Gifts Within

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Gifts Within

“Youth is a gift of nature, but age is a work

of art.” --Stanislaw Jerzey Lec.

Most agree

that the breath of life

is a divine spark--a gift

from some/thing/one greater

than we are, yet we’re integral to.

Since I believe in past lives, I think

my entity, during the life between

lives, meticulously gifts the next

me with knowledge, wisdom,

insights & obstacles.

For me, the most difficult thing about gifting is

to demonstrate grace & gratitude as a recipient.

Old souls are hip to the Bardoian programming

when the Higher Self gifts the newest Us with

specific obstacles, disabilities, & tragedies, then

later we are taught to own, to thank the divers

difficulties & diseases we have created. We must

be aware that during each lifetime we are still in

lesson--and must struggle to keep moving forward

and to keep learning.   

Each life provides us

more data, more pieces of the

truth--pay attention.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub  

Muy Bonita Mamacita

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Muy Bonita Mamacita

“I did not have a mother; I had a Mama.”

--Al Green.

Fifty years ago, as some of you know, my mother 

died. She was young--I was younger. “39”, I

thought in 1966, “A good life”--as I was drafted right

out of college, heading off to boot camp while Viet

Nam raged south-southeast, & I had to wonder if

I would survive meeting Charlie, would I live to see

39 myself? There was nothing to do but lock and

load, roll the bones, close my eyes, swallow my fear

& leap blindly into the quagmire. I did make it to my

39th orbit around the planet, but the whole year was

a bumpy ride.

My Mama was an earth mother, and it seems that

sister Nature loved her so much, she was called up

to join the fraternity early on. She was then in the

earth, of the earth, beyond the earth--becoming

dust, both in the air & among the stars, a fading

photograph, a specter without a face, without a

voice, evaporating like magnificent cosmic mist

mid-morning on the magenta moors.

As I age, I must

say--my mother’s face becomes

clearer every day.  

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Aquaphobia

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Aquaphobia

“All water has a perfect memory, and is

forever trying to get back to where it was.”

--Toni Morrison.

Water demons have haunted me for all my

life--fearful of my own urine, even

afraid of the rain, refusing to ever cry,

when hurt, or sad about sweat when given

hugs--screaming through every bath, wanting to fly

away like Poe’s macabre crazy raven,

to escape, to disappear, to seek

refuge, to seek solutions not for the meek.

So my quest brought me here atop this dune,

a hundred miles from anything that is wet,

staring blind at the sun, freezing ‘neath the moon,

until my husk is brittle, devoid of all sweat--

hanging on until the peak of high noon,

allowing no one else to pay my debt,

when gladly I exhale my very last breath

into the hot sand mouth of my friend death.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub MTB

Deck Decibels

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Deck Decibels

“My body is an ugly masterpiece that lives

off the beauty of sound.”--Chad Sugg.

Residing near

the vast

inland sea of

Puget Sound,

my deck-time

is serenaded

by Soundgarden,

as my old tom

sounds-off to

the neighbor’s cat.

Rarely I beat

my wife soundly

at pinochle.

My grandchildren’s

laughter is the sound

I Iove the most.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Blackthorne--Scene 63

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Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Sixty-Three

Banter

“If you find it hard to laugh at your self, I would

be happy to do it for you.”--Anonymous.

1(two-shot) Johnny, over Buck’s shoulder, calm

eyes, after three beats of silence: I am no longer

angry at you, my Buck.

2(medium wide shot) Johnny opened a pine tool

box by the stall.

3(close-up) He snagged a rusted tin of thick yellow-

brown ointment--homemade--probably an Indian

concoction. He gently lifted Bob’s swollen knee,

4(sound cue) Bob’s neigh over snare drum brushing.

5( medium two-shot) Johnny: Easy, young man--this

will make you feel better. He glanced up at Buck--

The anger still simmers.

6(wide shot) Buck threw his vaquero saddle over a 

wooden sawhorse.

7(sound cue) horses nickering, their steel horse shoes 

rapping against the puncheon flooring over a guitar

chord.

8(close-up) Buck: Your anger has a companion in my 

own. Shit, I doubt that Sheriff Hop can help much--this

incident happened on open range. 

9(two-shot) over Buck’s shoulder--Johnny: I do not

completely trust Joe Hop. Buck nodded his head in

agreement.

10(close-up) Johnny: Damn truth is, you probably

saved my life today--bit a flame has erupted in my

chest. I no longer can abide any Bronson pissing on

my pow-wow.

11(sound cue) piano & banjo.

12(two-shot) Buck kneeled down alongside the Eagle,

watching him massage the pungent ointment into Bob’s

swollen leg.

Buck: Christ, that stuff smells like axle grease, bear fat

and cow crap

Johnny: Plus assorted herbs, rose hips, bee pollen, 

turtle spit, and prairie dog piss.

They both laughed.

13(tighter two-shot) over Johnny’s shoulder--Buck, his 

smile fading: I think Thor would have killed one of us, 

& I was not as prepared to die as you were.

14(sound cue) Indian seed rattle & harmonica huffing.

15(close-up) Johnny: We were shoulder to shoulder;

brothers. I could hear my death song on the wind.

16(close-up) Buck: You are my family now--another

reason to rein you in.

17(close-up) Johnny, eyes on his task: Life is not

always a Spring morning. In a blink, it can become

an irritated sow grizzly & can chew your guts out.

18(sound cue) snare drum & saxophone.

19(two-shot) over the Eagle’s shoulder; Buck: Too

true, but hey, picking fleas off a mother grizz’ with

cubs should be avoided.

Johnny snorted in glee, Buck stood up, pushing his

sleeves back, placing his hands on his hips: Alright,

if you think that jughead mule of yours will pull traces

with one of the mustang mares, we will head into

town tomorrow.

Johnny: Good plan. Who knows, if you’re lucky you

might even bump into Miss Salina.

Buck, smiling again: Behave yourself, my brother.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Elk Fishing

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Elk Fishing

“There is no abstract art. You must always 

start with something.”--Pablo Picasso.

Woke up curious four times

this morning, 

before I escaped my dreams,

or I think I did, as I gleefully

partook the rites of urination.

I brewed up some Earl Gray.

spiked with toenail jam,

stirred with an owl feather;

sipping it beneath my deck,

squatting on pancakes, listening

to the argument between rain

and my fiberglass roofing, sounding

like thousands of angels using the

deck cover as a toilet, filling the wetness

with the smell of Mandarin oranges,

allowing my mind’s crust to

wander & wonder--

Does yellow snow taste like 

    it looks? Does a metal fan blade

         ever get indigestion? Are the creaking 

    hinges on my screen door proof

of a secret hinge code? What

                             does liberty smell like? Now 

                      that watches can talk, do they

              switch languages as you travel? 

          Does smog have the texture

of elm bark? Can thick fog sing

          credible rap lyrics? When a heart

               breaks alone in the forest,

                         can the ants hear it? Yes.

                                acid rain enables rust, but

                                can it tan skin? 

                                When does

                              anger look pink?

                           Do cold--blooded crea-

                       tures like to drink antifreeze?

                    What specific odor is associated

              with genius intellect? If you stroke a car’s

                     hood, does it become aroused? 

                          Does insanity have a 

                                theme song?

Does jealousy smell like fried

green tomatoes? Is stupidity

always dark brown & sticky?

Is a check legal if it is filled

out in frog’s blood? If you

habitually wear your sunglasses

on your posterior, do they finally

become aspects?

Hope sings anthems, and

red sells cars, but glass hammers

fear nails of all sorts.

                     

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub  

List Me Lovely

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List Me Lovely

“Lists today are a way of trying to get through the

day, because we’re losing our sense of time.”

--David Viscott.

My retirement began 

               in joy,

               in perpetual motion,

               in parcels,

               in June 2010,

               in my 66th year,

        within the conclusion of my bondage,

but never incognito.

For some inexplicable reason,

I was given several years at the

tail-end of my teaching career

        to learn to let go,

        to inaugurate serious retirement planning           

        to investigate digital photography,

        to learn more about personal computers,

        to give up my personal office space,

        to sit in the large noisy typing pool,

        to become anonymous,

                          calm,

                          tiny, nearly

                          invisible.

Yes, my compassionate superiors

actually allowed me to ease into

                          my transition,

                          my rebirth,

                          my adventure,

                          my stress-free zone. 

                          my dreams,

                                fantasies,

                                hopes,

                                plans, paths, & pursuits.

Of course in an imperfect world

one never really foresees, or allows for,

                                           or expects

poor health,

    death in the family,   

          death among your peers, accidents,

                     or on the flip side,

                         the magical birth of eight

                      grand children, and

                  the loss of your free

               time, contrasted with   

         the traumatic death of pets,

         political chaos,

         loss of portfolio revenue,

automobile & home repairs,

additional obesity, and

a painful plethora of new

symptoms & pains.

For me, lists form in

thin air; the best way to stave

off poor memory.             

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub MTB