Thursday, January 17, 2019

Dog Dancing




image from pinterest.com


Dog Dancing

“Never give a sword to a man who can’t dance.”
--Confucius.

The dapper dalmatians decided to come
to town on Thursday night, because they
knew that’s when the sweet but dumb
girlie dachshunds were completely okay
with burning hunks of canine spotted love.
They twirled and teased in their pleated skirts
while dog stars twinkled happily far above--
dancing hot like very sexy frankfurts.
Then the pampered poodles showed up,
and those perfumed posers tried to steal
the long ladies from those speckled pups;
but the girls spurned them--honoring their deal

with the tall freckled boys who brought them;
since the ladies were all dusky gems.



Glenn Buttkus

Sonnet

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub MTB

Tuesday, January 15, 2019

Darkness, Darkness




painting from saatchiart.com


Darkness, Darkness

“Confession is always weakness. A grave soul
keeps its own secrets, and takes its own
punishment in silence.”--Dorothy Dix

Why in hell
do we sometimes fall
into the wrong crowd?
Wanting/needing to belong,
                            to be included,
                            to feel secure,
                            to feel superior?

Any of us could stumble
into this tiger trap, when others
appeal to the demons of our worst nature.

My career as a civil servant started out, of course,
with me being the newbie, searching for my place
at the table. In my department there were three
individuals that seemed to run things, had the place
wired, were privileged, outspoken, and had been
there for years.

I worked hard at being accepted by these chaps,
finally succeeding, becoming a member of the gang.
The downside was that the lynchpin was a devious,
divisive, deeply depressed man, who loved to bully
and belittle others. I allowed myself to become very
arrogant, aggressive, apathetic, mean-spirited and
even dishonest--fitting right in.

Years passed, and the Teflon Don
became the Chief of the Clinic, the Boss.
After succumbing to the darkest imps
and marching lock-step to the boss’s
cruelest urges--I awoke
from my pathetic pretense
and refused to be his lieutenant any longer.
I stood up to him, and called him out
for being the manic ape in the corner office,
ersatz dictator, drunkard, druggie, womanizer,
con man, liar and thief that he was.

He became unhinged, launching
a campaign to get me fired,
turning my supposed friends
against me. In the end, somehow
I withstood the shit storm, and kept
my job. The sycophants treated me
as pariah. I persevered for the long haul,
making it to 25 years of service.
As I retired, I emerged true to my self,
but deeply ashamed
of my sojourn into darkness.



Glenn Buttkus

Confessional Poetry

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Monday, January 14, 2019

Winter's Grail




painting by Tony D'Amico 


Winter’s Grail

“The first snow is like the first love.”
--Lara Biyuts

The northern climes suffer winter’s disdain,
buried in tons of icy snow,
which is fine if you’re a Dane.

In southern climes, at least
winter clears out the smog;
hot diggity damn.


Silver tip sleeps like
something comatose, waiting
for the change to Spring.



Glenn Buttkus

Quadrille 44

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Wednesday, January 9, 2019

Blackthorne--Episode 85




image from arizonabarndance.com


Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Eighty-Five

Dosado

“That’s the way God made her--sunshine mixed
with a little hurricane.”--Country song lyrics.

1(medium wide-shot) They stopped at the foot of
the Grange steps. Chatawa was tied next to Thor’s
black. The Appaloosa whinied, and his eyes calmed 
when he recognized Buck. Salina climbed up the
few stairs, her petticoats rustling, and sat on the top
step. She folded her gloved hands on her lap and
waited. Buck stroked the stallion’s neck.
2(sound cue) musical tumult emitting from inside.
3(close-up) Salina, around a small smile: Is that
the horse people say Bronson stole from you?,
admiring both the horse and the man before her.
4(two shot) Buck: More or less. We call him 
Chatawa.
Salina: I think that’s Paulie’s saddle. I’m surprised
he would ride a horse like that.
Buck: Yeah, me too.
He walked up to her, forcing a grin. She stood up.
He held out his elbow, and motioned to the door
with his other hand. Salina placed her arm in his,
twirled around, and they entered the open doors.
5(cut to a reverse shot) as they entered the Grange.
Next to the entrance was a long table loaded with
pistols, rifles and knives.
6(most of the shots for this interior will be done
with a steadicam).
An older woman with rosy cheeks and a flowered
dress was checking the weapons.
7(sound cue) music and crowd noise heightened.
8(three-shot) Salina: Good evening, Mrs. Hart.
Mrs. Hart: Hello, Salina. Don’t you look lovely?
Would your gentleman friend please check his
weapons?
Buck unbuckled his gun belt and plunked the 
Thunderer and the sawed off shotgun down with
the rest of the deadly iron.
9(jump cut close-up) of the big stack of guns.
Buck check his hat with the lady too.
10(overhead crane wide-shot) Inside the large
barn-like hall, a huge knot of people churned
all over the floor, and lined the sides.
11(close up) Buck’s eyes.
12(medium wide shot) He saw Joe Hop first.
The sheriff sat on the edge of a hastily erected
bandstand.
13(medium close-up) Hop’s blue eyes sparkled.
He was hatless, like most of the men in the room;
his sleeves were rolled up on his denim shirt, and
his big arms were folded across his chest. He was 
still wearing his handgun, and the holster was tied
down. His sheriff’s badge glinted in the light.
14(cut to a wide shot) His deputy stood across the
room, leaning against a post; tall and shy, his wide
shoulders and thin arms comfortable. He, too, wore
his pistol. 
15(tighten the shot) The bandstand platform stood
at the far end of the room. Bales of pungent dusty
hay sat to each side of it for decoration. Barrels,
boxes, benches and chairs were occupied by folks
down both sides of the room to the front door. 
Kerosene lanterns hung hot by the dozens.
16(dolly toward the bandstand) A lean red-headed
farmer in a brown plaid shirt, wearing a bright red
neckerchief, called the dances. He was middle-
aged, and his damp hair hung on his forehead. He
had a large Adam’s apple that bobbed up and down
as he growled out the steps: Heel, toe and dosey-doe.
 17(tighten the shot) There were four musicians on
the platform behind him. Three older men and a boy.
A tossle-haired blond kid in bibbed overalls, and no
shoes, playing an accordion. A bearded older man
played the fiddle. A short fat man played the banjo,
and a very tall reed thin man played the harmonica.
18(cut to medium two-shot) Buck and Salina were
clapping their hands, while others who could not, or
would not dance, stamped their boots to the tempo.
19(jump cut roving the room) dancers whirling, hands
clapping, feet tapping.
20(sound cue) loud music, whooping, stomping, 
whistling and wahooing.
21(cut to a medium wide shot) To the right of the 
bandstand was a waist-high table covered with a
linen tablecloth, and in the middle of it sat a fancy
bowl of moss green punch. Behind it stood Henry
Wallace and Johnny Eagle, as servers. Wallace
was talking excitedly, using his hands, holding
Johnny’s attention. Henry wore an old black suit,
and it still fit him well.
22(cut to close-up) Buck’s face, looking to his left.



Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OL

Monday, January 7, 2019

The Launching




image from businessinsider.com


The Launching

“I have faith that God often uses our deepest
pain as the launching pad for our greatest
calling.”--Yolanda Hadid

January is two-faced, called Janus by the ancients,
which sounds like Janis, who was my girlfriend for
two months in second grade--coming and going,
arrival and departure; like Gemini, ying and yang,
sun and moon, duality and duplicity, point and rear
guard.

Launching a new year, rife with football and humus,
while still glancing back at the past year; the first
wake of an ocean voyage, watching the harbor
shrink, then disappear, as the flat gray horizon,
the massive dun maw of nothingness is yawning
across your bow.

February is your destination, with paper hearts,
sweet meats and question marks awaiting you.
You have taken this voyage many times before,
wherein you resolve to change up your routine
and make better choices. Good luck with that,
for the fleet of the world sails all around you, and
their terrible tillers are all turned to cross over
your charted course.

Winter’s upon us;
naked trees, leaden skies greet
silence without birds.



Glenn Buttkus

Haibun

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Friday, January 4, 2019

Gorilla in the Garage




image from deviantart.com


Gorilla in the Garage

“To be clear, climate change is a true 800 pound 
gorilla in the room.”
--Debbie Wasserman Schultz.

The vastness of our oceans is polluted.
Our precious forests are dry as tinder.
Too many people seem to be deluded.

Nature was forever a generous lender,
but we have always been voracious takers--
like heroin addicts on a deadly bender.

Scientists today are called over-reactive fakers;
truth becomes pariah, facts said to betray--
yet there still might be time to become makers

of a brighter future, denizens of much better days,
removing our ever present ignorant blinders,
growing proud trees every sunny May,

letting go mindless devastation, becoming finders
and caretakers, kicking out the never-minders .



Glenn Buttkus

Sonnet

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Tuesday, January 1, 2019

Nazis in Atlantis




image from collectiveevolution.clom


Nazis in Atlantis

“It was a memorial to Atlantis, those stone buoys 
that mark a drowned world.”--Christopher Hitchens.

What if,
after the Great Flood,
the angry seas
did not recede, and
our ancestor dolphins
developed arms and legs
as their superior intellect
allowed them to create vast civilizations
under the water, the same basic
continental regions that became
independent undersea kingdoms?

Technology would have developed,.
and we would have flying submarines,
huge kelp farms and tuna ranches.
As a species, we would live to be 200
because our diet would be ocean-based.
Of course, the seas would become polluted
and we would look to the stars
for refuge and succor.

What if the Confederacy
had won the Civil War,
and the Nazis had won WWII?
What if we had used the atomic bomb
on North Korea in order
to be victorious in 1953?
What if we had used nuclear weapons
to turn the tide in Viet Nam in 1968,
likewise in the Middle East in 2005?
We would be the bringers
of scorched earth and nuclear winter.

What if every President
had been dictators,
and we only had ten of them
since 1868, where our dystopian
world view would have created
a darkness, where Donald Trump
would not have been an anomaly
and he would have been
assassinated by his generals
during his first State of the Union address?

Given a vote,
I would choose the amphibian version
of history, where I would enjoy
clam and oyster ale,
living in a water-logged democracy
and Flipper Ferguson
could have been President.



Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets P