traffic will
drive me back to my a/c & waiting computer.

The large maple leaves
dance & undulate in the

early morning’s stir.


Glenn Buttkus

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