My Sevenlings

My Sevenlings


Oh Christ

Is that salty wafer really a piece of Jesus?
Is that grape-juice-for-wine in that Dixie cup his blood?
Communion has always creeped me out.

Did Jesus really look like Jeffrey Hunter or Max Von Sydow or
Jim Caviesel, some handsome lean Aryan dude with flowing locks?
Or did he look more like a Jewish spear carrier on Broadway in

“The Merchant of Venice”; hook nose, nappy hair and all?


Jihad

Yes, there is love and Christ-consciousness in the Koran, some
of it reads like the Gnostic scrolls, yet it is painfully evident
that when a zealous 14 year old Muslim boy will strap five pounds

of C-4 to his bony chest intending righteously to martyr himself
by murdering 50 Infidels, expecting sex with 30 naked virgins in
his warped and terrible vision of Heaven, awaiting his hurrahs

as a warrior and hero, where is Allah and the love?


Dribble

We now have a President who plays basketball, and he is pretty
good at it, running unafraid into opponents with flying elbows.
It was fun to watch Magic Johnson on CNN rate his moves.

Still I hope Barack reads Sherman Alexie too, and clearly
acknowledges another rabid B-ball spirit, and soon will beg him
to come to the White House for an intense game of Horse.

Perhaps he can appoint him to be the new Director of the BIA.


White Wannabe

I believe, if our family genealogy charts are accurate, that
my great great grandmother, on my departed mother’s side,
was a Cherokee princess, or not; perhaps more realistically

a dark-skinned woman who was short, and stout, and flat-faced;
a brief liaison of passion with one my white pioneer ancestors,
and when the heat faded, we were left with Indian blood seeping

into our gene pool. Hey, now I am just like Johnny Cash, enit?


Mountain Melodies

Every time I hike miles from a road, up into verdant mountain
meadows, while standing ankle-deep in thick clover, staring up
at the impossibly white cumulus headgear the jagged peaks sport

I swear I hear singing, an angelic choir, a massive Gregorian
Buddhist Catholic chant, just marvelously blended voices
heralding my presence, without words, yet clearly

thrusting a message of welcome straight through my heart.


Glenn Buttkus February 2009