Blackthorne--Scene 55

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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

Time Travelers

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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

Night of the Reaper

image borrowed from dlyonsart.blogspot.com

Night of the Reaper

“Believe that love is the strongest thing in the

world; stronger that hate, evil, or death--and

believe further that Love was born in

Bethlehem 2000 years ago.”--Henry Van Dyke.

A decade ago, my wife & I were visiting her mother

in Texas, My mother-in-law was 80, but still mentally

sharp. Three nights before Christmas, we were playing

pinochle, & she was gleefully winning. My father-in-

law was staying in a Rehab facility. Six months before,

he’d fallen asleep at the wheel of his truck & struck a

tree. He wasn’t wearing a seat belt, so he was launched

through the windshield & suffered traumatic brain injury.

He had always been a kind man, but he had turned

mean in the midst of his delirium. My sweet mother-in-law

could not adjust to his consummate cruelty toward her

& the medical staff.

Suddenly my sister-in-law showed up, telling us that my

father-in-law had died an hour earlier. We immediately

caravanned up to the facility & viewed the body; his great

chest stilled, a small smile on his lips. I watched grief on

the faces of the family wrestle with relief--hoping that

clarity had been granted to him on his journey, and that

cruelty had to hunt for a new residence.

A funeral for

Christmas bestowed mixed blessings;

so unique for each.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

The City Stirs

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The City Stirs

“Nature is a petrified magic city.”--Novalis

Sirens awaken me alltissmo & blaring;

perhaps     a meat wagon,   the police,

              or a firetruck--          charging

toward some calamity, deliberate and

              bellicoso.

A canto of pigeons coo on the edge of

the roof, all dolce & delicato--quite the

contrast to my Mickey Mouse alarm

clock blasting its brassy bell aria. I silence

it with a swift colpugno.

              Foghorns in the harbor

              bleat abafando in the

              distance. My tongue tastes metallic as

                             I burp pepperoni pizza, greasy

                             and abbandono.

               Some truck with twin

               stacks bellows & spews

               as it labors through its

                              crunching chorus of gears, before

                              fading con calando.

As I brew coffee,

     needing to consume

         caffeine devoto, I tap

            my fingers to the onerous

                  barbaro beat of a twin jackhammer

                       duet, busily reducing concrete to a

                          acciaccato dust pudding.

Mere blocks from the office, I move adante through

the´cacophony of the crowds crescendo, untouched,

nearly invisible, finding their frowns & epithets capricco,

the white noise within me fully abandono, but only in

the security of the elevator does my heartbeat return

to abattuta.

                          The city awakens

                           con allegrezza, as I

                           grasp joy in fermata.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub MTB

Beauty Rises

image by glenn buttkus

Beauty Rises

“The future belongs to those who believe in the

beauty of their dreams.”--Eleanor Roosevelt.

Beauty is transcendent, 

                illusionary,

                eternal,

                sadness,

                triumphant,

                momentary, &

                ecstasy.         It can be body art, garish, eclectic

                                tattoos that use flesh as a canvas,

                           a fatal fad, a moment’s folly or love

                      in the rapture of bloom, that may lose

                  its luster as fashion becomes altered

              by cascading, tumultuous decades.

Those people who are born gorgeous as 

             models. stared at by all, once they

                  override their conceits, can come to

                        lament their beauty, often wishing to

                                 merely be an anonymous participant

                                        in the crowded landscape, rather

                                        than something akin to alabaster

                                        on a bronze pedestal;

But it is Nature, in all its guises, whether in a forested glen

swarming with golden & black Monarchs, or atop verdant

foothills at the feet of a fire mountain in early morning, 

while wild strawberry light slides across ermine glaciers,

with Mandarin orange clouds hanging like a general’s 

epaulets on the shoulders of the peak, or at a black beach

during a tropical sunset while the sea’s white caps frost the

smooth tops of infinite rows of waves & frenzied gulls pick

at the stringy pink flesh within yellow crab shells--where we

discover God’s living palette--

and finally, true beauty 

becomes the earnest appreciation

of aging, decay, and oxidation;

midst rotting wood, peeling paint

& rusting metal--where we 

re-evaluate a mature lover’s body,

though no longer hard-muscled,

but still the wondrous encasement

of the loving glow from their eyes,

the tenderness of their touch,

and the undying loyalty, sacrifice,

accommodation & reciprocity that

inhabits every fiber of their essence.

Beauty emerges from

every corner of our life.

resplendent to each. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

                                 

Charred

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Charred

“Only the Charred Council--not angels or demons, could

hold the warring factions at bay.”--from the Darksiders,

When char replaces flesh

and bleaches bone black,

fire scars burn deep--

beyond reconstructive surgery,

beyond recognition,

beyond humanity,

where upon the bark,

protoplasm, pulp and sinew,

sentinel and soul,

are converted to

first bright and

then dark energy--

when

cremation

obliterates

the creation.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Q44

Blackthorne--Scene 54

image borrowed from pinterest.com

Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Fifty-Four

Predicament

“Life is just the predicament that precedes death.”

--Henry James.

1(sound cue) banjo & harmonica.

2(medium close up) Johnny Eagle staring at Bronson:

--So what the hell is burrowed up your backside so early?

3(reverse close-up) Cash Bronson:

--Aww, we’re just looking for strays & trouble--
makers. I was told that you were out here somewhere, so 
it’s a piece of luck finding you like this. I think you & 
I have some things to discuss, Johnny.

4(three-shot) angle on Buck: Anyone want some coffee; 
tastes like sawdust, but it’s hot.--tossing the inquiry like a
rock.

5(medium close-up) Bronson turned in the saddle, his dark 
eyes narrowing: So, you would be the mysterious buffalo 
hunter who has stirred up so much shit for me in town?

6(sound cue) slide guitar riff.

7(cut to overhead crane shot) the five riders facing the two 
men.

8(sound cue) Guitar strumming & snare drum baps.

9(two-shot) angle over Bronson’s shoulder, Buck smirking

--Yeah, that would probably be me

10(medium close-up) Bronson, tight-lipped, nodding his 
head:--OK, well I’m Cash Bronson, and one of these days 
we need to palaver over your mistaken notion that you 
actually can rebuild this ramshackle ranch of yours.

11(close-up) Buck, tight-jawed:  Sure, why not? I’d be 
pleased to jaw a bit with the one-eyed jack in these parts.

12(two-shot) Thor sat up tall, stretched & drawled: 
Not today, hombres. Fuck your coffee & fuck you. So 
tell them what we want, big brother.

13(hold the shot) angle over Thor’s shoulder, Bronson, his 
tone approaching a growl--Just sit on that itch, boy; then
returning his gaze to the two men afoot in front of him--My 
brother makes a valid point though. It is possible that this 
is not a friendly visit.

14(medium close-up) the Eagle: Would you call it an 
unfriendly one? as he rolled his throwing knife in his big
hands, an old Colt prominent on his hip.

15(sound cue) Indian seed rattle & branch flute trills.

16(two-shot) angle over Johnny’s shoulder, Bronson:

--It could be--it could be; kind of depends on you fellows.

17(cut to close-up) Buck: Is that a fact, how so?

18(two-shot) angle on Bronson--I don’t know where to

begin with you, big man--so let’s talk to Johnny first.

19(medium close-up) the Eagle: So, let’s get to it.

20(three shot) angle on Bronson: Come to find out

you had a big misunderstanding recently with my

auction manager over some wages?

21(close-up) Johnny: You know that pinche gordo had

it coming--that baboso doesn’t bring you any honor.

22(sound cue) saxophone & guitar.

23(medium close up) Bronson: So you gave it to him?

24(close-up) Johnny: Hell, no--Sheriff Hop showed up

& stopped the dance.

25(two-shot) angle on Bronson: You know, that’s not 

the way I heard it.

26(medium close-up) cut to Buck: That’s the way it was.

27(cut to medium wide shot) over the stiff backs of the 
five riders, with Buck & Johnny facing them.

28(series of jump-cut close-ups) Bronson, the Eagle, 
Thor, Buck, & the three cowhands.

29(sound cue) harmonica, saddles creaking, horses 
shifting hooves, & a dog growling.

30(close-up) bacon burning & smoking in a 
frying pan.

31(medium wide shot) Buck casually bent down, 
keeping Thor in his periphery, then lifted up the
blackened pan out of the low orange flames, & sat it
on a flat rock.

32(reverse the shot) Buck & Johnny with backs to the 
camera; --Bronson: Sorry about your vittles--straightening
up in the saddle, & folding his arms. Truth be told, 
Graff is a minor problem, & I choose to let you slide--
because when it comes to horse busting, I like your style; 
but get this clear, if you want wages from me, You will have 
to find a way to get along with Graff.

33(sound cue) guitar strumming.

34(two-shot) angle on Johnny, his features stoic, not respon-
ding.--Bronson: That brings us to a more serious problem--
that we need to deal with today; right now.

35( medium close-up) Buck: And what might that be?

--Bronson: I think that you boys need to know that you’re on 
my land.

36(sound cue) castanets & coronet.

Glenn Buttkus

OK, buckaroos, this is the last of the Review; from here on the episodes

will be new. Thanks to all the patient readers who trudged through all

54 scenes--and to the dozens of you who called for this review--you

are welcome. I am going on a three week road trip to TX starting next

week, so the saga continues after Thanksgiving. Hugs.

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Wallspeak

image by glenn buttkus

Wallspeak

“Even paradise could become a prison if one had

enough time to take notice of the walls.”

--Morgan Rhodes.

There are a few of us left,

     deep in the inner cities--walls

           on ancient buildings, walls of brick,

                     that back in the 20’s & 30’s were 

           decorated with billboard art, hand

     painted advertisements, many 

over the top of others, now

resembling a decopasge,

or several layers of peeling

wallpaper, just

                           part of a musty past that did not

                  have the media options to boost sales

          & public exposure. I’m still shocked to hear 

  that most people spend 12 bucks to see a single

movie and then have to sit through a tedious myriad

of television commercials on the sainted silver screen

                        while suffering the indignation of having

                        a third of the audience playing with their

                        smart phones throughout the feature.

I am the north wall of the exalted Pythian Temple, 
crumbling bravely on Broadway in the theater district in
Tacoma. I face a parking lot, where once a department store
stood shoulder to shoulder with me. My aching bricks are
festooned with fading overlapping ads for cigars, jewelry, a
painless dentist, Turkish cigarettes, & the New York &
Washington Outfitting Co, where “a dollar a week will dress you”, 
sad smile, or at least it would in 1924.

The Temple used to house over a hundred members, rich

businessmen (all fat white cats--no Jews or ethnic minor
-ities), the Donalds of their day, rivaling the Masons &
Kiwanis. There are less than twenty members at present, old
men in moldy double-breasted suits, huddled in dark corners
smoking pungent cigars--while hybrid & electric cars
back into me, smashing my ankles, graffiti swaths cover a
section of me by the alley, drunks urinate on me after dark,
& most folks just pass by hurriedly without greeting or
acknowledging me. Such is the plight of most century old
walls.

I realize that I have a fateful date with a behemoth

wrecking ball soon. There’s a rumor that following

my unceremonious demolishment the pesky parking

lot adjacent to me will double in size; terrific--then

folks who work downtown can cough up 20 bucks

a day to park their jalopies on my proud bones. Yes.

progress can be both trollop & succubus.

Pioneer buildings

are rarely saved by those who

need a place to park. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Dystopia Now

image borrowed from thisiscolossal.com

Dystopia Now

“Hate looks like everybody else, until

it smiles.”--Tahereh Mafi.

It is so damn hard not to keck--

      (reeettcchh&rallphh) or visualize a wreck--

(screech--bam--splotch), contemp(silver)plating

a probable fascist malversation          within a jingo

                                                        oval (orifice),

                                               over blood(y) roses,

                                           without a garden or a

                                slender shred of hope;

all the while suffering from

       susurrous message overload

             bomBard-ing our census for 18

                   minutes of every media hour we partake.

             Never have we had to face such          

       an imbroglio, akin to a Korean          

battle axe lodged in Lady Liberty’s        

             bronze brain.                           For Christ’s sake,

                                                    even Dick Tracy would  

                                                 never have attempted to

                                   view BEN HUR on his wrist watch,    

                               and brave Buck Rogers might have

                        balked at riding in a driverless Uber Taxi,     

                  opting to utilize the manual override.                 

  

Yes, it still angers me that ten year old children have leg(ull)

ac(kk)cess(pool) to porn on public library computers, but

then obviously objectivity suffers paralysis when beautiful

breasts fill the screen, pious priests parlay for pernicious

pedephillia, demanding alter boy harems, while

                          

                          ISIS  dispatches hundreds of suicide

                          bombers to Mosul, whistling banzai ballads

                          & hatching kamikaze daydreams--

                                    where the zealous brainwashed

                                     disregard for life garrotes any 

                          thoughts of a future, a family, or any

                          kind of world where cerulean blue skies

                                      swarm with white doves--

                                  paralleling the terrible hope--

                               lessness prevalent in ethnic

                           youth incased in our inner cities,

                     who prefer gang fellowship to

                 formal education, handguns to

              hockey, & drug money to

           poverty.

Futurists re-read I, ROBOT, praying that imminent

sentient technology will not emulate TERMINATOR

projections, or the lethal MATRIX WARS, and I tell

you sadly that nuclear annihilation is absolutely still

a viable carcinogen hungry to inhabit humanity, and

I fear insane hands hovering over apocalyptic launch

codes and flashing blood-red buttons, while hoping to

grope more women, initiate ethnic cleansing, construct

concentration camps & generate genocide, revitalizing all

my childhood nightmares of atomic bombs, Russian

paratroopers & macabre alien anal probes.

Regardless, I still

soldier on, struggling toward the

light of peace and love.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Pub MTB

Kall Me Kokopelli

images borrowed from rationalobserver.com

Kall Me Kokopelli

“The flute is a heart song, like a

sweet prayer.”--Kokopelli.

Not far from Four Corners monument,

     I crossed into Colorado and drove up a

           steep winding road for miles, emerging out

     onto a pine tree forest on a high plateau

called Mesa Verde--named by Spanish

explorers in 1776, while America struggled

to become a country in the east.

                               This National Park was created in

                          1906 by Theodore Roosevelt, who was

                      the father of our park system. Indians lived

                 there in 7500 BCE, up to 22,000 of them, finally

             abandoning the area in 1250 AD after years of

      drought, warfare, & even cannibalism.

The park is huge, with over 600 cliff dwellings

       preserved there. with names like Fire Temple,

                                                            the Palace,

My young wife was able to climb        Spruce Tree House,

up & down the very steep stone         Square Tower,

steps so she could get close               Oak Tree House, &

to the sandstone villages, but              Sun Temple

I had to skirt along the jagged

edges of the cliffs, watching her with powerful binoculars.

This gave me more time to study all the petroglyphs. I

fell in love with the rock art star who appeared countless

times--the hunchbacked insect-like flute player called

Kokopelli, a god of agriculture, a fertility deity with

feathers or antenna protruding from his head, a spirit

of music, & a trickster god.

Ancient man always

adapted--carving homes out

of sandstone rock cliffs.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

The Arsonist

image borrowed from thecontroversialfiles.com

The Arsonist

“The professional arsonist builds vacant

lots for money.”--Jimmy Breslin.

Is it even

possible

to spark

more

controversy 

within a Presidential

election

than the Donald

has managed?                        

                                                This lethal

                                                demagogic 

                                                buffoon has

                                                ignited riots,

                                                disrupted

                                                our precious

                                                liberty,

                  while creating

                  a firestorm with

                  combustible

                  Trump-speak

that could

transform

democracy

into ash

and

sycophantic 

chaos.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Q44

Phone--Homo

image borrowed from cianellistudios.com

Phone--Homo

“We must polish the Polish furniture.”

--Eddie Snipes

As the ferry flounders, it wishes

for fairy wings.

Red rain is never as bloody

as a red reign.

The princess rose to pee,

and that’s when she found the pea.

The collar was white hare, but

the caller labeled it just hair.

Vikings loved their battle axes, and

conquered others on every axis.

When struck in the face with a hard ball,

there’s nothing to do but just bawl.

Too many folks have lost their senses as

they join Trump’s burgeoning census.

When the temps top a 100, one doesn’t need

to coax others to consume cokes.

A muddy pond of ravenous koi

can never be considered coy.

Suddenly I hear the sound of murderous caws

for no apparent cause.

A young maiden who is chaste

is simply waiting to be chased.

Crushed blackberries must certainly die

to render some Native American dye.

I feel obligated to have to add, one

never finds a job from an ad.

Though haggard and leaden-eyed,

the resistance waits for the next Ide.

Yes, there’s a manager who oversees

all produced goods that are sent overseas.

No matter how hard

the wind blew, its lips never

turned shades of blue.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

The Performance

image of me at the BSharp.

The Performance

“If you’re going to do something, strive to do it 

better than anyone else. If you’re going to half-

ass it, why bother?”--Ashly Lorenzana.

I am prowling Opera Alley, loving its cobblestones,

skipping under its gaslights. The buildings are all

painted bright primary colors, like a stroll in Little

Havana--pink, umber, red, yellow, turquoise and

tangerine. I enjoy the murals & wall art that are

splashed between windows & doors, the styles

being Asian, African & urban graffiti. There is a

light rain falling. I approach the old Tacoma 

Tribune office, which has been turned into the 

BSharp Coffee House, an esoteric space for

blues, jazz, punk rock & literary events, like the

Poetry Slam that I’m attending tonight. My two

poems are in a manila folder under my jacket.

I see there are a few people already gathered

in the dim lights. I’m feeling that familiar rush

of adrenalin as I prepare to perform.

I’m called Tacoma’s

last beat poet, brightening my

heart, conjuring smile.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse PoetsPub Haibun

Prophet of Change

image from neurologicalcorrelates.com

Prophet of Change

“No one is free--even the birds are

chained to the sky.”--Bob Dylan.

Right now, folks,

stupid gathers strength, like

a virulent virus hidden within winds of change.

Admit that the waters around you have grown--

that you’ll be drenched to the bone;

even as the Donald denies global warming,

claiming it is just Chinese propaganda.

What the world needs now

is a hand basket full of poets

who will ink despair,

             spotlight cruelty,

             point out injustice--all the while

illuminating hope, morality, & love,

and of course

wearing wings

bought on Amazon,                        

            white feathers for optimists,

            brown feathers for fascists;

Come writers and critics, who prophesize with 

their pen--cuz the chance won’t come again.

The eyes of the earth,

holding their children

watch intently

as only a few weeks

separate us from our future,

when a new regime

will pick up the reins;

Come senators and congressmen, admit that

there’s a battle outside ragin’, & that the times

they are a---changin’.

Yes, we are the citizens toiling

within the fragile eggshell of democracy,

but many of us are parents as well,

inhabiting empty nests, eying the future

cautiously as our grandchildren grow

and our children vote;

Come mothers & fathers throughout the land,

try & understand--your children are beyond

your command.

Bob Dylan won the

Nobel--first song writer to

do so, praise his words.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub  

Today

painting by Susan Brassi, borrowed from fineartamerica.com

Today

“There’s a party going on right here, a

celebration to last throughout the year.”

--Kool and the Gang.

On the cusp

of the second week in October,

celebrate 10/11, for it is a day

the Lord has made, or not,

as Autumn creeps along the

crisp edges, and the cold sun reigns

over the final few lingering moments 

of yet another Northwest

Indian Summer.

At my age, already in the winter 

     of my  life, I’m just happy to celebrate

        the distinct privilege of participating in another

           day period--as lovely Michelle Obama reminds us

        that this is the International Day of the Girl Child,

      as does the Donald amid his arrogance

and vulgarity, while he also is

     celebrating the birthday of his

             father, Fred, who certainly must

                      be so very proud of his boy from

                             on high, or perhaps low. CNN informs

                      us that also on this day the Senate 

            joined the House in approving military

       might against Iraq, and hell, here we

are 14 years later just tickled to

death about how all that turned out, 

right?

Celebrities dress up any celebration;

Eleanor Roosevelt was born on this date.

I wonder how our 39th First Lady

would feel about Hillary?

Actor Ron Liebman’s birthday is shared

with fellow actors David Morse & Joan Cusack--

this is counterpointed by 

Chico Marx.

        Redd Foxx &

                 Jean Cocteau,

who all passed away on this day.

Today, I have decided, will be an excellent day as the 

blue skies and October sun beckon me to grab my 

camera and roam about seeking fresh images, even 

though I will still be 72, overweight & short of breath,

and overwrought by the incessant political yammering,

but               

                        Every heartbeat is

                        a tiny victory, and every 
                        breath celebration.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub