Thursday, May 16, 2013

The Scrivener



image borrowed from bing


The Scrivener

There is not a particle of life that
does not bear poetry within it.”
--Gustave Flaubert.

Wandering the width & breadth of landscapes
shared by the busy and the blind, I tend to
record tiny moments & events with my digital
lens & my poet’s quill; captured as my personal
tableaus of truth.

On some ancient barns and buildings,
where all trace of stairs & porches have crumbled
to dust, I am fascinated by those naked doors
to nowhere, extant but providing no access.

Wildflowers sometimes sprout out of bare brick,
clinging to life high above the street, creating
nourishment out of thin air and mist. 

On a tombstone I read that this man died
the year I was born, so we must have passed
each other in the dimensional ether, soon
forgetting the encounter. 

Rimless, but still geared, the rusted clutch
pressure plate seemed paralyzed at parade rest;
restrained by thistles it could only shift
the inert cogs of nothingness. 

Most clouds caught & mirrored in fresh puddles
love to dance a wicked shimmy. 

Piles of discarded signs in deep grass on empty lots
are where many politicians end up after the hurrahs. 

A toddler’s red tennis shoe atop a bright blue refuse
container makes me wonder why it was never retrieved. 

A twisted log, once a wave rider, now lies near the high tide
mark, unable to crawl any further, content to allow the sand
to weave it a warm blanket. 

Dead flowers left on the graves of dead loved ones,
still sustain a proud beauty when compared to
the dusty plastic ones alongside them.

When a wide city culvert becomes choked
with thriving weeds, it remains a reluctant
garden as growth trumps flow. 

I see far too many homeless picket fences,
no longer white, no longer functional, just
so many broken yellowed teeth in a sad wooden smile. 

Fire’s passionate embrace on flesh or other combustibles
invariably leaves deep dark scars forever, permanent
badges of courage or chance encounter. 

In Autumn I love to seek out the pumpkin dwarves
that cower in the cold shadows of their giant siblings.

Why is it that new windows recently installed in
empty houses do not spark inquiry?

Totem thunderbirds, eagles, & gulls possess
great spiritual power, but they reject all bread crumbs. 

Behind glass, the hot house ladies always dress up
in their most colorful attire for their club meetings. 

So many moments & significant things frozen
for future review and contemplation; they are
part of the cornucopia of discarded and hidden
treasures that are never-ending, and I will not
presume to effect change on them--for I am
but a humble scribe, and it is enough to notice
and acknowledge them. 


Glenn Buttkus

May 2013

Posted over on dVerse Poets MTB

Would you like to hear the author read this poem to you?

13 comments:

Brian Miller said...

the cornucopia of discarded and hidden treasures...smiles...kinda like your verse....kept finding little pieces...naked doors to nowhere....the bit on the tombstone...that stuff fascinates me as i grew up by a cemetary...the passing of each other...cool visuals man...

Claudia said...

ha - i like the entry quote...true that... cool verse glenn...i love the dancing clouds and the cornucopia of discarded treasures...cool... write on you humble scribe...smiles

Claudia said...

...and how is it that this brian miller is always first..ha...smiles

VaNdAnA ShArMa said...

Very intense poem, I was totally engrossed

Björn said...

I see far too many homeless picket fences,
no longer white, no longer functional, just
so many broken yellowed teeth in a sad wooden smile.

Wow.. there are so many great part in your observation here.. Great poem

vivinfrance said...

The images in this leap off the page - fabulous.

kkkkaty said...

..I see similar things and wonder..perspective of our place in the universe and everything in it is a constant conundrum...extremely well stated, Glen!

Anna Graham said...

A marveling journey through the sense wonders that fills our lives. The flotsam and jetsam we gather to make our art. The pieces we stitch into meaning. Affecting and artfully executed, a joy to read.

Nico said...

Very nice--that stanza about the twisted log is perfect. Everything rolls along, coming in and then back out of view, we just try to capture what we can.

Cressida de Nova said...

Your life is certainly a treasure trove of poetry. I like your reference to souless architecture, the pumpkin drawves of autumn and the dusty plastic flowers in the cemetery...a collage of beautiful imagery!

Anonymous said...

Excellent

rowantaw.com said...

Glenn - you are a marvelous poetic witness!

Akila G said...

Appreciate your eye for details and well who else can capture in verses than a poet? Some bit of secrecy, fascination in this!