Rubaiyat of Omar Jones

image from russiangeography.com

Rubaiyat of Omar Jones

“The moving finger writes, and having writ,

moves on.”--Edward Fitzgerald.

Omar was a big man, quite wide of
shoulder, narrow at the hips, doves

in his heart; but fury in his fists.

At church he experienced God’s love.

By day working hard in a steel mill,

at night working easy at his still;

brewing strong, clear, sweet moonshine,

and most mountain folks drank their fill.

Then old Uncle Sam used his damn draft.

When he got his greetings he just laughed.

Fuck ‘em he roared, grabbing his rifle--

rejecting a war he thought was daft.

But they ran him raw, right to ground.

He broke arms, and faces he did pound.

As they put him in prison, he hated the sound

of steel doors slamming; caged like a hound.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Hell Hounds and Heralds

image from comixology.com

Hell Hounds and Heralds

“Now the bright morning star, day’s harbinger,

comes dancing from the east.”--John Milton.

Harbingers come

in all sizes and

disguises.

They can alert us

to the shifting solstice,

a time to furrow,

or to lie fallow.

They are tricksters,

can be anything

or any one;

an action

or an adjective.

Walt Whitman used its ancient

calling--to harbinge,

          --to lodge.

Back before the before,

when knighthood and the Crusades

were in vogue, they were often

squires, heralds and town criers.

During the Dark Ages, they came

fanged, as rats and reapers,

and death was their gift and embrace.

Sometimes they came as messengers,

and they were slain for their words.

At other times they might have been prophets,

and their sermon was both

celebrated and reviled.

A silver dollar flipping

in the air serves as one,

or a tangled barbed thistle

reclaiming things abandoned.

Even a deep-throated growl

can announce impending disaster,

or the devouring of an innocent.

Even God had to harbinge

Joseph and Mary in a stable of dung

when all accommodations

were filled with other pilgrims.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Dragon's Breath

image from willametteweek.com 

Dragon’s Breath

“A wise man will not pour wildfire on a brazier.”

--George R. R. Martin.

No hillside

is too steep

for the undulating

wave of flames

from a voracious 

wildfire;

fueled by

one discarded cigarette,

aided by steeping temps

and howling winds--

stew of death.

Top of the larch is

bare--lightning struck, becoming spire

or charred sad steeple.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Blackthorne--Episode 86

image from telegraph.co.uk

Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Eighty-Six

Conflict

“Difficulties are meant to rouse, not discourage.

The human spirit grows stronger by conflict.”

--William Ellery Channing.

1(overhead wide crane shot) Farmer’s daughters,

whores, old maids and young maidens whirled about

with the the dancing; their petticoats flashing clean,

white and frilly--hoots and hollers like Rebel yells,

and stamping feet sounding like a brigade marching.

The great hay-strewn place steamed from the hot

excited mass of people who jumped about and

sweated in it.

2(cut to medium steadicam wide shot) To the left of

the band platform, stood a less active knot of folks.

Bronson had sent over some of his painted ladies;

all cleavage, bright hair combs, and lace. Buck

recognized the fat whore he had been with his first

day in town. Paulie stood alongside his ginger-haired

girlfriend, holding a punch glass full of whiskey;

already tipsy. Thor stood tall in their midst, and when 

Buck’s eyes got to him, once again he had been 

watching Buck, waiting to be noticed. Cash was not

there. Thor was not wearing a gun.

3(cut to a two-shot) Salina: Didn’t you come here to

dance? Buck turned to her: Yes, Ma’dam, I did!

4(steadicam traveling shots) He got lost in her bright

eyes. Seeing no one else after that, they stepped into

the middle of the milling bodies. He swung, twirled.

jumped and hopped with her for a frantic forty minutes.

They came to a halt after a particularly fast dance,

stepping to the side, both smiling, both short of

breath. Salina hugged him. He put an arm around her

tiny waist, and gave her a sweaty peck on her rosy

cheek. He steered her to the punch bowl. Her father

was still manning his post.

5(cut to a three-shot) Wallace: I see you are still on 

your feet; congratulations.

Buck: I haven’t danced that much since the time the

pigs ate my cousin!

Salina: Dad, are you going to stay glued to this punch
bowl all evening? There are plenty of good-looking
women here that are dying to dance with you.

Wallace: The hell you say, daughter? None of these

fore-mentioned ladies have asked me to dance yet.

Salina: They tell me that it’s the gentleman who is

supposed to ask the lady for a dance.

Wallace: Don’t give me that bull...you asked Buck,
didn’t you?

Salina: Is it possible that you have sampled more

than your share of the punch?

Wallace: I’m every bit as handsome as Rod..so I

will just stand here a wait for my charm and good

looks to overwhelm one of these ladies.

6(two-shot) Buck: Would you like some punch?

--asking Salina. Love some, she replied, radiant

and happy.

7(sound cue--voice over) How about filling mine?

8(four-shot) They turned to find Thor, his back to

the camera: Made me powerful thirsty just

watching you two kicking up your heels.

9(medium close-up) Buck, forcing a grin: Sure.

10(four-shot) Buck’s back to the camera, Thor

with a cruel smile. Buck reached out and took

Thor’s empty punch glass. 

11(close-up) Wallace: Hey, Thor--how’s the

rawhiding business? 

12(medium close-up) Thor chuckled, and cracked

a wide smile; he had big white teeth, like a mule

in his thin face. Thor: Damn, Henry, are you trying

to bait me?

13(two-shot) Wallace: Why in Christ’s world would

I want to do that?

Thor: Oh, I don’t know, maybe to show off in front

of your daughter and her date, perhaps to just put

a burr in my blanket, because you know that I would
never lay a hand on you.

Wallace: Is that right?

Salina: Dad...

Wallace: You owe me nothing, Mr. Hardcase. 

Everybody knows that my daughter wants nothing

to do with you anymore, and I would like to add to

that I never liked you.

Here, Buck interrupted, handing a full glass of punch

to Thor, who took it, sipped from it, and said: You

know, buffman, you’re one royal pain in the ass.

So are you, sheriff Joe Hop said from behind

Thor. The Eagle stood alongside him.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub O

Dog Dancing

image from pinterest.com

Dog Dancing

“Never give a sword to a man who can’t dance.”

--Confucius.

The dapper dalmatians decided to come

to town on Thursday night, because they

knew that’s when the sweet but dumb

girlie dachshunds were completely okay

with burning hunks of canine spotted love.

They twirled and teased in their pleated skirts

while dog stars twinkled happily far above--

dancing hot like very sexy frankfurts.

Then the pampered poodles showed up,

and those perfumed posers tried to steal

the long ladies from those speckled pups;

but the girls spurned them--honoring their deal

with the tall freckled boys who brought them;

since the ladies were all dusky gems.

Glenn Buttkus

Sonnet

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub MTB

Darkness, Darkness

painting from saatchiart.com

Darkness, Darkness

“Confession is always weakness. A grave soul

keeps its own secrets, and takes its own

punishment in silence.”--Dorothy Dix

Why in hell

do we sometimes fall

into the wrong crowd?

Wanting/needing to belong,

                            to be included,

                            to feel secure,

                            to feel superior?

Any of us could stumble

into this tiger trap, when others

appeal to the demons of our worst nature.

My career as a civil servant started out, of course,

with me being the newbie, searching for my place

at the table. In my department there were three

individuals that seemed to run things, had the place

wired, were privileged, outspoken, and had been

there for years.

I worked hard at being accepted by these chaps,

finally succeeding, becoming a member of the gang.

The downside was that the lynchpin was a devious,

divisive, deeply depressed man, who loved to bully

and belittle others. I allowed myself to become very

arrogant, aggressive, apathetic, mean-spirited and

even dishonest--fitting right in.

Years passed, and the Teflon Don

became the Chief of the Clinic, the Boss.

After succumbing to the darkest imps

and marching lock-step to the boss’s

cruelest urges--I awoke

from my pathetic pretense

and refused to be his lieutenant any longer.

I stood up to him, and called him out

for being the manic ape in the corner office,

ersatz dictator, drunkard, druggie, womanizer,

con man, liar and thief that he was.

He became unhinged, launching

a campaign to get me fired,

turning my supposed friends

against me. In the end, somehow

I withstood the shit storm, and kept

my job. The sycophants treated me

as pariah. I persevered for the long haul,

making it to 25 years of service.

As I retired, I emerged true to my self,

but deeply ashamed

of my sojourn into darkness.

Glenn Buttkus

Confessional Poetry

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Winter's Grail

painting by Tony D'Amico 

Winter’s Grail

“The first snow is like the first love.”

--Lara Biyuts

The northern climes suffer winter’s disdain,

buried in tons of icy snow,

which is fine if you’re a Dane.

In southern climes, at least

winter clears out the smog;

hot diggity damn.

Silver tip sleeps like

something comatose, waiting

for the change to Spring.

Glenn Buttkus

Quadrille 44

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Blackthorne--Episode 85

image from arizonabarndance.com

Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Eighty-Five

Dosado

“That’s the way God made her--sunshine mixed

with a little hurricane.”--Country song lyrics.

1(medium wide-shot) They stopped at the foot of

the Grange steps. Chatawa was tied next to Thor’s

black. The Appaloosa whinied, and his eyes calmed 

when he recognized Buck. Salina climbed up the

few stairs, her petticoats rustling, and sat on the top

step. She folded her gloved hands on her lap and

waited. Buck stroked the stallion’s neck.

2(sound cue) musical tumult emitting from inside.

3(close-up) Salina, around a small smile: Is that

the horse people say Bronson stole from you?,

admiring both the horse and the man before her.

4(two shot) Buck: More or less. We call him 

Chatawa.

Salina: I think that’s Paulie’s saddle. I’m surprised

he would ride a horse like that.

Buck: Yeah, me too.

He walked up to her, forcing a grin. She stood up.

He held out his elbow, and motioned to the door

with his other hand. Salina placed her arm in his,

twirled around, and they entered the open doors.

5(cut to a reverse shot) as they entered the Grange.

Next to the entrance was a long table loaded with

pistols, rifles and knives.

6(most of the shots for this interior will be done

with a steadicam).

An older woman with rosy cheeks and a flowered

dress was checking the weapons.

7(sound cue) music and crowd noise heightened.

8(three-shot) Salina: Good evening, Mrs. Hart.

Mrs. Hart: Hello, Salina. Don’t you look lovely?

Would your gentleman friend please check his

weapons?

Buck unbuckled his gun belt and plunked the 

Thunderer and the sawed off shotgun down with

the rest of the deadly iron.

9(jump cut close-up) of the big stack of guns.

Buck check his hat with the lady too.

10(overhead crane wide-shot) Inside the large

barn-like hall, a huge knot of people churned

all over the floor, and lined the sides.

11(close up) Buck’s eyes.

12(medium wide shot) He saw Joe Hop first.

The sheriff sat on the edge of a hastily erected

bandstand.

13(medium close-up) Hop’s blue eyes sparkled.

He was hatless, like most of the men in the room;

his sleeves were rolled up on his denim shirt, and

his big arms were folded across his chest. He was 

still wearing his handgun, and the holster was tied

down. His sheriff’s badge glinted in the light.

14(cut to a wide shot) His deputy stood across the

room, leaning against a post; tall and shy, his wide

shoulders and thin arms comfortable. He, too, wore

his pistol. 

15(tighten the shot) The bandstand platform stood

at the far end of the room. Bales of pungent dusty

hay sat to each side of it for decoration. Barrels,

boxes, benches and chairs were occupied by folks

down both sides of the room to the front door. 

Kerosene lanterns hung hot by the dozens.

16(dolly toward the bandstand) A lean red-headed

farmer in a brown plaid shirt, wearing a bright red

neckerchief, called the dances. He was middle-

aged, and his damp hair hung on his forehead. He

had a large Adam’s apple that bobbed up and down

as he growled out the steps: Heel, toe and dosey-doe.

 17(tighten the shot) There were four musicians on

the platform behind him. Three older men and a boy.

A tossle-haired blond kid in bibbed overalls, and no

shoes, playing an accordion. A bearded older man

played the fiddle. A short fat man played the banjo,

and a very tall reed thin man played the harmonica.

18(cut to medium two-shot) Buck and Salina were

clapping their hands, while others who could not, or

would not dance, stamped their boots to the tempo.

19(jump cut roving the room) dancers whirling, hands

clapping, feet tapping.

20(sound cue) loud music, whooping, stomping, 

whistling and wahooing.

21(cut to a medium wide shot) To the right of the 

bandstand was a waist-high table covered with a

linen tablecloth, and in the middle of it sat a fancy

bowl of moss green punch. Behind it stood Henry

Wallace and Johnny Eagle, as servers. Wallace

was talking excitedly, using his hands, holding

Johnny’s attention. Henry wore an old black suit,

and it still fit him well.

22(cut to close-up) Buck’s face, looking to his left.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OL

The Launching

image from businessinsider.com

The Launching

“I have faith that God often uses our deepest

pain as the launching pad for our greatest

calling.”--Yolanda Hadid

January is two-faced, called Janus by the ancients,

which sounds like Janis, who was my girlfriend for

two months in second grade--coming and going,

arrival and departure; like Gemini, ying and yang,

sun and moon, duality and duplicity, point and rear

guard.

Launching a new year, rife with football and humus,

while still glancing back at the past year; the first

wake of an ocean voyage, watching the harbor

shrink, then disappear, as the flat gray horizon,

the massive dun maw of nothingness is yawning

across your bow.

February is your destination, with paper hearts,

sweet meats and question marks awaiting you.

You have taken this voyage many times before,

wherein you resolve to change up your routine

and make better choices. Good luck with that,

for the fleet of the world sails all around you, and

their terrible tillers are all turned to cross over

your charted course.

Winter’s upon us;

naked trees, leaden skies greet

silence without birds.

Glenn Buttkus

Haibun

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Gorilla in the Garage

image from deviantart.com

Gorilla in the Garage

“To be clear, climate change is a true 800 pound 

gorilla in the room.”

--Debbie Wasserman Schultz.

The vastness of our oceans is polluted.

Our precious forests are dry as tinder.

Too many people seem to be deluded.

Nature was forever a generous lender,

but we have always been voracious takers--

like heroin addicts on a deadly bender.

Scientists today are called over-reactive fakers;

truth becomes pariah, facts said to betray--

yet there still might be time to become makers

of a brighter future, denizens of much better days,

removing our ever present ignorant blinders,

growing proud trees every sunny May,

letting go mindless devastation, becoming finders

and caretakers, kicking out the never-minders .

Glenn Buttkus

Sonnet

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Nazis in Atlantis

image from collectiveevolution.clom

Nazis in Atlantis

“It was a memorial to Atlantis, those stone buoys 

that mark a drowned world.”--Christopher Hitchens.

What if,

after the Great Flood,

the angry seas

did not recede, and

our ancestor dolphins

developed arms and legs

as their superior intellect

allowed them to create vast civilizations

under the water, the same basic

continental regions that became

independent undersea kingdoms?

Technology would have developed,.

and we would have flying submarines,

huge kelp farms and tuna ranches.

As a species, we would live to be 200

because our diet would be ocean-based.

Of course, the seas would become polluted

and we would look to the stars

for refuge and succor.

What if the Confederacy

had won the Civil War,

and the Nazis had won WWII?

What if we had used the atomic bomb

on North Korea in order

to be victorious in 1953?

What if we had used nuclear weapons

to turn the tide in Viet Nam in 1968,

likewise in the Middle East in 2005?

We would be the bringers

of scorched earth and nuclear winter.

What if every President

had been dictators,

and we only had ten of them

since 1868, where our dystopian

world view would have created

a darkness, where Donald Trump

would not have been an anomaly

and he would have been

assassinated by his generals

during his first State of the Union address?

Given a vote,

I would choose the amphibian version

of history, where I would enjoy

clam and oyster ale,

living in a water-logged democracy

and Flipper Ferguson

could have been President.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets P