Wednesday, December 12, 2018

Blackthorne--Scene 84

painting by Morgan Weistling


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 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
Salina: 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
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

Tuesday, December 11, 2018

A Slumber's Tale

painting from

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

Thursday, December 6, 2018


image from


“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


Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub MTB

Tuesday, December 4, 2018

The Cure

image from

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,
                    my family,
                    strawberry sundaes,
                    my friends,
                    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

Monday, December 3, 2018

Sieg Heil

image from

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

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Q44