Saturday, November 30, 2013

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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Friday, November 29, 2013

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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Thursday, November 28, 2013

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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Saturday, November 23, 2013

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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Thursday, November 21, 2013

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

Would you like to hear the author read this Ode to you?

Wednesday, November 20, 2013

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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