Quartet of Eights

borrowed from shadowness.com

Quartet of Eights

“I prefer a quartet--it makes everyone

work harder.”--Adrian Belew.

Triolet

Worlds within worlds reflect

the overlapping dimensions we inhabit.

Realities most fail to even detect--

worlds within worlds reflect

homeostasis, universes to inspect;

conjuring dreams of riding a comet.

Worlds within worlds reflect

the overlapping dimensions we inhabit.

Ugalino

Rusting steel girders still span

over America’s many mighty rivers,

flexing under the heavy burden

as frantic commute traffic flows.

Flexing under the heavy burden

as frantic commute traffic flows

over America’s many mighty rivers

rusting steel girders still span.

Octave

A dozen street artists linked their joy

and painted Russian faces from Tolstoy.

Art from spray cans--no sign of a bucket,

men in fur hats, a peasant girl in a bonnet.

Soot-covered workers in a hellish factory,

several revolutionary soldiers celebrating victory.

Painted on the walls of a Tacoma parking garage,

until removed secondary to a city council barrage.

Unfettered

There is something gorgeous to be said

about particular unshackled poetry that emerges

from its den of cortical chrysalis

& sprouts huge wet wings,

luminescent rainbows of every hue,

translucent gossamer feathers strongly rooted,

as wild words transform into shape-shifting

heartfelt imaginative inexorable boundless poetics.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Poetics

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Buford's Blues

image found over at caseresblues.es

Buford’s Blues

“I find in my poetry & prose the rhythms & imagery

& mystery of the blues.”--Maya Angelou.

Buford Brown bopped his way downtown backwards,

                       finding first the finite, then the festive finish;

            just being an old black man that was too boisterous,

                                                                too brave,

                                                         too belligerent,

                                                     too much the brawny blues man;

            whining, yowling, yodeling, yelling & yelping--

            whether for a white audience 

            wild for his weathered soulfulness,

                                    or divers faces burnished black

                                    while busking for bucks on Beale Street,

he would strum, stutter, sing & strut,

his lyrics sonorous,

his message singular-- dangling his diaphanous damnations

                       of all the dangerous delusions

               he felt were afoot, while

                    fingering falsehoods  &

                    fighting injustice--his accent thick, twanging

              three strings at once, his tongue tangled with terrible regrets;

         his voice stentorian while revealing

the verdigris pallor on his visitor’s brass vibes;

                    freaked out furtive tones

         frantically mourning freedom’s frailty,

                                                democracy’s diminishment,

                                                         demonstrator’s demise,

                                                 the dirge of constabulary’s demons,

                                                         & the death of hope;

condemning the KKK cowards that could kill a king,

                        rather than allowing freedom to ring--

                   & of course you could bet your balls there was

              banal ballads about bad women, bright booze

        in brown bottles, nagging bitches, fist banging

& luscious love bruises.

They caught him one manic midnight

while pissing powerfully on the tagged wall

of the juicy juke joint he was working,

          used aluminum baseball bats on him,

                                   broke both of his legs, &

                                   busted his fingers, but in his case

          tragedy led to lionization & living legend

as the multitudes of white fans showered him

with learned love, deep devotion,

sacks of silver FDR dimes, & bountiful baskets

of beautiful devil’s food doughnuts,

bought all his albums while brandishing

Buford Brown Rules

on their collective chests, kept him fit, fed & fiddling

until his funeral at 97,

& then they proudly erected & set up

a seven foot statue of him in Seattle

in a hilltop park near Puget Sound. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted proudly over at dVerse Poets MTB/FFA

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Brother, Can You Spare A Rhyme?

myself & brothers in boot camp, 1967.

Brother, Can You Spare A Rhyme?

“I refuse to accept the view that mankind is so tragically bound

to the starless midnight of racism & war that the bright daybreak

of peace & brotherhood cannot be a reality.”--Martin Luther King, Jr.

Brothers can be,     usually are,      biological,

                     part of an actual family unit,        someone

                 to compete with during our childhood,

            over parental affection, first loves, 

food, grades, space, girls, teams, & fast cars.

Not everybody has one; 

some have a dozen.           They do not always get along,

                                  as it is with all siblings.

                        There seems to be specific problems

                                  associated with the birthing pecking order--

oldest, middle, & youngest.                 It is an individual personal 

              dynamic that simply defies generalization. 

From the Greek Republic

through the naked brilliant essence of Socialism,

to the stirring rhetorical seeds of Democracy,

              Brotherhood               

                                                 has been the touchstone,

                                                                 the heart,

                                                                 the foundation.

                                                                 the talking point

                                                 that has been much touted,

                                       infinitely discussed & always strived for.

In my life

many wonderful brothers

have appeared                         midst various alliances, schools, sports,

                                         the Navy, vocations, education,

                               and the holy pursuits of poetry, philosophy, & the Arts.

             As our work-life concludes, we glance about & count

      the brothers that are still in our sphere,

for some only portrayed brothers for a finite period,

            under specific circumstances,

            within set parameters,                 & then they went their own way

                       forging new alliances within other relationships.

Brother, much too often,

can be an overused insincere term,

dropped from lips casually,

without really being earned,

             like the hackneyed use of the word

             Love,                it can be as false,

                                                     as hollow,

                                                     as empty

                                                     as chestnut husks, or

                                                     as discarded cocoons.

If we are fortunate late in life,

estrangement with actual brothers

can be mended, healed, re-bonded,

as the foibles of youth

& the raging libidos ebb.

Now that my own brother & I are both retired,

               we are finding it easier to accept & accommodate to

                            each other’s eccentricities, suddenly able to

                                 regain respect & loyalty for each other,

                        as we share the retrospective historical overview

                 of our family’s tragedies & successes;

just hug each other

& be ever so grateful that

we are still firmly bonded

during the third act of our lives. 

I used to believe that there was no more room in my life for any new

brothers to appear,

              to endear,

              to revere,               but alas, I tell you through the fabulous

                                   fellowship of Poetry, fresh brothers continue to

                          materialize from all over the globe, as mere cyber-friends

                 have eclipsed simple communication & their heartfelt sharing 

has pierced the veneer of my misplaced resolve, enriching my stasis

                 with unforeseen intense brotherhood--that has actually expanded

          my mind,

          my heart, & my world view.           Miraculously, through the vital venue

                                                         of Poetics, this masculine intimacy

                                                   flourishes, & my individual pack of brothers

                                              continues to swell its ranks--

& on those good days when events dovetail, minds merge, & spirits soar,

I even feel the stirrings of my old idealism, & I am beginning to believe that

the weeping woes of this planet can be reduced by the sheer volume of

hopefulness as millions of poets proliferate within every society, nation, race,

border, group & heart. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Poetics

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Security

painting by daria petrilli 

Security

“Perhaps home is not a place, but simply

an irrevocable condition.”-- James Baldwin.

Deep within each of us, where saltwater resides,

there are hidden reefs & caverns

where microscopic prehistoric fish, or their spawn,

or their shadows, or their essence

swim blindly in the total darkness,

wriggling freely between organs, struggling

toward the light that cascades through

membranes & viscus-covered trap doors;

misunderstood, mislabeled as cells, corpuscles & viruses,

they remain both sentinel & home guard,

ever ready to pounce upon intruders

& tear them to pieces with their feral fangs.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at Magpie Tales MAG 265

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Blackthorne--Scene Thirty-Six

image borrowed from horse-wallpapers.com

Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Thirty-Six

Courtship

“Thou & I are too wise to woo peacefully.”--William Shakespeare:

Much Ado About Nothing.

1(two-shot) Johnny Eagle stood as a red-brown statue in the yellow

sawdust of the small corral. The black mustang pawed the air with

one of her shapely legs, danced a bit, whinnied deep in her throat

as she began to circle the Indian, who turned smoothly to face her.

2(medium close-up) Johnny: Hey, sweet lady in black, you want to

go for a little ride?

3(two-shot) The ebony mare reared up on her hind legs, then kicked

out hard with her legs as she settled to ground.

4(close-up) Johnny: Yes, hell, yes--she likes me: white teeth flashing

in a big smile.

5(three-shot) Some of the men who were gathered around the corral laughed.

6(sound cue) snare drum & Indian branch flute.

7(medium close-up) the fat foreman: Damn it, breed, let’s get to breaking

this bitch! You’re paid by the horse, not the hour.

8(Close-up) Johnny, his eyes still on the horse:

Hang onto your fancy pants, boss--Johnny knows best.

9(sound cue) an explosion of derisive laughter from the rail riders.

10(cut to medium close up) blood crept into the foreman’s face & neck.

11(two-shot) the Indian loosened the loop at the end of his lariat, & began

to swing it over his head.

12(sound cue) hypnotic soft whirling of the rope over Indian seed rattle.

13(medium wide-shot) the midnight-black mare bolted just as Johnny

tossed the loop, but he was a practiced hand at this & had led the throw.

The horse ran right into the loop.

14(hold the shot, slide into slow motion) the rope slides over the mare’s

head, tightening immediately as the horse bucked & thrashed wildly.

15(close-up) the Indian quickly secured the end of the busting line around

the center post.

16(medium  wide shot) the horse stopped struggling, just stood breathing

hard, quivering its withers, pulling against the rope.

17(sound cue) overlapping bystander voices:

--That’s it, you got her!

--Ride the bitch, Pard!

--She’s all yours now!

18(cut to medium close up) a tall thin cowboy: Watch her, Johnny! She’s 

small but snakebite mean--she stomped the shit out of Bob Sears last

week; that’s why they sent for you. 

19(close-up) Johnny, struggling to hang on to the rope:

--Oh, I’ll bust her cherry for sure, gents--then tie a red

ribbon in her tail.

20(sound cue) more robust laughter over guitar chords.

21(medium close-up) the frowning fat foreman, his arms

folded, his expression dyspeptic.

22(sound cue) guitar, harmonica, & clarinet.

23(cut to single shot of ) Johnny Eagle, middle-aged, gray

streaks in his long raven tresses, his face deeply lined with

life, with the body of a young man--heavily muscled, hard,

hairless smooth as red soap stone. His colorful vest was

decorated with porcupine quills & snake scales, his pants

were gray elk hide, worn shiny at the knees. A large eagle

talon hung on a silver chain around his neck. He pushed back

his short-brimmed hat, the strap hugging his tan throat. He 

wore a thick leather belt with knife scabbards on each hip--the

big knife on his left side was Bowie-wide, a foot-long &

lethal, 3-fingers thick--the one on his right side was a

throwing knife with a buckhorn handle & a tapered well-

balanced blade.

24(close-up) his big hands unbuckling the thick black belt,

its Navajo silver buckle gleaming with turquoise, & let it

drop gently into the sawdust. 

25(sound cue) galloping horse hooves off in the distance,

over a hawk’s scree, over a trumpet riff.

26(medium close-up) Johnny: Easy, little one, stay calm, girl--

your wild days are almost over.

He reached inside his vest, then stuffed a cigar stub in his mouth,

struck a stick match on his incisors, lit the stoogie & puffed on it.

He picked up a latigo breaking bridle & slung it over his shoulder.

--Hey, Conchita, Johnny is going to ride you now.

27(two-shot) the Indian took a fresh grip on the taunt busting rope,

as the mare shuffled, whinnied & jerked at it. He pulled his way to

her, hand over hand, saying: Easy there, little lady--that’s it--stay

calm--Johnny won’t hurt you--eessee, eeaassssyy...

28(medium wide-shot) the watchers grew silent as the bold Indian

stood at arm’s length from the skittery soot mustang.

29(sound cue) piano, harmonica, & flute.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets OLN

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Republican Shame

image borrowed from fineartamerica.com

Republican Shame

“Huge sums for war, tax breaks for the rich, while wanting deep 

cuts to programs working people need--that is the Republican

budget plan.” --Sen. Bernie Sanders (I-Vt.)

Dearest Republican Senators:

How do you pull it off? 

Targeting the rednecked, ill-educated, low-income

                     John Bircher, KKK, racist, & sexist citizens, 

                             who consistently support you at their own peril,

                     somehow you have wrested away control of the majority in 

             the U.S. Senate, continued to sugar-coat & spin the 

vast majority of facts that confront you, & have led the most 

shameful attack of a sitting President 

             in the entire history of our country.

You deny responsibility masterfully, 

as hard data is revealed concerning 

your misdeeds; facts like--

When Bill Clinton left office in 2001,

                America had a 230 billion dollar surplus.

                              After two terms, when George W. Bush left office

                        in 2009, this country was left with a 1.3 trillion dollar deficit. 

                  Continuing to point the blame at the Democrats,

          the Republicans, who had taken us into wars in Iraq

& Afghanistan, running up the cost to trillions of dollars,

          now, it seems, that in order to deal with this deficit,            

                    they want to slash Medicare, Medicaid, Social Security

                                education & nutritional programs.

Nobody who works a 40-hour week,              should be living  below

                      the poverty line. In the last two years,

                      the 14 wealthiest Americans earned

                      a 157 billion dollar increase in their net worth,

                                         which exceeds the combined income 

                                         of the lowest 40% of our population.

              In addition another study revealed that

              the top 1%  earn more income than the bottom 50%;

              can you spell inequity?

Most of our highways & bridges

are in  terrible shape, crumbling, unsafe, ignored;

We spend more money on our military budget,        something like six

                     trillion dollars, more than 90% spent by all the other

              countries in the world combined, sending the cream

         of our youth to spill their blood in the Middle East.

Why in God’s name can’t we spend 1 trillion dollars

        on rebuilding America’s infrastructure, creating safer

        transportation & new jobs?

And what about our soaring costs for a college education,

creating student indebtedness that will take             decades to repay?

        While 25% of all large corporations in this country

                    pay no federal income tax at all, & another       

                                   50% receive huge Republican-created tax breaks.

                    Middle class youth cannot afford college.

         It is essential that corporations need to pay their fair share,

so that we can reduce educational costs

to the realm of affordable.

Even though I realize

that my complaints will go unheeded,

       my data will be discredited,

       my concerns will not be addressed, 

       my children & grandchildren’s future is in jeopardy, &

       my efforts to get your attention are fruitless, still

I feel better uttering these shameful facts,

rather than watching the disintegration

of democracy mutely, dispassionately, 

just enabling You to have your way with

this country without a fuss.

I remain ashamed of your greed, deceit, & apathy,

as I gird my loins for the 2016 presidential election.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Poetics

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Buccaneers

image borrowed from newswatch.nationalgeographic.com

Buccaneers

“Damnation seize my soul if I give you quarters,

or take any from you.”--Edward Teach (Blackbeard).

Throughout time pirates roamed the sea;

almost every body of water they did rule--

greed, desperation & opportunity were the key.

Plundering, pillaging, & robbing for all to see,

labeled buccaneers & privateers, but always cruel,

throughout time pirates roamed the sea.

Not all pirates were only men on a spree--

women like Anne Bonny conquered ridicule;

greed, desperation & opportunity were the key.

Sailing in two-deckers, the carrack replaced the galley,

& 74 guns were their most impressive tool--

throughout time pirates roamed the sea.

From Blackbeard to Jean Lafitte, we would agree,

bold murderers were depicted as very cool;

greed, desperation & opportunity were the key.

Somalian pirates operate today as guarantee

that war lords & poverty were added to the pool;

for throughout time pirates roamed the sea,

as greed, desperation & opportunity were the key.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets MTB

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