Blackthorne--Scene 66

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Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Sixty-Six

Talons and Horns

"When a fish-hawk strikes its talons too deep in 

a fish, beyond its lift, he is carried under and

drowned."--Christian Bovee.

1(medium wide shot) Young Buck, twenty miles out

of camp, mounted, his blood & mud soaked fringes

on his buckskin shirt dancing in the breeze, his back

to the camera, his new .50 caliber Sharps crossed in

front of him.

2(sound cue) cello & French horn.

3(smooth crane shot) rising up over the hunter’s 

back, revealing a small herd of buffalo between 

arroyos below him; landscape looking like a mini-

badlands; they were out in the open, feeding at a
walk like antelope.

4(close-up) Buck’s eyes--laced with sadness.

5(close up) the Bison monarch’s pink eyes.

6(dolly-shot pulling back) the old bull was a prairie 

behemoth, easily more than a ton of hair, bone & 

meat--twitching his tail, his hump more than six feet

from the grass, his pelt pure albino.

7(stop at medium wide-shot) a tiny herd of ten--two

young bulls, six cows, & two calves--one of them 

also an albino--a spot of adolescent snow in the 

yellow-green grass

8(sound cue) clarinet & coronet.

9(cut to two-shot) Buck dismounted, his Sharps in his

right hand. Over his deerskin shirt, at his narrow waist,

he wore his cartridge belt. A dozen brass rifle shells 

rowed across the back of it; pistol shells in the front on 

both sides. He unlashed a burlap sack from behind his 

saddle; a worn thin buffalo hide to lie on, several stick 

yokes to put the hex-barrel into, a dark brown box of 

cartridges for the Sharps.

10(sound cue) Voice-over (VO)--Buck: Stay loose, 

Rod; stay calm & bag all the adults. If I chase them 

on horseback, I’d be lucky to put down two or three 

of them. That albino pelt will bring high dollar over at

Fort Anderson.

11(medium wide shot) from behind him, the bison out-

of-focus in the distance. Downwind of them, he 

moved slowly on foot. He stopped at about 100 yards 

from them, pulling his tools out of the bag, lying down 

on the pelt.

12(sound cue) soft guitar chords under Buck’s (VO):

You’ve seen this before; deep breaths--you know 

that the ole’ bull will not run. The youngest bull 

will break herd formation & lead the cows & calves 

off in another direction-while the old albino, and the 

other  bull will stay & stand; possibly even charge 

me.

13(medium close up) Buck worked twelve .350 grain

brass-jacketed shells out of his belt, placing them in

a lethal row on the pelt. He wore the sawed-off by

then--taking it out of its snap-holster, & placing it

alongside the bullets of death. He picked up a pair 

of cavalry binoculars, & peered into them.

14(sound cue) high notes--viola & guitar.

15(cut to round telescopic image-medium close-up)  

The taurine was scarred up, covered with ancient 

angry horn gashes, one back leg was crooked after

being struck by an Eastern iron horse; hanging

from one white flank was a broken Comanche lance,

it’s twin crow feathers fluttering. 

16(close-up) Buck--thinking: You old monster. You’ve

lived long & beat the odds. I will hum your death song

because this morning will be your last wake-up.

17(slow rising crane shot) up to a seamless cut to a 

drone shot, rising a hundred feet higher, then static 

hold as Buck prepared for the kill

18(sound cue) hawk scree over violin screech.

19(hold wide-shot) two beats before a hawk drops

through the frame in steep dive; one blink before

fade to black.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN  

Have Mercy

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Have Mercy

“For those who expect to reap the blessings of

freedom--they must undergo the fatigues of

supporting it.”--Thomas Paine

To the coal miner,

who has been out of work for years,

now addicted to heroin,

who voted for Trump:

“Blessings be upon you.”

To the 25 year old veteran,

losing three limbs to a roadside bomb,

who now only has the VA 

to count on for help

to repair his mangled body

and tortured soul:

“To be an American is to enjoy the blessings

of liberty, freedom, and justice for all.”

To the truncated Syrian family

living in a huge refugee camp,

having their single meal of the day--

moldy bread, rancid rice, & grass soup:

“Oh Allah ! Bless this food you have 

provided us.”

To the 12 year  old

newly initiated gang member,

who helped beat an old woman

to death for her tattered purse,

forced to go to church

by his grandparents

who he lives with,

since his father is in prison.

and his mother died of a drug overdose,

who is taking communion:

“Taste and see that the Lord is good--

blessed are the ones who take refuge in him.”

To the 15 year old girl

who is pregnant

after being raped by her father,

who no longer can be helped

by the under-funded Planned Parenthood:

“God bless America. You know I get things

done--and in the end, everybody likes me.”

--Donald J. Trump.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Morning's Dance

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Morning’s Dance

“Morning has broken, like the first morning.

Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird.”

--Cat Stevens.

6:45 am, awakened by the ping of the sprinklers

being activated--and the thrush-thrush-thrush of the

sweet water sings me to my feet. Our temps already

in the the 90’s, the Pacific Northwest is sweltering,

and tender lawns need watering before the heat

blasts. With my wife traveling in Europe, I am the

one who must tend to our old tomcat at the back door

at the first sound of stirring within. His guttural plea

wafts like a crowing to neighbors.

I sit for a few precious minutes on our deck, sipping

tea, enjoying the brisk breeze, stimulating the lovely 

leaves to dance on the huge old maple across the 

fence. I shower quickly, wolf down some fruit and

yogurt before heading out the door, I have planned

a photography junket up valley in old town Kent,

before the onerous heat & oppressive traffic will

drive me back to my a/c & waiting computer.

The large maple leaves

dance & undulate in the

early morning’s stir.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub--Haibun

Last Journey

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Last Journey

“Every day is a journey, and the journey itself

is home.”--Matsuo Basho.

Most of us will die at night. 

We clutch at hope during the day--

in darkness we give up the fight.

Whether it be wrong, or it be right,

somehow our soul finds a way;

most of us will die at night.

No matter our deeds, or how very bright

our inner flame, or how much we pray,

in darkness we give up the fight.

We hope to be greeted by the sight

of loved ones & friends, whose smiles are gay.

Most of us will die at night.

Yes, as we walk slowly toward the light,

in transition we will find our true way;

in darkness we give up the fight.

Moving up we approach the heights,

leaving our many demons at bay;

most of us will die at night--

in darkness we give up the fight.  

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub MTB Villanelle

School Days

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School Days

“The two best days of school--the first

& the last.”--Anonymous

The country school house

was abandoned in 1960,

when there just wasn’t

enough children to merit

keeping it open.

Kids grew up and became hippies.

                                           lawyers,

                                           drug dealers.

                                           line cooks,

                                           doctors &

                                           florists--

leaving all the farms

to their aging parents.

The sign fell down after its post rotted. Wild grass,

thistles and brambles grew over it, making it

disappear for years; as it became oxidation’s bitch.

The dangerous curve 

it once warned about,

claimed the life

of a nine-year old girl,

three dogs, and

a couple of raccoons. 

For a time, the few children that were left, were all

bussed twenty-three miles away to a community

cluster of schools in a small town. Now those busses

are rusting hulks in farmer’s fields. Too soon most of

the small farms were bought out by huge corporate

combines & building contractors.

Where have all the child-

ren gone? Off to the wars, more

fodder for cities.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Pepper Me Timbers

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Pepper Me Timbers

“It was twenty years ago today,

Sgt. Pepper taught the band to play.”

--the Beatles

Woke

up from

a nap feeling

all peppery & shit--

sneezing, with black spots

in front of my eyes;

putting me 

in mind of Pepper

Flicks, like SALT N’ PEPPER

with Peter Lawford

& Sammy Davis Jr.

or sexy Angie,

Sgt “Pepper” Anderson,

POLICE WOMAN.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over a dVerse Poets Pub Q44

Blackthorne--Scene 65

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Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Sixty-Five

Glory Days

“The greater the obstacle, the more glory in

overcoming it.”--Moliere.

1(sound cue) harmonica & guitar strumming gently

Voice over: Buck: That night the buffalo came again.

2(wide shot) It was after Midnight. The two-story ranch 
house stood tall & stark & dark. A large barn
owl chased some bats out of the ajar hayloft door. A
rabbit squealed in the distance as hawk talons ripped it.
To the left & perpendicular to the house, the long
low bunkhouse stood quiet. A full moon lit up the corrals,
cayuses, & rail fences.

3(sound cue) Cicadas, seed rattle, horse nickering, gentle

harmonica huffing.

4(dolly shot) moving toward the bunkhouses”s open door,

as it was a hot night.

5(tighten the shot, traveling over the porch & into 
bunkhouse)

6(pause the shot) just inside the door, allowing the 
moonlight to brighten enough to make out the big room.

7(travel across the room) toward the opposite wall, Buck 
was asleep in a bunk. Johnny slept on the floor, thin
horse blanket partially over him, his head on a light
jacket covering his boots.

8(sound cue) bull bison bellow over French horn.

9( medium close up) Buck rose up in the muggy half-light,

opening his eyes. His face & bare chest were wet 
with sweat. He looked down on the floor at the Eagle.

10(angle on Johnny) snoring softly, two of his knives on 
the floor beside him.

11(sound cue)horses stirring out in the night beyond
the door.

12(close-up) Buck’s eyes

13(flashback--wide overhead crane shot) 1878, the 
Republican campaign. Two dozen buffalo hunters had a
sprawling camp near the river. Just before dawn, the
horizon just beginning to stain the sky blood red.

14(sound cue) murmur, fires crackling, tin ware ringing 
metallic, over piano, juice harp & banjo.

15(overhead drone shots) traveling slowly across the 
camp, as hunters wolfed down beans, potatoes & coffee.

16(three-shot) a trio of hunters around a fire. Two of the men

were middle-aged, white-bearded & grizzled. Young 
Rod Buck squatted with them, holding a new Sharps rifle.

17(two shot) Old Hunter, over Buck’s shoulder : That is a 
beauty of a new gun. Do you like it better than your old 
Creedmoor?

Buck: You bet your boots I do. The Sharps is the best 
buffalo gun there is.

Old Hunter: Perfect time to get one, now that the buffs 
are scarce as antelope.

18(close-up) Young Buck: I know--just my damned luck. 

We’ve been out of Fort Anderson for two months, & 
our slim stack of summer hides don’t pay for our bullets.

19(two-shot) Old Hunter, over Buck’s shoulder: 
Remember in ’70 when you first joined up with us?

20(medium close up) Buck: Yeah, we’d sneak up on a 
ridge above those vast herds, sink our forked sticks, 
aimed into that thrashing, bawling sea of buff, and blast
away for hours. One day we put down a thousand of them, 
covered the prairie for a half mile.

21(close-up) Old Hunter: Yup, them was sweet times, the 
best of it. Not like now, when the buff know guns, run like 
deer, and have to be hunted--the wallows are near empty, 
the trails cold. Puts me in mind of returning to my home-
stead, & joining my boys raising cattle & corn.

22(two-shot) Buck: Shut your biscuit-hole. You’re bringing 
me to tears. You’d be a piss-poor farmer.

Old Hunter: Well, hell’s bells, right now I‘m a piss-poor 
buffman. Right now my left leg is deviling me. Think I’m 
gonna’ stay put today, lay up & suck on a jug. You’re on 
your own, boy.

23(medium two-shot) Buck stood up, cradled the new .50

caliber Sharps, behind his head, across his shoulders.

Buck: Do what you have to do, old man. You already taught 
me every damn thing you know. You’re half-blind & stove 
up--probably just slow me down anyway. But it’s a damn shame, 
cuz I got this feeling that some buff are out there waiting on me, 
calling my name. I’ll bring you a bull tail.

Old Hunter: You talk a good hunt, youngster--and there’s 
nothing for it but to get out there & get after it.

Buck: Damn rights.

24(sound cue) coronet, snare drum, & harmonica.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted by dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Lai, Lady, Lei

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Lai, Lady, Lei

“So I will greet you with a tear in my heart

and a poem in my eye,”--Sanober Khan.

Not afraid to die,

that’s just a damn lie,

or not.

Stare into night sky,

pointing at star high

you bought.

Poets can be wry--

God only knows why;

so caught.

********************************

She was really cute,

a fact far from moot;

no lie.

Loving her’s a hoot--

my whistle does toot

and sigh.

Now I’m an old coot,

and she’s been my root

on high.

  

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub MTB

Birthday So Blew

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Birthday So Blew

“The day which we all fear as our last,

is but the birthday of eternity.”--Seneca.

My birthday is June 14th,

Flag Day,

a day I used to celebrate

surviving another year,

feeling colorful pangs of pride

about being an American;

pleased to be a Gemini,

hugging both twins--

but this year I discovered that President Trump has

the same birthday--damn his eyes. So now my ship

has stalled without a breath of wind in the sails, and

my personal patriotism has been disrespected.

                                                     diminished &

                                                     degraded.

I suddenly feel like the love child of Mussolini, the step-

son of Stalin, a former Hitler youth, dirty cop--that my 

degrees are all from a Clown College in the Bronx, my

endorsement of Civil Rights has been revoked, and the

Feds sent me my Halloween costume--three KKK red-

white & blue bed sheets.

My wife tells me to take all my sorrow, anger, & angst

and make lemonade out of it. So far I’ve made 200

gallons of the stuff, which I’m told tastes like rat saliva

& is the color of blood in the urine.

My birthday has been

violated, but I will

still celebrate it.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Sturmtruppen

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Sturmtruppen

“You can look at my palm and see

storm coming.”--Mary J. Blige 

S T O R M (Y)

warning,

twisters on the horizon--

worthy,

ship-shape,

sturdy as hell--

trooper,

die Kreigskunst--

assault

the battlements--

disposition.

like a dark cloud

hovering

over her head--

nearest port,

behind a sea wall,

at liberty--

my favorite mutt,

a homeless collie

that killed chickens.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Q44

Blackthorne--Scene 64

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Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Sixty-Four

Intentions

“Our intentions can create our reality.”

--Wayne Dyer.

1(sound cue) piano & banjo

2(close-up) Buck: “While we’re at it, we’ll pay a little

visit to Cash Bronson.”

3(two-shot) Johnny, over Buck’s shoulder: Maldito--

just like that--just dance into his office after what we

just went through with him?

4(two-shot) Buck: Sure, why not? The look on his

face will be priceless. He will never expect us so

soon.

5(medium close-up) Johnny: And what business will

we have with this hijo de puta ?

6(two-shot) Buck, over Johnny’s shoulder: I will make

him an offer to buy Chatawa. I figure he respects a 

dollar more than most gents. I can pay him as much

as a hundred dollars. We’ll get the stud back before

Bronson gets used to having him.

7(sound cue) harmonica.

8(medium close-up) Johnny: My Buck, you have 

cojones the size of apples--but I would not count on

that cabron accepting your offer. He is out to teach

you your place in his world.

9(close-up) Buck: We will walk in like the sunshine

boys, all smiling & neighborly, being positive--confident

he will sell.

10(overhead crane shot) Buck standing, Johnny working

on Bob’s leg. POV from the hayloft. A packrat scampers

through the frame with a red ribbon in its mouth.

11(sound cue) Johnny’s laugh.

12(two-shot) Johnny: Yes, There is a small chance you 

can buy the stallion. For money, I think Bronson would

whore out his own mother at the China Doll.

13(medium close-up) Buck: I thought she already worked

there--some of those putas are pretty long in the tooth.

14(sound cue) both men laughing over saloon player piano. 

15(medium wide shot) Buck slapped Johnny on the shoulder

& walked to the open barn door.

16(reverse wide shot) from outside, Buck standing tall in the

open doorway, the sun dipping toward the horizon, the

mustangs milling about in the adjacent corral.

17(two-shot) Buck facing the camera, Johnny to his left:

I tell you, we will make something out of this ghost ranch

yet.  

18(medium close-up) Johnny: If we bring Chatawa back 

here, he will stud his way into glory.

19(medium two-shot) Buck: Tomorrow we’ll head into

town & get some grub, some paint & lumber, & another

good axe.

Johnny: What about wire ?

Buck: No fucking wire.

Johnny: Bronson strings barbed wire.

Buck: Exactly. 

20(medium wide shot) Buck strolled out into the late

citrus sunshine, The Eagle concentrated on Bob’s leg.

21(sound cue) Voice-over, Johnny, over soft snare

drum brushing: Crazy as cago.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN