Thursday, April 27, 2017

Hug, Kiss & a Tickle


image from theworldrace.com


Hug, Kiss and a Tickle

“If you tickle us, do we not laugh?”
--William Shakespeare.

I know it is full-on Spring
now that the night birds sing;
as the lawn demands to be mowed 
and my old back becomes bowed
from weeding, seeding & humming.

Soon I will have another birthday.
It is a time to shout a loud hooray,
because I will turn seventy-three
and too many loved ones have left me--
too young, too soon; definitely not OK.

There once was a billionaire bully named Trump,
who shouldn’t even be King of the Dump--
but OMG he became our President,
kissing chaos & favoring rules that are bent--
as History will label him a cancerous lump.

They tell me aging is not for sissies,
as I moan, fuss, & perform divers hissies--
angry at my ancient body’s failings
as youth departed other sailings--
only salved by my sweet wife’s kissies.

We now inhabit a vast empty nest,
though we never have confessed 
how much we really miss our kids--
as three daughters put in their bids
for us to baby-sit so they can rest.

I always travel with my trusty camera,
searching for remote & deep caldera,
or those fabulous golden light moments,
or rusted vehicles with their pretty dents;

I might even find a smiling chimera.


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub MTB

the title is what we get from grandchildren as they go home.
the image is a 125 year old man in Israel.

Tuesday, April 25, 2017

Packs & Prides


image from fineartamerica.com


Packs & Prides

“We have all known the long loneliness, & we have 
found that the answer is community.”--Dorothy Day.

As poets, many of us gravitate
toward one group, or one site--
or even a few, where brief forays
into fellowship validate our world view--
where friendship takes firm root and
poetics blossom like fruit trees in Spring;
         minds are being aligned,
        talents are being shared,
      lessons are being learned,
      & styles are being expanded.

There are no perfect solutions to complications
predicated by community & co-habitation. We 
have seen too often that the loners, outriders
and the isolated can become vulnerable.
                                               victimized &
                                               violated--
so nomads created tribes,      then villages.       
                                               then towns,
                                               then cities, &
                                               then countries.

Yes, we have found that by huddling together
in urban nests there is a safety in numbers,
but there is also a reduction of liberty & privacy.

History is littered with man’s failure to sustain a
perfect community. After years of defeating Roman
legions, Spartacus took his army of gladiators and
slaves to the toe of Italy & he built the Sun City--
where all men were equal. Soon though, he realized
that a community of 80,000 souls needed some sort
of constabulary, justice system, governing body, public
works & sanitation procedures.

Within six months over half of his population defected,
and fled, returning to the less stressful arms of slavery;
refusing to step up & do their part. As a reward for
Spartacus, his grand vision of freedom & brotherhood 
crumbled into treachery and crucification. 

We run in packs like
wolves, hoping communities

are sanctuaries.


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Monday, April 24, 2017

Still


painting by Megan Duncanson.


Still

“Shoot for the moon, and if you miss it
you’ll still be among the stars.”--Les Brown.

As my eyes open,
glancing out the window
at the dark gray underbelly
of Spring cumulus,

I realize I’m        still alive,
                          still behind on projects,
                          still in pain,
                          still hungry,
                          still ambitious,
                          still in love 
with my wife--
so I greeted

the new day.


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Q44  

Tuesday, April 18, 2017

Ground Control to Major Tom


image from fragrantica.com


Ground Control to Major Tom

“Take your protein pills and put your
helmet on.”--David Bowie

Please be aware that we really do care
that your broken navigational array
is causing you clinical dismay; all we can say
is look at things this way--for you it will
always be today as your capsule catapults
you, despite anything we could do, beyond
Pluto, beyond the sun--know that your
personal journey has just begun.

the stars are within
your reach--soon you’ll touch the face

of God  allthatis. 


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Monday, April 17, 2017

Baptism by Bullets


image from saatchiart.com


Baptism by Bullets

“I do not fear computers. I fear the lack of them.”
--Issac Assimov.

In 1967, when I was in the service, I feared combat
--and I worked very hard to maintain my clerical 
MOS. Why play hopscotch on the freeway? I had been
taught that fear is good, essential for survival. Beware
the fearless man, for he was an idiot--death in a hat.

I used to have a reoccurring nightmare. I was on patrol,
deep in country--walking point. Suddenly we were 
ambushed, The jungle canopy was alive with active
sniper fire--gunshots blossoming all around us. The
nine of us were cut to pieces, and we all went to 
ground.

Out of the bush, the Cong appeared. I was wounded in 
several places, but I played dead. They jabbered a bit 
in their clipped sing-song, & then the gunshots began.
They were shooting the wounded. A shadow crossed my
face. I felt the barrel of a rifle against my temple. I heard
the discharge, as a dark rainbow of ballistics exploded
in my head. But then I realized that miraculously I was
still alive. The universe was telling me that they couldn’t
kill me. I always awakened shaken but smiling.

A jungle is not
a garden. Death awaits you.
Do not befriend it.  


 Glenn Buttkus

Thursday, April 13, 2017

Blue Rain


image from vogue.om


Blue Rain

“If you ever come by, for Jane or for me;
your enemy sleeps & his woman is free.”
--Leonard Cohen.

Four in the morning, end of December.
New York is cold, but I like where I’m living.
I’m writing you to see if you are any better;
always for you it’s the taking, not the giving.

Yes, you used to look so much older,
as you went to the station to meet every train.
Your blue raincoat was torn at the shoulder.
You always came back without Lily Marlene.

My brother, what can I tell you?
What can I possibly say?
I miss you & I guess I forgive you--
thanks for standing in my way.

You treated Jane to a flake of your life.
After returning, she was nobody’s wife.



Glenn Buttkus

Lyrics remix from Leonard Cohen's
FAMOUS BLUE RAINCOAT.

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub MTB  

Tuesday, April 11, 2017

Daddy Lost


image from fr.redmp3.su


Daddy Lost

Papa, please get the moon for me.”
--Eric Carle.

In 1954,
when I was ten, 
a fifth grader attending
my 7th elementary school,
I was watching
THE HIT PARADE
on our 13” B&W TV--

Eddie Fisher was hosting,
Coca Cola was the sponsor.
He sang his #1 hit,
OH! MY PAPA,
& every time I heard the song
I was reduced to inexplicable tears;

perhaps it was the poignant trumpet solo,
or maybe the saccharine lyrics:
                Oh, my Papa;
                to me he was so wonderful,
                                       so good,
                                       so funny,
                                       so adorable,
                                       so gentle,
                                       so lovable.

Damn, somehow this song highlighted a
mysterious loss in my life, the lyrics vibrated
like cello strings, & emotions exploded.

My mother’s first husband, my “father”, was a
liar, a wife beater who cheated on her routinely.

Her second husband was a pedophile, who had
molested neighborhood children.

Her third husband was a handsome felon, who 
rode a motorcycle, drove hot rods, & had potential
for fatherhood, before he started molesting my
sister & beating my mother.

So the song was a trigger, & my adolescent
instincts became a voice that announced I had
no father, just a succession of stepfathers. Oh,
how I missed this lost phantom father that my
mother never mentioned. Years later my odd
suspicions  were confirmed, & I had to own them.

Papa was not a
term I ever embraced, for

it was a ghost’s name.


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub