The Quiet

painting by Cezean Mat

The Quiet

“We need silence to be able to touch souls”

--Mother Teresa.

Gurus suggest that to achieve

           enlightenment,

                    Oneness

               Vision-quest 

                   or Nirvana,

we must seek out,

or rediscover,

or find for the first time,

                                         perfect silence;

to quell those voices        within & without,

inhabit a place

of serene stillness,

of white light--                  

    perhaps your personal 

          portal, a sweet doorway

               into multiple dimensions;

          and somehow while in

that place, you will be 

introduced to a titan

called Truth--

naked, freshly peeled, 

without its trappings,

cousins or usurpers.

Meditation & hypnosis & faith were not adequate

conduits for me. I wonder if one of those 

deprivation or isolation tanks would work for me?

Where you lie in a few inches of water with the

lid closed--would that provide the pathway, grant

me access, burst me through the hymen of

ignorance, slice through the membrane of memory

and light up the helix--or would I just hear the 

water, or suffer claustrophobia?

During my last sprint in

this cosmic relay race,

I find that I’m distracted by     

the gadfly of doubt,

the wood tick of fear,

the larva of lies,

and the sins of self.

Could I, at this juncture,

actually handle the truth?

Hell, no sweat--

I’ll find out soon enough. 

The beasts, birds, reptiles

do not seek enlightenment;

killers and victims. 

Glenn Buttkus

Post over at dVerse Poets Pub

Malaise

image from pinterest

Malaise

“Men are dead, dead--and the malaise has set in

like fall-out. We no longer fear that the bombs will 

fall--we fear they might not.”--Walker Percy.

It would be

too kind

to identify

the state of America

as a “puzzling mess”;

that would be

like calling an abyss

a tiny hole.

We have trumpitis,

a fascist virus.

Many of us

scramble to find

a blessed cure.

God help us 

immediately.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Q61

Blackthorne--Sc75

image from fineartamerica.com

Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Seventy--Five

The Dance

“Dance in the middle of fighting. Dance in your

blood, when you are totally free.” --Rumi.

1(medium close-up) the rope surcingle was 

snugged up below the Appaloosa’s withers

2(sound cue) Indian seed rattle and piano.

3(medium wide shot) the stallion flexed his 

shoulders, not liking the chest rope--but he did 

not move away. He just shifted his weight, rolled 

his eyes, and watched Buck, and the pokes on

the rails.

4(medium close up) a large red-tailed hawk on

the tall barn behind them, launched itself off the

roof, its wings spread out for a glide.

5(sound cue) hawk’s scree over cello.

6(shift to overhead drone shot) the hawk’s POV,

down over the crowd and the corral, a hawk

speeding past an eagle and a medicine horse.

Everyone looked up for a moment, seeing the

hawk impale a field mouse near the water trough.

7(sound cue) a rodent squeal, wings flapping over

a harp & a harmonica.

8(medium close up) faces turning away, refocusing 

on the drama before them--as the hawk flew off in

the background.

9(close-up) Johnny Eagle’s calm face: Chatawa.

10(medium three shot) Buck moved over to the rails.

Johnny loosened the lariat lashed to the breaking

post and tossed it to the ground.

11(medium close up) Johnny: It is time, great caballo-

Aguilla will ride you now.

12(wide shot) the Eagle grabbed a handful of scanty

Appaloosa mane & swung up onto the dappled stud’s

broad back. Chatawa exploded before Johnny’s weight

had settled--but he managed to grasp the rope loop

and the reins. Buck jumped out of the way, and the

stallion jumped for the sun. Johnny held the reins in his

right and thrust his left hand high into the dusty air. One

could see the sky between his butt and the horse.

Chatawa came down thudding hard & leaped to the

left. Johnny’s hat flew off and sailed over the rails.

13(sound cue) piano & guitar.

14(close up) Johnny, his eyes flashing, all white

teeth and wide smile.

15(close up) Buck, eyes squinting in the dust.

16(medium wide shot) punctuated by quick cuts of

the horse’s eyes and dancing feet--the stallion

leaped to the right, twisting in the air, coming down

shifting his weight to the left, kicking his back legs

up, making his back into a whirlwind of shudders

and flexed muscle. Johnny gritted his teeth and

stayed on. Chatawa rose up on his hind legs,

pawing the air like a cornered grizzly, kicking up

white dust, dancing, hopping, and screaming his

lungs out--then crashing back to ground, jumping

higher and higher, rocking from front to back--

before breaking into a gallop running straight at

the rails. Cowpokes fell off backward the full

length of one side. Johnny skinned up his leg

The men around the corral were yelping like

Comanches, throwing their hats in the air, 

stirring up more dust than the dancers.

17(two-shot) over Buck’s shoulder, Thor stared

at the hunter’s broad back, measuring and

scowling.

18(medium wide shot) the stallion circled, one way, 

then the other, like a hound chasing its tail. He

continued to leap, but the jumps were half-hearted.

There was foam at his mouth and on his shoulders.

Suddenly the horse jerked to a halt--Johnny lurched

forward, almost falling off. Chatawa was gasping,

his eyes glassed over, his muscles were quivering;

the fight was over. Johnny straightened up and

nudged the stallion’s sides with his knees. The bronc

responded smoothly, turning and walking, stopping

and starting, trotting, his head and tail held high.

They rode around the inside of the corral four times,

prancing and showing off, and then the Eagle swung

down.

19(sound cue) trumpets, French horns & slide guitar.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Petal Pusher

image from fineartamerica.com

Petal Pusher

“When the flower blossoms, the bee will come.”

--Srikumar Rao.

You could easily be my apple blossom, even 

though you mother is basil. I need to see

a red carnation in your golden hair,

and a daisy in the corner of your mouth,

as I present to you, wrapped in white silk,

purple lilacs.

Do not make me embrace those marigolds,

as I clutch a red rose and black tulip

in my left hand as I bow before you.

For me you are ever the white lily, and I

am the faithful grass beneath your feet.

Know that there is nothing of my intentions
that smacks of foxglove. My sweet words

are all iris and ivy, as my soul sports 

bluebell glee.

Please cherish the orange blossoms in

the scarf at your tiny waist, and shun the

deadly nightshade the lurks nearby. Wear

white clover in your lace bodice, and allow

me to be the pansy for you. Consider this

my bravest iris pinned to your plum tree.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

The Studio

image from pinterest

The Studio

“Youth is  gift of nature, but age is 

a work of art.”--Stanislaw Jerzy Lec.

My grandfather was a wonderful artist. His style

was like Charles Russell met Frank Frazetta. He

lived on a couple of acres along the Spokane

River. He converted an outbuilding into his studio.

It had several windows for the natural light. There

was a cold pantry in there too, so the air wafted of

apples and potatoes. It was the smells I remember-

ed most--oil paints, old leather in tack, sheepherder

storm coats & work boots--old paper in stacks of

ARIZONA HIGHWAYS, several pieces of aged

fence posts & pungent sprigs of sagebrush. 

He would take months to finish a painting, and 

always seemed to be working on one when we 

would visit. He allowed me to critique works in

progress, a gift not offered to any others.

A pair of osprey

perched on the fence waiting;

fish leaped to their death.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Haibun

Atrophy

painting by Elizabeth Chapman

Atrophy

“Sex at age 90  is like trying to shoot pool

with a rope.”--George Burns

It can be hard to feel good

about your aging body, as

it no longer can be taken for

granted, while arthritis, edema

and terrible balance can nullify

the pursuits & interests of youth.

Wisdom is a poor substitute for vigor.

Divers doors begin to slam shut,

and have to be opened by others.

Activities and former daily agenda

are no longer actual viable options.

Even fond memories become sour milk

as real choices cascade off the calendar

like ghostly flakes of dead skin. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Trumputin

image from Vanity Fair

Trumputin 

“It is said that wrath is the last thing in a man to

grow old.”--Alcaeus.

The world staggers

in stunned disbelief

as Trump improvises

the grandest reality

show in history--the

American Presidency.

Already, historians cringe as they envision

recording Trump’s term(s) for posterity; for

it will be as thick as the New York phone book

and as surreal as a William Burroughs’ novel.

My soul’s anger boils over

every day now, without fail,

as we watch him strangling

democracy, reshaping Congress

to his will like Stalin,

                like Caligula astride Mussolini

                while worshipping Hitler. 

My personal wrath

feels as futile

as a broken bat,

as useless as spurs

on an ice cream cone.

As our nightmare deepens, and the free press

is threatened and maligned, I wonder where this

insanity is leading--to gulags,

                               to servitude,

                               to surrender,

                               to slavery,

                               to the murdering of all who 

oppose him--as he pines for the royal title

of President for Life?

Christ Almighty, snap out of it America!

Fascism no longer hides in the shadows.

It stands in the sun spread-legged, arms

folded, eyes ablaze, unleashing hellhounds. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Wanderitch

image from planetprancer.com

Wanderitch

“Writing is like a lust, like scratching when you itch.”

--C.S. Lewis 

There it is--

that yearning,

that itch

to behold new horizons,

                famous icons,

                regional fare,

                tumultuous topography,

                separate seas,

                singing whales--

to rise

before the dawn,

to head Southwest,

to slip into darkness

needing to rush to

greet the sunrise;

a fresh pungent

today.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Q60