March 7, 1965

image from timelife.com

March 7, 1965

“You must not be afraid to speak up, and speak

out for what you believe. You need courage, raw

courage.”--John Lewis

Twas at Brown’s Chapel

Church where the freedom riders

gathered, fists unclenched.

Martin Luther King

marched on point, John Lewis by his

side; 25 years old.

Almost 100 years

after Confederacy’s 

surrender, but in

1965 the

Klan was strong, and racism was

rampant, raw, and cruel.

600 marchers poured

into the street, with 54

miles to the capital.

At the bend, they could

see the bridge, named after

Edmund Pettus, who

was a Confederate

general, a Grand Wizard

of the Ku Klux Klan,

later becoming an

Alabama senator;

considered a hero.

The marchers strained

climbing the face of the bridge;

once at the crest, they

clearly saw hundreds of

“Bama state troopers stretched

50 deep across the street.

Then the crack of a 

whip as troopers charged right at

the helpless marchers.

On horseback, with dogs,

armed with clubs, whips, and tear gas

they ran over the crowd.

John Lewis tried to cover

a fallen woman, and had

his skull cracked for it.

Almost every year

there is a reenactment,

minus the violence.

Over 50 years later,

John Lewis passed on at 80.

Trump refused to pay

his respects as Lewis

lie in state; once again he’s

shown his true nature.

Lewis was given

six days of honors, starting with

doing the march itself.

The caisson rolled so

slowly, with John Lewis aboard,

taking his last ride.

Two black horses pulled the

wagon; our grand flag draped tight

over the casket.

One more time, oh God,

one more time, before the bridge

is renamed for Lewis.

Glenn Buttkus

Haiku sequencing

Posted over at d'Verse Poets Pub 

Halcon Peregrino

image from capitaljournal.com

Halcon Peregrino

“Ignorance is the curse of God. Knowledge is the

wings wherewith we fly to heaven.”

--William Shakespeare.

I am the King Kong of falcons,

          Peregrine, baby, the raptor 

                  prince of the stratosphere.

                      I’m a handsome lad--been on

                           my own for 13 years. Check me

                                   out, dark gray, with a Stygian 

                           black helmet. My eyering and

                       cere is butterfly yellow. My ebon

                   beak is snappy and small, very

                sharp, very hooked and blood-

             stained. I have buff pointed

          wings, with a span of four

     feet, with a long sweet tail.

I fly high

and fast;

a lethal missile

that swoops down

on smaller birds

snatching them

out of the sky.

I can fly, cruising

     at 40mph, and when I drop

            down with my wings pinned

                  back, I can hit 170 mph, just

                       slicing the air, nearly silent, a

                               dagger of feathered death.

                       My parents were pets to

              an Asian falconer, a nomad

          on the steppes of Russia,

      a mere falcon’s flight from

  Alaska. My name stands

for Wanderer, or Pilgrim.

My brethren can be found

on every continent. I was set

free at a year old, and I

immigrated to America.

My claimed air space

is above the Olympic

National forest.

My nest is built at

    4,000 feet, on the steep

         cliff shoulders of Mt. Olympus,

            nestled on an ancient Sitka Spruce

                tree root, strong, and secure. The nest

                    once belonged to a pair of bald eagles.

                Damn, they used to hunt me, but even

              while double-teamed, I proved to be

           too swift, too bold, too powerful for         

       them. It helped that they were

    elders, and i was at the peak

of my youth.

My reward was

that I outlived

them, and now 

I own their fine nest.

I’ve had the same mate

for ten years--my Delilah.

Often we hunt as a pair,

randy carnivores feasting

on the flesh of rodents,

                        birds,

                        rabbits,

                        snakes,

and if we’re lucky,

a luscious cat 

or a tiny dog.

It’s an hour’s flight to the ocean.

Seagulls are a delicacy,

and they are fast

and fun as prey.          

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at d'Verse Poets Pub

Bloody Sunday

painting by Joan Baez.

Bloody Sunday

“The vote is precious, almost sacred. It is the most

powerful non-violent tool we have in democracy.”

---Congressman John Robert Lewis.

Bridge--the Edmund Pettus.

Robert--John’s home name.

Attacked they were, in 1965.

Many marchers injured.

Black lives clubbed.

Lean in--make good trouble.

Everyman’s hero.

Services--tribute for six days,

      for the fallen freedom fighter,

      making it from a cotton plantation

      to Congress. 

  

Glenn Buttkus

Quadrille: exactly 44 words.

Posted over at d'Verse Poets Pub

Blackthorne Episode 119

painting by Robert George Harris

Blackthorne

Cinemagenic 119

Fabrication

“A lie may take care of the present, but it has

no future.”--Craft M. Pentz.

1(sound cue) castanets and Indian seed rattle.

2(cut to a wide shot) the gunmen at the back of

the room stood up, their shotguns cradled over

their arms. The two men upstairs with Spencers

stood over their fallen comrade, peering down at

the twisted crushed corpse of Ramos in the middle

of the floor; Ramos, the man who used to break

backs, now a pile of villainous rubbish.

3(medium close-up) Paul Bronson: Cash--you watch

that Buck-bastard, he wants to kill you.

4(close-up) Cash Bronson: Where’s Thor?

5(medium close-up) Thor Bronson: I’m right here, 

rising up from behind the bar, his left hand to his

right shoulder, the right arm striped with blood, his 

right hand mangled, missing his pinky. He walked 

over to Ramos’ body, and stood there shaking.

6(cut to front door) Henry Wallace entered, pushing

his way past deputy Billy: Christ Almighty--the Doc

is already full up. We’re going to need a triage at

the foot of his stairs

7(three-shot) Buck: What did you find out,

Sheriff? 

Hop: This is a fine time for you to ask, his voice

dry and cracking.

8(sound cue) harmonica over scuffing chairs and

restless boots.

9(cut to medium close-up) Cash Bronson: Who is

going to tell me what the hell happened here?

his fingers jammed in his vest pockets.

10(cut to medium close-up) Paul Bronson: It was all

them two, coming meekly down the stairs, wagging

his pale finger at Buck and the big Indian.

11(one-shot) Thor Bronson was scowling down at

his gunshot hand, and he was silent.

12( medium close-up) Paul Bronson: They came in

here spoiling for a fight, yelling about getting you.

Before any of us could reason with them, they just

started shooting up the place.

13(two-shot) The Indian’s dark eyes found

Buck’s blue ones. Buck’s eyes registered

nothing.

14(close-up) Cash Bronson: Is that the way

it was, Thor?

15(one-shot) Thor pulled a chair to him with his

foot, and sat in it. In obvious pain, and through

gritted teeth, he said: Yeah, that’s pretty much

how it came down. Buck, here, seems to think

that we sent them men out to his place, and he

wasn’t in any mood to discuss it.

16( medium close-up) Cash: Is there any man

here who saw it different?

17(medium wide shot) Four bystanders who had

not participated in the gunfight looked at each

other. No one spoke up.

18(two-shot) Sheriff Hop: What’s your version of

events?

Buck: Does it really make any difference?

Hop: Yes, it does.

Buck: They are both lying.

19(sound cue) guitar and harmonica.

Hop, after a moment: So...what’s the truth?

20(close-up) The Indian blurted out: Men came to

the cantina. Ramos shot Mateo. Many saw it. We

came here after Ramos.

Hop: Looks like you found him.

Indian: The Bronsons would not give him to us. Thor

squared off with Buck. They pulled first. We were just

protecting ourselves.

21(close-up) Cash, said quietly: There are four or five

dead men here that might have a different story.

22(close-up) Buck: Then why don’t you fucking ask

them?

23(sound cue) blues guitar slide.

24(medium wide shot) Henry Wallace: Why couldn’t

you have waited for the Sheriff?

Buck: You were there. The sons’abitches poked the

bear. They’re the ones who couldn’t wait.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at d'Verse poets Pub OLN