Combat Boots

image borrowed from bing

Combat Boots

“Most of my young years were spent under

the boots of the military.”--Paulo Coelho.

Back in the 

Mary Jane smoky 60’s, when

I was in 

the Navy, we

called all military boots brogans;

the first time

I had ever

heard the term. Smart-assed

kids that we

were, we would

insult each other by saying,

“Your mother wears

combat boots!”. Turns

out brogan is derived from

the Irish word

brogue, which meant

any rugged boot that barely

covered the ankle.

During the French

Revolution, aristocrats quit wearing big

buckled boots; fearing

the guillotine, they

began wearing laced-up boots.

Thomas Jefferson, in

tribute, in 1801

started the fashion of wearing

laced-up boots--

and later all

laced up footwear were called

Jeffersons. During the

Civil War, soldiers

all wore the 1851 Jefferson

brogan; square-toed,

with four eyelets

& leather laces--but hard

to tell apart,

North or South, 

once covered in mud &

blood. Somewhere along

the way, we

began to refer to troop

deployment as boots

on the ground.

Our  brave soldiers wore those

sturdy leather brogans

during World Wars

I & II, and Korea--

but in Vietnam

the brogan became

the jungle boot, with heavy

canvas replacing the

leather sides. Now

during the 21st Century, as

we send soldiers

the Middle Eastern

deserts, scorching temps of 130-

140 degrees literally

melt the combat

boots. Brogans today have become

symbolic of the

dead soldier who

once wore them. We all

remember the Eyes

Wide Open exhibit

at Bradley University where 230

military boots were

placed in neat

rows of eight; heart-breaking

as Art, as

truth. We are

now used to seeing images

of thousands of

empty brogans, eyelets

open, laces loose, with dog

tags, flowers, and

flags poking out

of them, often placed alongside

rifles shoved into

the ground with

an empty helmet perched atop.

Personally, the only

military boots I

ever admired were the pair

worn by Neil

Armstrong as he

left those indelible boot sole

prints in the

gray-white moondust,

boots of hope, leaving beautiful

imprints that, although

not forgotten, have

not yet been bested by

boots on Mars. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Poetics

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Sign-Dancing

image borrowed from google.

Sign Dancing

“Is sign language the real language

of paradise?”--Hugo Ball.

33-year old

Holly Maniatty

creates music

for the deaf

using fancy dances moves

& body language.

Even Springsteen joined her

in her routine

to the strains of

DANCING IN THE DARK. 

She does her thing

to jazz, rock, gospel, country,

& will sign profanity

at rap concerts

as the excited crowds

hoot & holler.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on G-Man's Flash 55

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Holiday Hypnagogia

Holiday Hypnagogia

“Art is the reproduction of what the senses perceive

in nature through the veil of soul.”--Edgar Allan Poe.

Today we have tryptophan dreams of pumpkin ponds,

with white gravy bubbling up in hot springs,

cranberries sprouting along mossy logs,

garlic mashed potatoes smothering dandelions

as summer ice wine ripples over rainbow rocks,

as catfish tickle cherub’s cheeks, frying up crispy

black in heavy pans, with fruit salad spilling

from woodpecker holes, 

as golden wolves devour wild turkeys, the very

same ones that had drown while staring up

at the rain, spitting out white feathers that would

never become part of pillows, as stovetop stuffing

is found in hot Hudson hub caps, as garlic bread

had cute holiday greetings burned into pungent bites;

then suddenly awake seeing the television screen

replaying the Macy’s Simpsons’ balloon deflation,

between blasts of roaring NFL football games

as apple/berry pies fly willy-nilly around the room,

and yellow squash cake slices itself into fat pieces;

only to awaken again, perhaps this time for real,

feeling hungry, somewhere between flatulence 

& sweet potato burps. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted this Thanksgiving over at dVerse Poets MTB

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Born in Poseidon

Born in Poseidon

“Tomorrow is only found in the

calendar of fools.”--Og Mandino.

Unlike a tree, man does not create

an annual ring to commemorate

the planet’s axial plunge through

solstice & space;

so we float along each moment,

trying to recall the past by snapping pictures,

cataloging memories, keeping diaries,

& writing poetry, while being conditioned

to plan for a future both unresolved

& untouchable, because only the actual

moment is the custodian of our heartbeat

& breath; it is our gift from the gods, 

our legacy from history, and we call it

the present;

but absurdly the world hums all around us

and Calendars push their way into our sphere,

without permission, demanding itineraries,

& if we feel nauseous or vertigo from riding

the calendar-cycles, it becomes much like

chiding my three year old granddaughter

for doing something she shouldn’t--

she just looks up & smiles, saying,

“But Pop, that’s just how I do it.”--

how it’s always been done, creating calendars

from lunar or solar cycles, forcing us to keep

track, to get a grasp on time, “The only thing,”

said Seneca,”given in equal measure to all men”.

Starting with Time itself;

did you know that there are

31 trillion seconds in a year,

525,600 minutes,

& 8,766 hours, or that

1961 can be read upside down

& that will not happen again until

6009, or that the June Geminis

were born during the Greek

month of Poseidon?

Looking into the history of calendars

is like trying to keep track of, or to understand

the history of languages, with all the cultural

& religious cornerstones & determinants.

Making sense out of calendars is not an easy

task, studying the Sumarian, Mayan, Greek, & Roman

ones, lunar or solar or both--many based on

starting dates that have nothing to do with

the birth of Christ;

We are informed that this is the year 2013, 

using the Anno Domini system, calculating

the passage of time as BC & AD, now BCE,

but actually more exactly based on the

Gregorian calendar developed in 1582,

which was a reformation of the Julian Calendar--

as that particular Caesar changed the former

Roman calendar from 10 months & 304 days

to the 365.25 days we can recognize/relate to,

& those Vikings simplified things significantly

by having only two seasons;

Summer--May through September

Winter--October through April. 

I mean even though it is 2013 for most of us,

on the Armenian calendar it is 1464,

on the Hebrew it is 5773,

on the Chinese it is 4709,

on the Buddhist it is 2557,

& on the Byzantine it is 7522.

All I really know is that at some point

you can lose track of days, & simply

be aware of the sun & moon, day & night;

like a man lost & wandering in the desert,

with no timepiece, no calendar--just

being aware of those prominent cycles

of hunger, sleep, & waste elimination--

& this state of blissful ignorance is called

Retirement. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets Poetics

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Ode to Citizen Bane II

image borrowed from bing

Ode to Citizen Bane II

PABLO NERUDA STYLE

We

of the masculine

genus,

you know

the ones with a

penis--

sometimes wonder

wistfully

if during

our other lives

we were once

more

than brothers

play with

motors, guns, &

knives;

that perhaps we might

even

have been

mothers

in some distant land,

some distant time,

whelping

poets,

bastards, sculptors,

predators,

pimps & presidents?

We

deliberate denizens

of these

United States

rolling blindly on

red-white & blue

skates;

fed up

with partisan politics,

pining pathetically

for

a way out,

egress

from the mix

of

empire building,

corporate sodomy,

unending

cycles of war,

war,

& more war,

ill health,

& the obvious

uneven distribution

of wealth

would 

really love

to get on

the buses,

get

in line,

drive to DC,

then

march by the billions

to

the very steps

of Congress;

that is

if we actually

thought

it would

accomplish the things’

we fought

for,

wished for,

died

for,

needed.

We

of the

Wordsmith predilection,

the heavy

lifters,

the bleeding

hearts, spokespersons,

loose cannons,

gad flies,

romantics,

pariahs,

petitioners,

prophets;

we

will be

embed with the 

warriors,

will

work for your

slave wages,

will

suffer the

dehumanization,

will consent

to being

bullied, will

remain

within sad relationships,

will

take up the

unpopular 

causes,

so that

in between the

bouts of bathos,

wedged

between

chaos & coitus,

we

remain

free

to let loose

the daring dogs

of poetics;

unleashed,

teeth bared,

unmuzzled

& ever faithful,

ever loyal

to the rare

Masters

of 

Truth. 

Glenn Buttkus

Also posted over on dVerse Poets FFA

Ode to Citizen Bane

painting by norman rockwell

Ode to Citizen Bane

“Suspicion is the companion of mean souls, and the

bane of all good society.”--Thomas Paine.

We

of the masculine genus,

you know, the ones with a penis--

sometimes

wonder wistfully if during our other lives

we were once more than brothers

playing with motors, guns, & knives;

that perhaps we might

even have been mothers

in

  some

        distant

             land,

                  during

                         some

                               distant

                          time,

                   whelping

               poets,

       bastards,

sculptors, predators, pimps, & presidents?

We

deliberate denizens of these United States

rolling blindly on red-white-& blue skates,

fed up

          with partisan politics,

pining pathetically for a way out of the

                                      fray, egress from the mix

of empire building,

corporate sodomy, unending

cycles of war, war, & more war,

ill health, & the obvious

uneven distribution of wealth

                                    would really love to get on

the buses,

get in line,

drive to DC, then

                    march by the billions to the very steps

of Congress; that is if we actually thought

                         it would accomplish any of

                         the things we fought for,

                                               wished for,

                                               died for, needed.

We

of the wordsmith predilection,

the heavy lifters,

the bleeding hearts,

spokespersons,

                         loose cannons,

                                                 gad flies,

                                                                romantics,

                                                                pariahs,

                                                                petitioners, 

                                                                prophets;

we

    will be embed with the warriors,

    will work for your slave wages,

    will suffer the dehumanization,

    will consent to being bullied,

    will remain within sad relationships,

    will take up the unpopular causes, 

so that between the bouts of bathos,

wedged between chaos & coitus,

we remain free

to let loose the daring dogs of poetics;

unleashed,

teeth bared,

unmuzzled,

& ever faithful, ever loyal

to the rare Masters

of Truth. 

                                                           

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on dVerse Poets FFA

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Fulminology: The Fury of the Gods

image borrowed from bing

Fulminology: The Fury of the Gods

“I’d rather be a lightning rod than

a seismograph.”--Ken Kesey.

Lightning is organic anger,

the polar opposite of a rainbow;

man, throughout his reign, has had

good reason to be astraphobic;

creating gods & myths to place blame

upon for the constance of destruction;

Zeus for the Greeks,

Tialoc for the Aztecs,

Raijin for the Shinto,

Indra for the Hindus,

Thor for the Norse.

In the 1st Century, AD, there was a Macedonian

runner called Apollodorus, & after winning an event

at the Pisa Olympics, was killed by lightning while

on his way home--Zeus was blamed for his death,

slaying him out of envy. 

Lightning is Nature’s infarction; intense

& too often lethal, it is a massive electrostatic 

discharge, & it occurs 40-50 times a second

somewhere worldwide--when warm air mixes

with colder air, polarizing the atmosphere, creating

an electrically conducting plasma channel in the air.

There is an unfortunate village called Kifuka, high

up in the mountains of the Congo, that is loved

by lightning, embracing it with 158 strikes

per mile--per year.

As an advocate for the Devil’s bolts, I must say

in its defense, lighting is indiscriminate, hitting

the highest objects first, but passing through

them unintentionally during its driving need

to collide with the earth--

--like it did in New Jersey, striking a 6 Flags 

steel roller coaster, the Kingda Ka,

--like it did in Brescia, Italy in 1769, striking

the church of San Nazaro, & killing 3,000 people,

--like it did in Rhodes, Greece in 1856, striking

the Palace of Grand Master, killing 4,000 people. 

Like a thuggee, or ninja, or crazed assassin,

it comes to us in a myriad of guises:

Thundersnow, 

    Dark Lightning.

        Dry Lightning,

            Heat Lightning,

                 Ribbon Lightning,

                     Forked Lightning,

                         Rocket Lightning,

even Superbolts, that are 100 times brighter

than normal--God’s flashbulbs.

We can protect ourselves, but we must remember

as we place metal lightning rods on our many rooves,

to include a wire, or electrical conductor, that can

be connected with the ground. 

So if lightning becomes your outdoor entertainment,

be aware as you stand in the storm 

to watch it,

you are playing hopscotch 

in the middle of a freeway;

but hey, even if lightning does strike you, maybe

it won’t completely fry your internal organs, maybe

you will survive & live on to become

a empathetic healer,

a spiritual astronaut,

a professional golfer,

or a poet. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over on Poetry Jam

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