Remember the Alamo

image from fineartamerica.com

Remember the Alamo 

“Just like the Alamo, somebody damned well

needed to come to their aid.”

Lyndon B. Johnson,

Put your empathy to the head of the line,

Raise your compassion above skyscrapers,

Aim your assistance to the Gulf, to the SW,

Yell hosannas well beyond state borders,

Follow your best instincts, your humanity,

Or let your heart be your compass & guide;

Rescue every man, woman, child, & pet, for

Texas is now hurricane-crippled--devastated;

Everyone needs to care, to reach out--

Xanadu will have to be rebuilt, taking years.

Angels must now all come out of hiding as

San Antonio rings its mission bells.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub MTB

Shoo-Fly Shuffle

image from vector4all.net

Shoo-Fly Shuffle

“I still have my feet on the ground--I just wear

better shoes.”--Oprah Winfrey.

Don’t know why,

but last night I had me

a whopper of a shoe dream;

shoes on parade,

but the fashion show

was all jabberwocky.

I’m telling you there were

horse flies wearing horse shoes,

weimaraners wearing winklepickers, 

all pointy-toed & rock starfish,

turncoats in turnshoes &

medieval topcoats, 

tan yachtsmen in mango toeshoes,

silver salamanders in steel-toed boots,

pygmy elephants in elevator shoes,

garden slugs wearing saddle shoes,

wharf rats in tiny ruby slippers.

young oxen in oxfords,

lazy lizards in mink loafers,

paunchy leprechauns in hairy pampooties,

red roosters in Russian boots,

jack rabbits in polished jack boots,

howling hyenas in high heels,

Mexican monkeys in mauve moccasins,

juniper bugs in jazz shoes,

and clown fish in Dori’s.

Footwear is diverse,

though barefooting is still fun

in fields of clover. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Bliss be a Lady

painting by Danny O'Connor

Bliss be a Lady

“Each of us could extract bliss from grief,

and knowledge from gloom.”

--Khalil Gibran.

There are certain

intangibles 

in this life--

perfect happiness,

pure love,

actual liberty,

perhaps truth;

but they remain

worthy goals--

bliss for a nano-second,

relative truth,

imperfect love,

truncated liberty,

accommodated guilt,

and good health--

extended

for as long

as they may

last.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Q44  

Blackthorne--Scene 68

image from pinterest.com 

Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Sixty-Eight

Valor

“Valor is stability, not of legs & arms, but of

courage & the soul.”--Michel de Montaigne.

1(sound cue) trumpet, kettle drum, & seed rattle.

2(medium wide shot) there, about 60 yards from 

Buck, stood the ancient white bull, up on his 

unsteady feet, shaking his great shaggy head.

3(close up) red saliva mist pelted the air, his chest 

and jaw was saturated in steaming blood.

4(tight medium shot) He caught Buck’s scent again

and lurched toward him.

5(sound cue) blues guitar slide & French horn.

6(medium close-up) Buck snapped off a reflex shot,

aiming or the brute’s spine, but gut shot him too.

7(medium wide shot) the big bored Sharps knocked

the bull flat, its front legs first, skidding in the dust, 

then its hind quarters.

8(overhead drone shot) Buck getting to his feet, the

albino bull down, like it was in prayer--the lanky black

cow, oddly, did not move.

9(medium close up) the cow’s face was placid, its 

eyes strangely calm. The albino calf was shaking,

but it stood with its mother.

10(medium wide shot) Buck began walking slowly

toward the bison group.

11(sound cue) Voice Over--I know that all three bulls 

will have to be shot again, but for now they aren’t

going anywhere.

12(overhead drone shot) He dropped two more of

the cows, one with a brain shot, the other through

the heart.

13(sound cue) Again there is a blood-curdling bison

bellow to his right

14(medium close up) Buck swung the Sharps around.

15(close up) Buck, a lump in his throat, a look of

astonishment.

16(sound cue) strident piano chords & saxophone.

17(medium wide shot) The white bull was up again,

not forty feet from him, staggering slow, its head 

down, shaky, gasping for breath, foaming at the 

mouth, his pink eyes blood red, his steaming 

entrails hanging beneath him obscenely.

18(medium close up) Buck took a knee, and 

steadied the Sharps, as he snapped off a shot.

19(sound cue) the rifle’s report, as loud as a 

piece of field artillery, cracking like demons

screaming.

20(medium close up) It was a heart shot. The

bull pitched forward like someone had dropped 

a barn on him--but miraculously he would not die.

He lie there in a crushed broken heap, eyes 

open, watching the hunter.

21(overhead drone shot) the last two cows and a

ginger calf ran back toward the first fallen young 

bull, down on its front knees, its butt bobbing in a 

semicircle, trying to get up. Buck shot a leg out 

from under the lead cow. She went down, but 

seemed to bounce back up, her momentum had

been so great. He shot her once more, and she 

stayed down.

22(sound cue) rock guitar riffs & snare drum.

23(medium close up) Buck’s face, snarling like a

Viking berserker mid-battle. He swung his hot

barrel to the left in order to deal with the others.

24(medium wide shot) The remaining cows, the

ginger calf, and the younger albino calf, were

gathering speed, running like hell, low to the

ground, flat out.

25(sound cue) coronet & kettle drums & bison’s

thundering hooves.

26(two-shot) over Buck’s shoulder as he pulled 

down on the snow calf.

27(sound cue) Voice Over: Enough !!

28(medium close-up) Buck did not shoot. He

raised the hexagon barrel, blinked and the

bison disappeared.

29(wide shot) the flatness of the prairie, a dust

cloud floating to ground.

 Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN  

Beyond Borders

image from impactlab.net 

Beyond Borders

“A modern democracy is a tyranny whose

borders are undefined.”--Norman Mailer.

Walk anywhere in a straight line

until someone or something stops you,

reminding you that no one lives in a space

devoid of parameters.

As you ponder your limits, consider

the complexity of your cage;

        barrier or decor,

           emotional limits versus

                nether regions of redefined morality, like

           red ruffles on an apron,

        wood/plastic/metal edges

     pounded onto Art, or esoteric

stapled-on foreskins & scalps,

or that which constitutes a frame,

or the digital capture of pieces of

the horizon, or those twenty foot rusting girders that

                         stand at rigid attention, part of an

                      unfinished fence erected along

                 our Southern border, or armed

           guards holding sub-machine guns,

       or tall steel parallel fences that

have swirls of razor-sharp barbed

wire strung out like deadly dandelions

for the indifferent wind to blow through,

                                     to draw blood.

                                     to deter,

                                     to confine,

                                     to keep out

undesirables, trespassers, and all those

who might want to do us harm--

or even the unbalanced unhinged state of our

commander-in-chief that borders on madness,

ignorance and xenophobia--or the thin blue line

between us and criminals--or the ton of chrome

trim we used to decorate our vehicles with-or the

fragile membranes between good health and a

heart attack--those polished nails at the end of 

our digits--or the 21 overlapping dimensions 

that are reputed to exist within the space we think

we inhabit--or the humungous hedge we grow 

around our property to create privacy, and to

insulate us from the steady chaotic stream of

flesh & machines that parade past; specifically

the margin, edge, perimeter, frontier, boundary,

circumference, girth, height, weight, periphery,

rim and fringe of

everything.

We exist within our

borders, but do not need to

be defined by them.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Gravel Sandwich

image from youramazingplaces.com 

Gravel Sandwich

“Every man is a damn fool for at least five

minutes every day.”--Elbert Hubbard.

My wife and I enjoy road trips in the summer. One

year we were quite ambitious, driving south down

into Montana, through Yellowstone Park, emerging 

east into Wyoming, stopping at Devil’s Tower, before

entering South Dakota; had fun in Deadwood, all

cramped up in its valley between mountains. Mt.

Rushmore was grand, remembering NORTH BY

NORTHWEST. Crazy Horse Memorial was bigger,

still a work in progress.

We made an arc north from Custer City so that we

could see the Badlands, where the topography is

gaunt and primordial, with twisty roads, slowing for

buffalo, sensing the spirits of Apaches & outlaws

around every corner. We stopped at a Trading Post.

My wife went inside to cool off & look at jewelry,

while I wrestled with our cooler & made a sandwich.

I placed the sandwich on the roof & pushed the cooler

back inside, just in time to see the sandwich falling 

past me, landing in the dirt. Two old men sitting on a 

bench in the shade laughed at me. Embarrassed, I 

picked up the sandwich, dusted it off & took a big bite 

out of it, biting hard into a piece of gravel & broke a 

tooth.

I walked past the hecklers, tossing the sandwich in the

garbage, and went inside to get my wife. I was angry 

& demanded we leave. I blamed her for leaving me out

in the heat to fend for myself. After she finished 

laughing at me, she said, “How old are you? You

should have known better than to bite into a gravel

sandwich !” Now this is one of our favorite road trip

tales to tell.

Moving slow around switch

backs in the Badlands, shaggy

bison rule the roads. 

  

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Haibun

Love Me Hard

image from imgarcade.com

Love Me Hard

“Love is so short, forgetting is so long.”

--Pablo Neruda.

In my youth, with discovered raging hormones,

love and lust were interchangeable, inseparable. 

So many exciting & sexy lovers on parade,

as Eros captivated & ruled every waking moment--

and only intensified in my smoldering slumber,

as I was often awakened to throbbing erections

and steaming wet dreams, prancing and dashing

about, fully stimulated, like a young stag in rut.

But then I began to consider serious relationships,

to confine my erotic focus on one woman, to seek

out more meaning, less haze, deeper commitment.

It took three marriages and forty chaotic years

of searching, stumbling, experimenting to finally

find the actual bona fide love of my life--my real wife.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Pets Pub  

Ballad of Bathos

image from vinileshop.it

Ballad of Bathos

“I know you need your sleep now,

I know your life’s been hard,

But many men are falling

Where you promised to stand guard.”

--Leonard Cohen.

I know you pride yourself

as an outsider, a maverick,

never trapped on a shelf;

but your very best trick 

was to convince a lot of us

that you felt our pain,

that you understood our fuss,

that we all could ride on your train.

So here we are 6 months in,

with so many bodies under the bus,

with empty platitudes creating a din,

as America shops for a truss.

My God, sir--Nazis are marching,

and people are dying,

as you take refuge in your tower,

kiss golden toilets & stroke your power.

It is sad so many of us are already old

and will not live to actually see

your piggy mouth fill up with mold

as the country regains sweet liberty.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Love Capture

image from pinterest.com

Love Capture 

“Every great dream begins with a dreamer.”

--Harriet Tubman.

As a poet.

I’m as much 

a dreamer,

as I am a witness

to the full spectrum

of my perceptions

of life,

the universe

and breaking news.

Love

is the common

denominator.

For my part.

I’d much prefer

to catch rainbows

rather than

klansmen.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Q44

Shades

image from christimcguire.com

Shades 

“We may sit in the shade of a tree today because

someone planted that tree a long time ago.”

--Warren Buffett

Shade is made up of deep shadows,

a multiplicity of shadows

clinging to each other, overlapping,

pushing and shoving

in joyful play, 

in fellowship--

shades of boisterous bliss

that yearn to cool our sweaty brows.

A beautiful place for picnics,

                                 romance,

                                 contemplation,

                                 siestas,

                                 sanctuary & 

                                 meditation--

yet not all shadows

comprise or provide shade,

much like bees are insects

but not all insects are bees.

Shades often companion curtains, or stand in for 

them, or sometimes replace them. Pencil drawings 

are flat and one dimensional without shadings. 

Personalities would be shallow & colorless without 

diverse complex emotional shadings--even the sea

contains shades of change within its fathoms.

Shade is more than a

blanket as it spreads below 

the mighty maple.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Eyes of Fire

image from  rileybrad.wordpress.com

Eyes of Fire

“Only with a leaf, can I talk of the forest.”

--Visar Zhiti.

Too often, it seems to me, here in the north/south--

west, we seem to experience more summer wild-

fires than the folks on the east coast. Perhaps we

pay little attention to their news, or don’t receive

the reporting--but the fact remains that our grand

and sprawling spacious forests always seem to be

a lightning rod for fiery episodes.

Hardy firefighting smoke jumpers are truly some of

our bravest souls. Watching recycled old military

planes & stout double ended helicopters dumping

tons of reservoir water & huge clouds of blood red

fire retardant on exploding valleys, foothills and

screaming mountain sides is both fascinating and

terrifying.

Trees are essential

to sustain life; we must safe-

guard our sweet forests.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub--Haibun

Lessons

image from pinterest.com 

Lessons

“Learn as if you were going to live forever.”

--Mahatma Gandhi. 

Can anyone really be a poet

only writing in sumptuous free verse,

or can one be boring & not know it?

I used to think Walt Whitman was a god,

but sometimes I try a different form

to tighten my verbose style,

to insure my poetics aren’t lukewarm,

threadbare, shallow or shop-worn.

I say we should never stop learning,

from first poems in the beginning,

to successful forays into classic forms;

from poetic haze into those perfect storms

of words descending as our message pierces

all those readers very receptive hearts,

becoming targets for cupid’s loving darts.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub MTB

Is This The End

image from coatingservices.biz

Is This The End?

“The killer awoke before dawn. He put his

boots on.”--Jim Morrison

I swear GOD is

   a politician; his explication and

         rebuttal to our accusation that he

               could not possibly love us as much as

         he claims--otherwise why do we 

   have to face death with every

breath--why in hell do unspeakably

tragic things happen regularly to

good people--you know, like concentration camps,

                                              bullies & batterers,

                                              genocide.

                                               patricide,

                                               dire hopeless poverty,

                                               serial killers,

                                               plagues,

and way too many assholes in charge of everything

--is that hey, man was given

free will & a road map from

the Get, and simply all those

who choose to disregard        morality,

                                               honesty,

                                               decency,

                                               equity,

                                               equality,

                         & the rule of divine law

                are just choosing to exercise

            their God-given right

        to be themselves in

the humane heart of an

extant Celestial Democracy;

dig it. 

The kicker, the egress from all this negative stress

is that a titanic ton of us choose to believe that yes,

all things wear out, so there will be an end to our

husk, but our essence joyfully shifts, skipping and

singing rap hosannas to our next adventure as 

easily as one travels through a revolving door. 

So, as this poem ends,

actually, the poetics only pause;

this pregnant portion of my poetic

continuum will be finished for now;

I tell myself that these words will find

closure, that my depleted creativity

will have to be recharged before the

next prompt, the next Muse’s call

for my response--that as a poet, my

words will live on, unstoppable, 

regardless of what may happen to me

--that is until Morrison’s naked Indian

spirit guide shows up in my dreams;

feathers tied to his phallus, wearing

blood red warpaint, and he walks right

up to me & says:

“Dude, don’t be stupid;

we both are aware that right

now--this is the end.”

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub