Monday, February 29, 2016

Future Shock


image from sciencefictionart.tumblr.com


Future Shock

Man has a limited biological capacity for change, & when
overwhelmed by it, they descend into future shock.”
--Alvin Toffler

Hard to believe it’s already 2216, & earth has become a plethora
of domed citadels. Climate change was real, & now only technology
allows us to cling to its surface. The seas have risen, land masses
have shrunk. Nations have withered. We have given in to what used
to be considered a dystopian vision, where great corporate conglom--
erates, no longer puppet masters, have stepped out of the shadows & 
have become Ruling Republics.

My family lives on the west coast in MICRO-APPLE, covering the 
western portion of Old America. The oil & natural gas barons have
taken over the heartland in BP-STANDARD. The east coast has
become the bastion of Military/Industrial complexes, called LIBERTY.
There is no President, no governors, just CEOs. What’s left of the
ancient government is made up of supervisors & sycophants who
wear black jumpsuits blazoned with patches from corporate sponsors.

I’m a climate engineer on my way back to Mars, where 50 million souls
toil in vast mines & farms, or are engaged in atmospheric change. It now 
rains on the red planet. We grow crops within the sprinkle of domed 
communities. A half dozen seas are filling up & spreading. We understand 
that our tiny galaxy, the Milky Way, is but a dust particle in a universe of 200
billion other galaxies. Beyond Mars, little Ceres has limited potential for
colonization; so it’s a way station, like all the moons have become. Jupiter
now has a 1,000 space stations orbiting it, & exploration of Saturn is on
the horizon. We have sent probes into the far reaches of the cosmos, but
sadly the data does not determine other life forms.

Man’s footprints now are
on planets once thought to be
unreachable; praise Allah.



Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Pub



Thursday, February 25, 2016

I, Buttkus


image by shane shier


I, Buttkus

“In the social jungle of human existence, there is no
feeling of being alive without a sense of identity.”
--Erik Erickson.

I never liked the name, Buttkus, very much.
It was my stepfather’s, my third one, who
at my dying mother’s request adopted the
three kids. But I found if you wear a name
long enough, it becomes you & you become it.

In my family, it seemed, I was always 
          first, though not always a winner,
          first born & favored by Mom,
          first into the school system,
          first to get straight “A”s,
          first to go to college, returning three times,
          first to graduate, with three degrees,
          first to be in the armed service,
          first to pursue a career in the Arts--

I mean, why not?
I had very little mechanical aptitude, poor math skills 
         and the hoary sciences never beckoned to me. All
I had was a romance with words, a silver tongue,
         a vivid imagination & a passion for performance--
         which richly fueled my careers as actor,
                                                               writer,
                                                               teacher &
                                                               poet.        In the end it was
Civil Service, working for the Man,
that allowed me a thirty year career
as a teacher of the visually impaired.

Today, I sit like an aged restless tomcat,
       a Boomer two times three years into retirement.
              Hell,
            I grew up with a fiery Socialist for a grandfather,
                      who lovingly planted & sowed the perennial
                      seeds of liberalism within me, imprinted on
                      my soul. For a time
            I mingled with liberals at college, & it saddened me that
            I encountered so few in the world at large.

Observing our planet, our country, at present, waist-deep in the bloody
quagmire of the Bush-induced New Crusades--much too close
to the writings of Nostrodamus, plagued by ever-clinging racism,
bigotry, sexism, red-necked Republican ravings (wake up, Bubba,
you are too poor to be a real Republican), while watching a bilious
billionaire with a fourth grade vocabulary & a bully’s sensitivities,
pretending not to be influenced by corporate factions & Wall Street
sickens me (OMG, he is the damn poster boy for the 1% ruling class);
I find myself hatching nightmares of impending dystopian, fascist
scenarios, that too many of us, like lemming heading for the cliff,
fall in line, hopping on bandwagons & trains with too much momentum,
just seem to be hell-bent on materializing.

I am who I am,
not some other, just a crippled
bear in a paper cage. 


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub MTB  

Tuesday, February 23, 2016

Chains


image from withelwyn.com 


Chains

“When a free man dies, he loses the pleasure of life--a slave
loses its pain. Death is the only freedom a slave knows--
that’s why he’s not afraid of it--Dalton Trumbo 
from SPARTACUS.

Many of us know who Spartacus was,
          or think we do, having seen the films,
          or read his name in history texts.
Yes, he lived, & was the primary leader
of a slave army during the Third Servile Wars
in 72 A.D.                            
                                         There is a rumor that he had been recruited
                                  in Thrace, in his teens, & had served in the
                         Roman Army, giving him knowledge of battle
         tactics & mindsets--that he deserted, was captured
& sentenced to living death as a slave in the
         mines of Libya. But as the fates would have it, he was
                          recruited yet again, for his ferocity, to be
                                   trained as a gladiator at a school in Capua.
                                           He excelled, & became a Champion

in the bloody sands of Roman arenas;
but like a tethered tiger, like a wing-clipped
eagle he dared to dream of freedom...
                             One bright dawn, he & his fellows erupted,
                             killed the guards, sacked & burned the school
                             & Spartacus escaped, taking 70 lethal gladiators
                             with him.

Their encampment was on Mt. Vesuvius, & within a week they were
joined by a thousand escaped slaves; word spread like a viral pandemic
--”Rise up, break your chains, join Spartacus & be free at last.” Spartacus
shared command with Crixius, the leader of the Gauls; berserk barbarians.

They were underestimated by Rome--We take five years to train a legion-
aire, & this rabble is made up of mere slaves.  Spartacus came down from
the mountain, & wiped out the army sent against him. The Slave Army 
swelled to 120,000 souls, complete with families; women & elders fought 
beside the young men. He moved north, defeating three more legions,
while heading for the Alps.

Crixius was a warrior, not a statesman, & he felt unstoppable 
                     after winning 4 battles, so he took the 30,000 Gauls, broke off
                            from the main army, & marched on Rome. Spartacus sadly
                                           headed north, toward the mountains. Soon
                                           word got to them that Crixius, a poor tactician,
                                           was caught between two legions & was 
                                           annihilated.

            Spartacus defeated three more armies sent
            to stop him, reaching the foothills of the Alps,
            but  he was not sure his rag-tag band could
            make it over the mountains. Mysteriously, he

turned his followers back to the south, 
fighting his way magnificently for the full 
length of Italy, bypassing Rome & stopping 
in the toe, arranging for ships that his people
could escape on.

The wealthiest Patrician, turned General, Marcus Crassus, pursued
them, pushing their backs to the sea. In late 73 A.D.. near the
headwaters of the Siller River, Spartacus was trapped between
three legions, & his army of freed slaves was finally beaten,
butchered by the tens of thousands, families clinging to each other
and to their hard fought freedom. The body of Spartacus was never 
found. 6,000 slaves were crucified along the Appian Way.

“I am Spartacus!”,
a thousand men cried to save
their hearts from breaking.

**************************************

Blood flowed, people died,
history repeating as
mockingbirds grow mute.


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at <a href="http://dversepoets.com"> DVerse Poets Pub for Poetics

Thursday, February 11, 2016

Brotherhood


image by etsy.com


Brotherhood

“We don’t need holy wars. What we need is
tolerance & brotherhood--simple humanity.”
--Arien Specter

Dare we dream of perfect brotherhood
within a world strangled by greed?
If goals are checkmated by need,
are politician’s promises any damn good?

Our democracy perhaps should
be less other-directed, and take heed;
dare we dream of perfect brotherhood
within a world strangled by greed?

We are a nation of can’t--if only we could
actually govern from love, and not impede
those beautiful dreamers who want to lead
us out of chaos, to where equity is understood.
Dare we dream of perfect brotherhood?


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub MTB

A humane, political plea in the Rondel form.

Tuesday, February 9, 2016

The Waiting


image from saleartshop.com


The Waiting

Your heart is full of fertile seeds, just waiting
to sprout.”--Morihei Ueshiba.

The bus station bench became too hard to tolerate,
the milling minions                     too loud,
                                                   too boisterous,
                                                   too pleased & joyous
as it seemed that everyone else met up
with a lover, a friend, or a family member,
                    as he sat solitary, arms folded, 
                    legs outstretched.

The great shiny but dusty Greyhounds
         rolled in & parked in neat diagonal rows,
                 their air brakes whooshing, their diesel exhaust
                        choking the air of the terminal garage, as
                  their chrome doors made that distinctive
          clunk folding back & swinging open wide,
allowing the anxious passengers egress.

                                              He watched the traveler’s faces intensely,
                                    witnessing happiness, despair, confusion, anger,
                              rancor & bliss--a swirling cavalcade of emotions, of
                      expressions, slack jaws, clenched teeth, furrowed
                 brows, & a plethora of mysterious situations. 

Too often these days,
working for a year now in the bustling
Kenworth factory,                  he ate alone,
                                                slept alone, &
                                            walked alone,
                   staring into the brightly lit windows
                   of other people’s lives, while listening
                   to other people’s music.

If he had been a writer,                     If he could paint, he would
he would have flooded                      have painted 6 foot high can-
pages with passionate                      vases with black & red & yellow
poetry, or started a novel.                 swaths of abstract sincerity, angst
                                                          & heartache.


Yonglin told him yesterday
that she would come up for
a visit tonight, after her shift at
the diner, in that converted railway
car on the edge of Diggsville, down
in the farm country, traveling up from
the Notch, the placid purity of rural
blessings into the stench & chaos of this
metropolis. They were engaged, but
only managed to see each once a month.

There was one more bus scheduled to arrive at midnight.
Nervously, he walked next door to the New Peking restaurant,
& gobbled down some house fried rice, laden with shrimp,
chicken, pork, eggs & green onions. Sipping hot green tea,
he traced hearts in the lovely grease left on the colorful
platter. He smiled as he read the message extracted from
his stale fortune cookie: Someone will make you happy
tonight.

Long distance romances
can be difficult to maintain;
but it can be done.


Glenn Buttkus

Monday, February 8, 2016

Death Descending


image from bbc.co.uk


Death Descending

“My father pulled into Pearl four days after the bombing
& there was no lull--everything was still burning.”
--John Lasseter.



I remember my grandfather saying,
Hell, what is happiness?
It’s just a lull between chaos & pain.”  

As a kid, who could be lulled to sleep watching 
paint dry, I never understood.

The lull between the
bombs dropping is more fearsome
than the explosions.


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Pub Q2

Monday, February 1, 2016

Separation


image by Gabriella @dVerse Poets


Separation

“There ain’t no way you can hold onto someone that wants
to go--so just love what you got while you got it.”
--Kate DiCamillo.

I paused, stopping my battered pick up. The Chev V-8 idled
roughly, the glass packs popped and rumbled. The gray
overcast sky looked ominous--it was probably going to rain.

There it was, the crumbling stone bridge over Owl Creek, here
at the head of Oak Lane. Once I cross it, as I had a thousand
times, there will be no turning back, no return trip to the home
I built with my own hands, to my wife of twelve years, to my
three sons who were my joy--all of which who stood on our
front porch as I pushed past them carrying a battered leather
suitcase & a moldy duffel bag.

My Betty was stone-faced, her cheeks still wet with tears. Luke
& Carl were little men, standing silently, staring at the boards
beneath them--but Buddy was only five. He reached out to me
as his mother held his tiny shoulders, blubbering, “Daddy, don’t
go, please, we still love you.”

I turned the red truck back toward the house, as my own tears
clouded my eyes.

If a man lets his
pride and anger overrule
his heart, all is lost.


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub