Blackthorne Episode 151

image from westerncovers.com 

Blackthorne

Cinemagenic 151

Embraces

“The grave is a fine and private place, but not one I 

seek to embrace.”--Andrew Marvell .

1(two-shot) Buck opens his eyes, blinks, groans 

and tries to sit up.

Salina: Take it easy, big guy.

2(sound cue) piano and violins.

Buck, in a hoarse voice: Where am I?

Henry Wallace, leaning into the frame: You’re at my

fishing cabin along the Red River.

Buck: Am I dreaming?

Salina bent over and kissed him gently.

Buck: Yup, I’m dreaming.

The three of them laughed nervously, with Buck

coughing at the end.

Buck: If you are going to kiss things to make them

better, pucker up--we’re going to be here all day.

Salina: Now behave.

3(sound cue) awkward silence, then cellos.

4(close-up) Buck: I didn’t think I’d make it.

5(three-shot) Wallace: You damn near didn’t.

Salina: No one bothered to tell the Devil that you

were dancing on the edge. 

Buck smiled.

Salina: You’ve been in a coma for five days.

Buck: Really? Then why don’t I feel more rested?

Again, the nervous laughter.

Buck: Christ, I feel like I was run over by a stage

coach, and stomped by the whole team.

Salina: I won’t tell you what you look like.

Buck: Like death warmed over?

Salina: Worse.

Buck: Well, come on, somebody comb my hair.

Salina snorted.

Wallace: You are alive, thanks Jesus.

Buck: I’ll be sure to do that when I get a moment. 

I guess I about wore out those angels on my shoulder.

Salina: Let’s say you definitely put a cramp in their

wings, for sure.

Buck: Why am I not arrested?

Salina: That’s a long tale for another time, a work

in progress. Just know, as far as we can tell, no

one is after you at the moment.

Buck: How can that be?

Salina: chuckling,”Honey, you blew the lid off the

whole damn town. 

Buck: And that’s a good thing?

Wallace: Looks like it might work out that way. It’s

the strangest situation I’ve ever seen.

Buck: I’m all ears.

Salina: Later, sweetheart. In the meantime, you 

leave all the worrying to me.

Buck: sighing, I can do that.

He closed his eyes and was immediately asleep.

Salina and her father exchanged small smiles.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub OLN

Bolshoy Medved

painting of "The Hope" by Vika Muse.

Bolshoy Medved

“When the Bear begins to dance, it is not you who

decides when the dance is over--it’s the bear.”

--Russian Proverb.

The Russian Bear

is a bastard behemoth;

smaller now than before

the fall of the wall,

but still gargantuan,

            monstrous,

            bestial,

            feral and

            blood-thirsty.

When aroused

it will devour

men, women, and children;

an equal opportunity

slayer.

Normally

it wears a huge cruel spiked collar,

and is held fast by

a thousand ship’s anchor chains;

like King Kong,

too dangerous to tame.

Putin has loosed it

on the whole of Ukraine,

where it’s vicious love affair 

with slaughter seems

never-ending.

The brave population of Ukraine,

though dying by the thousands,

continue to battle the bruin,

as America watches from afar.

The incredible spirit

of the Ukrainian people

rides a horse of light,

and carries a shining lance

that can slay dragons and bear,

and we do see the great bear

bleeding and limping, retreating

and licking its wounds.

We marvel at the visceral bravery

of the Ukrainians, and marvel further

at the flocks of white doves,

that fly into dangerous skies

making a protective murmuration,

offering peace in the iron sky

full of Russian missiles.

It is a fact that it is

hard to target one bird

amongst a moving flock

of millions.

It is written

that the warriors of light

will ultimately defeat

the evil forces of darkness;

meanwhile

the scorched landscape

is littered with broken wings,

                       broken dreams

and empty promises.

Glenn Buttkus

Poetics

Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub

Masque of Spring

image from pinterest.com

 Masque of Spring

“I don’t know with what weapons WWIII will be

fought, but WWIV will be fought with sticks and

stones”.--Albert Einstein.

Outside my window, Spring brings sun-breaks, 

thunder storms, hail and snow--all in the same day.

Many of us choose to write about the beauty of

Spring as a respite from the war news and atrocities

in Ukraine. I understand the need to unsee the

terrible ravages of war, but make what you please of

future spring and sun-warm’d sweet tomorrow, 

nothing that light-hearted can dissuade me from

thinking about those group burials in death ditches,

where innocent bodies are shoveled in like garbage

in a landfill.

I stand for Ukraine, though I can barely stand. I write

in safety about the war crimes done in plain sight. I

applaud fellow poet Ain Starlingsson for actually

traveling there to volunteer his help. I say the entire

civilized world needs to stand united and cut the 

head off the Putin-viper.

Glenn Buttkus

Prosery

Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub

Aubade for Bucha

i

mage from wikipedia 

 

Aubade for Bucha

“There were piles of corpses lying here, without

arms, without legs, without skulls.”

--Resident of Bucha.

Bucha,

usually a sleepy suburb

of Kyiv, with a population

of about 30,000,

was occupied by the Russians

for several weeks.

After they pulled out recently,

the world witnessed 

what they left behind;

the stuff of macabre and

terrifying nightmares.

First noticed from satellite,

then verified in person,

at the intersection of

Yablonska and Voksal streets,

a stone’s throw from the train station,

a dozen bodies lie in the street

for three weeks--no one

was allowed to touch them.

These were mafia-style executions,

head shots while on their knees

with their hands tied behind them,

and they were beaten and tortured

before they were killed.

Later they discovered mass graves,

with hundreds of bodies in them,

and proof of cremation of hundreds more,

as well as land mines being planted

around the grave sites.

Women and children and the elderly

were all murdered in their homes,

before the soldiers looted.

Some had their tongues cut out

for uttering anti-Russian epithets.

Women were singled out,

and raped in front of their children,

then striped naked and killed,

some beheaded.

Yes, history is full of such atrocities,

but the Russian prove to be more

barbarous than even the Nazis,

or the Japanese bayonetting babies,

or the Cossacks killing Jews.

Sadly, this horror continues, and 

it is feared that this incident will

only be the beginning of the war crimes

we will discover later.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub MTB 

Midnight

image by Justine Osborne.

 Midnight

“Poetry is all that is worth remembering in life.”

--William Hazlitt.

I remember being ten years old.

I remember we lived on on a small farm.

I remember a big stray dog that showed up

one morning.

I remember naming him Midnight

I remember what a loving companion he was

for me.

I remember we lived next door to a chicken

farm.

I remember the morning I found blood on the

dog’s muzzle.

I remember being told that during the night he

had killed thirty chickens.

I remember the neighbor demanding that we

destroy the dog.

I remember my step-father agreeing to it in

order to avoid paying money.

I remember digging a grave at the far end

of our field.

I remember the slow walk out to it, me with

the dog, Art with a rifle.

I remember being forced to order the dog to

jump into the hole.

I remember the trust on the dog’s face.

I remember the crack of the rifle.

I remember the dog’s head exploding.

I remember being told to bury him by myself.

I remember a torrent of tears.

I remember hating my step-father, and the world

for a month.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub

Better Ask Pete

image from wikipedia 

Better Ask Pete

“For everything there is a season( turn, turn, turn).”

--the Byrds.

In 1965

Pete Seeger

wrote a song

for the Byrds,

based on a bible verse,

where most of

the lyrics were lifted

verbatim.

“a time for every purpose,

under heaven,” it states

in Ecclesiastes 3:1-8;

this a subject

for a long list

poem. 

Glenn Buttkus

Quadrille

Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub