Blackthorne--Scene 84

painting by Morgan Weistling

Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Eighty-Four

No Regrets

“The regret of my life is that I have not said

‘I love you’ often enough.”--Yoko Ono

1(sound cue) piano and violin.

2(medium wide shot) Salina sitting, Buck standing.

3(two shot) over Buck’s shoulder.

Salina: I don’t know if I should apologize, or slap

your face.

Buck: You might try both,and we’ll carry on

from there.

4(widen two-shot) Salina stood up; he towered over 

her. She nervously put her hands on her hips.

5(medium close up) Salina, taking a deep breath:

I told half the town that you were taking me to the 

dance. When you didn’t show up, I felt foolish. I

thought maybe I had shocked you with my asking

you to go. Some men can’t deal with a strong--

minded woman.

6(close-up) Buck, smiling: Well, I assure you, I am

not one of those men.

7(two shot) Both in profile. Salina: Alright, easy to

say I think--we’ll have to see how this rolls out.

8(sound cue) violins and harmonica.

9(close up) Buck, quietly holding her eyes, saying

nothing, saying everything.

10(two shot) Salina turns her back to him. Buck

stood behind her. She wiped away a small tear,

then whirled around to face him: I have come to

realize that I was selfish. I love to dance, and I

didn’t want to miss it--but I failed to think it

through...how you really felt about it.

Buck: I feel fine about it. I’m here now, and I’m 

raring to prance a bit.

Salina: Uh-huh--what about Thor Bronson?

Buck: What about him?

11(medium close up) Salina: Dad took me to task

for this, telling me that it looked like I was playing

you both off each other, giving the stallions the

scent, working my feminine wiles.

12(two-shot) Buck: Is your father right?

Salina: Hell of a question.

Buck: Hell of a situation.

Salina: A little no, some yes and some

shame. It‘s complicated. Anyway, Dad

took the heifer by the horns, and arranged

things so that everyone has to check their

weapons at the door. Joe Hop will be in

attendance too. 

13(sound cue) banjo and guitar.

14(extended two-shot) Buck: Damn,

you smell good.

Salina, flushing a bit: So do you.

Buck, chuckling: A little something that

Johnny whipped up. He says it’s guaranteed 

to make the ladies toss their skirts over their

heads. 

Salina: Oh...you wish.

They both laughed, then stood in an awkward 

moment of silence; finally

Salina: Listen big guy, if this situation seems too

dicy to you, you don’t have to take me just 

because you promised to; just take me inside.

I’ll find plenty of dance partners.

Buck: I’ll bet you would. He held her face in his

hands, and softly kissed her forehead. She

searched his face, her jade eyes aglow. He 

pulled her to him and kissed her sweetly. She

kissed back. He hugged her, lifting her off her

feet: You are with me, little gal, and I don’t care

who knows it, or what they might try to do

about it. 

Salina, smiling with all her teeth: You are quite

the fella, Mr. Buck. I suppose now we might as

well trot over to the Grange and make every-

body’s day--whatta ya say?

15(sound cue) harmonica and accordion.

Buck: You are quite the lady, Miss Wallace.

Yup, let’s get along. My toes are tapping

already.

16(cut to overhead drone shot) Salina held

onto Buck’s muscular arm as they walked along,

moving in and out of the shadows. We can hear

the buzz of their conversation, and the lilt of their

shared laughter.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OL

A Slumber's Tale

painting from wallpapersjpg.com

A Slumber’s Tale

“You must be more alive than life; only then will

death’s slumber become sweet.”

--Kamand Kojouri.

I find such a comfort

in my morning routine.

In retirement, I put total trust

in my internal clock,

that mysterious impish something

that keeps track of time

as my REMs quiver like moth wings

around the back porch light.

The mere act of awakening

as the new day greets and beckons to me,

is a birth-like moment, as if I had been

swimming in deep dark water,

and then to have my head break through

to the surface, gulping air, celebrating,

getting a grip on a fresh steaming slice of life.

I sit placidly on the edge of the bed,

catching my breath,

letting my heart rate slow down,

letting rejuvenated blood rush

out into my sleepy extended limbs,

trying to recall some of the dream

I had just exited;

the back in the Navy dream,

or back in college wandering hallways

hoping to find a classroom,

or back in the office,

or back in a play, when I cant find

the dressing room, and I don’t know

my lines, and I am naked,

or spending mundane time

in a familiar city, home or job, rife with devuja

moments, a known landscape perhaps

in a parallel dimension where

I live a different life, before

shuffling and staggering

to the bathroom

to recycle hydration, and

already consumed foot stuffs;

a place that is a Mecca

for OCD tendencies--

the hairbrushes and comb in their spot,

just so, with the mouthwash, tooth brush

and paste side by side

with my wife’s.

As I limber up my arthritic fingers

to gather my lifesaver-colored

pills for the day, ten bottles to plunder,

pills doled out into green plastic cubes.

I say aloud the names of each medication,

both as a memory exercise, and the comfort

of knowledge, imagining a shard of control.

All this before the shower and breakfast,

which is the stuff of a different poem,

some other comfortable chronicle.

A possum visits us

at night, leaving its scat by

basement door; a gift. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Flyboy

image from pinterest.com

Flyboy

“Never have so many owed so much to so few.”

--Winston Churchill, after the Battle of Britain.

They buried a patriarch today,

a President, gentle man and great guy,

under somber clouds of Navy gray.

Walker’s Point now is a sad bay,

George H.W. Bush chose his time to die;

gentleness and dignity rule the day.

No sun breaks, not even a ray;

dress uniforms warmed my

heart, starched and blue as a jay.

Trump was absent, grumpy and fey

the day before, his signature scowl nigh

to perfection, with nothing to say.

George, warm as the Ides of May

in the arms of God, in a golden sky;

hallelujah, hosannas and hooray.

His aircraft carrier met him at the quay.

He flew his bomber into a brilliant sky,

his WWII plane bathed in heavenly rays,

as he lovingly waved hey--

for he had said all he wanted to say.

Glenn Buttkus

Villanelle

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub MTB

The Cure

image from pinterest.com

The Cure

“Calling Major Tom--check ignition, and may God’s

love be with you.”--David Bowie.

Love is a chameleon.

It has many faces.

                    I love

                    my wife,

                    shooting pool,

                    my children,

                    chocolate,

                    my family,

                    strawberry sundaes,

                    my friends,

                    movies.

                    my planet,

                    rust on anything,

                    my self,

                    and starry nights.

Spiritually, we’ve been taught

to love our neighbor

and our fellow man/woman/person;

but the Mongols, the Romans, the Nazis

and have taught us

that hate and violence

can Trump love,

can stifle and cripple it.

Love is like a fragile flower.

Hate is like a very contagious disease,

spreading like a plague pandemic.

I feel like a caged bear

that is poked and prodded and starved,

who is expected to wear a clown hat

and perform tricks for the patricians.

So far I have learned to love

my chains, but not my tormenters.

Love resides within me,

housed in secret chambers.

It has a voice, and it illuminates

my soul. It tells me clearly

not to reciprocate the vitriol

from those brown shirts

and Tammany thugs

that presently people my sphere.

It informs and consoles me

that regardless of the fascist fusillades 

and the populist puppet bombardments,

it will survive; further it will rise

like a rabid wildflower

ready to break through concrete,

with arms open and heart vulnerable.

Love most certainly is the antidote

that will heal a broken world;

something wholly true, tangible

and inevitable. I am prepared.

Are you?

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Sieg Heil

image from pinterest.com

Sieg Heil

“Everything about the behavior of American 

society reveals that it is half Judaised and the

other half negrified.”--Adolf Hitler

Thousands of immigrants 

are trapped in squalor

at the border.

Trump’s denizens cheer.

Today may be a part

of the worst page

in history.

Trump’s base cheers.

Neo-Nazis are 

the cheerleaders.

Dictators and despots

adore Trump.

Trump’s followers cheer.

Hold Jesus

while he

weeps.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Q44