Tuesday, April 30, 2019

Getting Low

image from pinterest.com

Getting Low

“Drop the last two years into the silent limbo of
the past. Let it go, for it was imperfect.”
--Brooks Atkinson.

Like with the Twist
during the late 50’s,
Chubby Checker
did an album
of limbo dances.

Living during that decade,
when Elvis was King,
trying to be Brando,
of chrome-laden Detroit barges, 
leather jackets,
jeans with the cuffs rolled up,
and greasy locks,
things were not as halcyon
as most remember;

I mean,
we had Jim Crow,
George Wallace,
and Liberace.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub--Poetics

Monday, April 29, 2019

Custer's Last Picnic

image from theapopkavoice.com

Custer’s Last Picnic

“There are not enough Indians in the world to
defeat the 7th Cavalry.”
--George Armstrong Custer.

When we travel by car, we always carry an 
electric icebox, full of drinks, fruit, deli-meats,
fresh bread and condiments. We stop at a
specific sight/site, throw a checkered sheet
over the hood, set up a pair of camping chairs, 
and enjoy a picnic lunch.

Most of dozens of road trips took us across the
vastness of the Southwest, on route to and from
Texas, where my in-laws live. One summer found
us crossing through Montana. We stopped at the
Little Bighorn Battlefield National Monument.

Custer faced a fierce battle, commanding 210
troopers, many of them green new recruits with
limited training, and on the crest of a grassy knoll
he fought a force of 2,500 Lakota Sioux, Cheyenne
and Arapaho dog soldiers and seasoned warriors,
led by Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse, right there in
front of us at 45 degrees North and 107 degrees

As we gazed out at a bloody piece of history and
Western lore, we ate our Custer Sandwiches. 
Mine was rare thick cuts of roast beef on Texas
Toast bread, slathered with Mayo & mustard,
embellished with a thick slice of onion. My wife had
a turkey on rye, covered with shredded cheese and
sprouts. We drank cold lemonade, and then snacked
on slices of chilled ripe cantaloupe for dessert.

Two things I remembered from our tour of the small
museum there. Custer’s famous white buckskin 
uniform and plumed hat were displayed, and I could
see that old George A. was not a tall man; more like
5’5” in height, with a modest frame. Among the many
military mistakes made that day, I read where Custer
had been offered a pair of Gatling guns, but he turned
them down, fearing they would slow his momentum.

At Little Bighorn,
Custer’s pride destroyed the men
under his command.

Glenn Buttkus


Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Thursday, April 25, 2019

Patriot Act

image from Library of Congress

Patriot Act

A patriot is like a real friend who will always tell
you the truth. This country needs more of them.”
--Bill Maher.

Next for President,
someone who’s not bent;
we pray.
Twenty strong they run,
must get the job done;
some day.
Much diversity,
that might be the key;
he’ll pay.

Trump just has no smarts,
breaking all our hearts;
must stop.
clever pandering;
let’s mop.
No morality,
what’s up?

pure assholeia;
damn shame.
Perhaps fraudulent,
Always petulant;
the blame.
He’s narcissistic,
he goes ballistic;
no game.

Reach for horizons,
dreams by the dozens;
do it.
We have to vote blue,
does not matter who;
do it.
We have the power,
Trump’s stain to scour;
do it.

Does not help to bitch,
railing at the rich;
stop it.
Must see clearly now,
forget about the Dow;
do it.
It’s the ballot box,
where we will out-fox;
vote it. 

Glenn Buttkus


Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub MTB

Tuesday, April 23, 2019

The Red Robbers

image from fineartamerica.com

The Red Robbers

“We cannot disprove God, just as we can’t
disprove Thor, fairies, leprechauns and the
Silver Surfer.”--Richard Dawkins.

Beyond the mists of memory, in Wales, round
houses changed to square ones, and chimneys
were added to them. The new chimneys ventilated
fireplaces--but the downside of chimneys was that
in summer when night fires were absent, burglars
could crawl down them at night, and steal your
valuables while you slept. The worst of these 
criminals were called the Red Robbers.

During those times, in a small village, there lived a
young widow. Her husband had been murdered by
highwaymen. She was left with an infant son, and
one cow. She sold milk and butter, and barely 
scraped by. 

One dark July night, the Red Robbers decided it was
her turn to be victimized. She awoke the next morning
to find that all her money and her one cow were both
stolen. She felt violated and was overcome with
sadness. She asked family and friends for help, but
they were as poor as she was, and could not help.

Her rent was due, and her baby had no milk.
Suddenly there was a loud knock on her door. she
opened it and discovered a short stout woman, all
dressed in green, wearing a green derby with
sprigs of clover in the band. She asked to come in, 
saying that she was new to the village, and was visiting 
her neighbors. The widow was glad for the company, 
and she shared her tale of woe.
May I help you? asked the lady in green, pouring out
two fists of gold coins on the table. 
I am wealthy, and I like you; let me take away your
But I have nothing I can give you in return.
There is something in this cottage that I do want.
If you give me what I ask for, you will get a pot of
What do I have of any value?
Without hesitation the woman said: I want
your baby.
Oh my God, no! I could never give up my son. 
Isn’t there anything else I could do for you?
The old woman was silent for a moment: I know
that you have guessed that I am the Fairy Queen.
If I take your son, you will become rich beyond
measure. You can get a new husband and have
other children.
What you propose is so cruel.
Let me lighten your burden. By fairy law, I cannot
take your son for three days. Also, I must give you
an alternative. When I return, if you can guess my
name, you can keep all the money and your baby.
With that she stood, and left the house .

Being conflicted as to what to do next, she did not
sleep for two days. On the morning of the third day, 
she awoke to find a fat smiling mouse sitting at the
foot of the bed. Fear not, for I am a magic mouse,
and I live in the walls. I witnessed your predicament,
and I want to help you. The Fairy Queen preys on
poor widows and she must be stopped. Fairies are
not nice to mice either. Her name is Dowdy Doot.

The widow was overjoyed. The next day, around noon,
the woman in green returned. She picked up a cooking
pot and filled it with shiny gold coins. 
How many guesses do I get?
As many as you want.
The widow spent an hour guessing names--Welsh,
Irish, English and biblical. The woman kept shaking
her head No. Suddenly the widow stood up and shook
her finger in the woman’s face: Shame on you for
taking advantage of widow’s misery! Your damn name
is Dowdy Doot! Now, be gone!

The Fairy Queen grew red with rage. The front door blew
open. She screamed like a banshee, morphed into a
cloud of brownish-green smoke, and flew up the chimney.

The widow bought a fine house, and raised her son--giving
him a great education. The son became a lawyer, and then
a judge, bringing down and locking up the Red Robbers.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub--Poetics

Monday, April 22, 2019


image from aliexpress.com


“It is true that we and the world are dust--but
the dust has motes rising.”--Mohammed Iqbal.

He has risen.
No, not Him--
that was yesterday.
something my wife says
when I get up around 
eight in the morning.

But hey,
I am

It’s not how often you’re
knocked down that matters, it’s
how often you rise up.


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Q44

Wednesday, April 17, 2019

Blackthorne--Episode 92

image from pinterest.com


Cinemagenic Ninety-Two


“The present is the ever moving shadow that
divides yesterday from tomorrow; in that lies
hope.”--Frank Lloyd Wright.

1(sound cue) guitar and cello.
2(medium wide shot) Buck at the top of the stairs.
his back to the camera...and there she was, his
mother, tall and blond, wisps of flaxen hair hanging
down from her pulled back bun, a red scarf tied into
her long tresses nearly covering her starched lace
collar, her hands on her hips, facing the boy:
What is your father going to say?
3(cut to a reverse shot) the mother and son, with 
Buck standing at the top of the stairs.
4(sound cue) violins.
5(two shot) over the Mother’s shoulder, young Rod:
He might whip me, or he might just tell me not to do it
again, or he might just laugh.
6(close-up) Mother: Which would help you to
remember better?
7(two-shot) Rod, over Mother’s shoulder:
I’d love it if it tickled him, but I think he would just
yell at me. He probably wouldn’t whip me unless
you told him too.
Mother, suddenly laughing: Clever boy--what do you
think we should do about this?
Rod: I’ll clean it up, and then we won’t have to tell
him at all. 
8(sound cue) sweet piano.
9(cut to wide shot) the boy rushes toward the 
kitchen. His mother reached down and scooped up his
shapeless hat. She hung it on an elk horn rack on the
wall. She turned and looked up at Buck. She smiled, 
and her face was beautiful--before disappearing into
the kitchen.
10(voice over) Roddy! Roddy!
11(medium wide shot) Buck walked over to his old 
room, and opened the door, His little brother, Jack,
at 5 years old, stood by the bed. He was holding
a flint arrowhead that Buck had found on the hill
behind the barn.
Jack: Can I have it--please can I have it?,
his curly blond locks as long as a girl’s, his face
flushed with excitement, the stone arrowhead
encased in his chubby dimpled fingers. Buck
nodded, and little Jack squealed with glee as he
rushed out of the room; a moment later his own
door slammed. Buck scanned the small room.
The single bed would not accommodate him any 
more. A battered desk, with a spindly chair were
in front of a boarded up window.
12(voice-over) Spike! Spike!
Buck ran back out into the hallway. He found
Bear Woman holding a crying Jack, as his
father, Bill Buck held her roughly by the
Bear Woman: Let go of me, Mr. Buck!
His father spun around. His face was flushed
with whiskey. He hadn’t shaved in a week. His
jaundiced eyes were streaked with blood.
Bill Buck: speaking to Rod, She’s a woman, boy!
When you grow up, you’ll find out that a man
needs a woman!
Bear Woman: Go to town--there’s plenty of whores
for you to choose from! 
Bill Buck, turning back to her: I pay you plenty, savvy?
You should give me what I need!
Bear Woman: You are drunk--do not make such a
fool out of your self in front of your sons.
Bill Buck: Fuck my sons! He took Jack from her, and
stood him upright. Jack scampered over to Rod, his
eyes wide with confusion. He had stopped crying.
He took Rod’s hand, and they both watched their
father dragging a still resistant Bear Woman into
Jack’s bedroom, slamming the door.
12(sound cue) saxophone & guitar, as the boys
stood together listening to the fury of the woman
finally give in to the strength of the man; her
gasping and him grunting. 
13(sound cue) each stair creaking as Buck
descended. At the bottom of the stairs, the old
house was once again empty.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Tuesday, April 16, 2019

Sythe-Eyed Science

image from pixabay.com

Sythe-Eyed Science

“The debate is settled. Climate change is a fact.”
--Barack Obama .

I stand city-hating
upon a weeping-pier,
as too many of us
are grave groping;
wearing hats of sand
above our feet of clay.

I scream at the night-flyers,
dark-voweled and verbiage scatting:
Put down your damn phones,
before your dust-tonguing
and text-weeding leads
to galloping calamity.

Scientists point to map-backed
troubled-spots, while gaggles
of unbelieving dullards,
all stoned lark-high and hare-heeled
on Fox propaganda, will wade
waist-deep in fresh winged-sea
along new coastlines.

Clouds of hemlock-fingered
factory-punked poison
are heaven-circling high above
the ever-growing space junk
and the blaspheming astronauts,
making our beautiful blue planet
appear shit-faced and disease-pocked.

Yesterday, while unwatched and solitary-smiling,
Notre Dame erupted fire-dwarfed
and gargoyle-eyed after faulty wiring
ignited centuries-old oak, infecting
the roof with flame-anger, as
the great spire ash-toppled
in weeping-swirls and pigeon down.

Muffle-toed vermin
become fodder for Nature’s
tide-looped talons.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub-Poetics

Thursday, April 11, 2019

Trump's Travelogue

taken from Ynetnews.com

Trump’s Travelogue

“Man can not discover new oceans, unless he
has the courage to lose sight of the shore.”
--Andre Gide.

Don’t go to Mars without a gun.
If visiting Venus, take your fag lipstick.
Vacationing on Uranus is great fun.

A fool’s biography can be a fat haibun.
Everybody cheers the President as a prick.
Don’t go to Mars without a gun.

I have never eaten a Republican,
unless it was served to me as a trick.
Vacationing on Uranus is great fun.

Considering immigration, the work is never done;
try being a mensch, and not a political dick.
Don’t go to Mars without a gun.

Can’t be a Mexican, rather you were a Hun.
Always be clever--never be a hick.
Vacationing on Uranus is great fun.

When it comes to charm, POTUS has none;
but he loves to hear hand gun hammers click.
Don’t go to Mars without a gun.
Vacationing on Uranus is great fun.

Glenn Buttkus


Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub MTB

Tuesday, April 9, 2019

Watershed Moments

painting from fineartamerica.com 

Watershed Moments

“It’s hard to see a river all at once; even at the
headwaters, you teeter on the edge of a
hundred tiny watersheds.”
--Lynn Culbreath Noel.


When the earth was young,
its’ hydrologic cycles were brutal,
unchecked and over zealous.
The planet was covered with water,
and plagued with monstrous 
thunderstorms and hurricanes.


Our mother star, the sun, got busy
and boiled the surface 
of the infinite seas,
and the cycle slowed,
and land masses began
to jut up, forming atolls, islands
and continents.
Water vapor became mist and fog,
and it rose up like locusts
from horizon to horizon.


Sea plants became land plants.
Amphibious life crawled up
from out of the salty stew.
The plants need water,
but after sustenance, 
it passes through them
as they exhale and expel it.


Mist and fog begins to cool
as it rises in the atmosphere,
creating great wooly herds
of clouds, which develop
dark fat sagging bellys
filled with rain and snow.


Rain, sleet, hail and snow
bombard the surface,
promoting growth,
and birthing lakes, ponds and puddles.

Run Off

Sometimes, an abundance of water
that is not absorbed or evaporated,
runs off and gathers into flood zones.
On the desert it becomes a flash flood.
Wherever this water congregates
at a common point, this is called
a watershed.


Normally, a lot of water
can seep underground
and replenish the aquifers,
and form icy pockets 
of artesian goodness.

Life would not survive
without molecules that are
two parts hydrogen
and one part oxygen; if
we had gills, we’d breathe it too.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Monday, April 8, 2019


Photo by Ronnie Chua.


“Freedom is never more than one generation away
from extinction.”--Ronald Reagan.

Will our grandchildren’s
face extinction?

Before we play
the ace, and save
the black rhino
and the snow leopard,

shouldn’t we
pay more attention
to the peril
of our planet?

Bison were slain by
the multi-millions; tame now,
they face the abattoir.

Glenn Buttkus


Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub--Quadrille

Wednesday, April 3, 2019

Blackthorne--Episode 91

image from pinterest.com


Cinemagenic Ninety-One

Home Fires

“When your time comes, sing your death song,
and die like a hero coming home.”

1(sound cue) horses nickering, chickens clucking
over piano, cello, and harmonica.
2(overhead drone wide shot) Antlered Buck Ranch
sprawled out below; drone descends toward the
wide front porch of the main house.
3(zoom down to medium wide shot) Rod Buck stood
on the front porch in the morning sunlight. He was
pleased that the face of the ranch had changed; the
wide covered and pillared porch was rebuilt, sporting
a fresh coat of paint--white with forest green trim.
4(voice over) Buck: You sweet old lady, it feels good
to be tightening your corset again.
5(slow cuts and fades) The tall maple tree in the
middle of the yard had been trimmed. The crooked
split-shingle roof on the bunkhouse had been 
patched; tar paper stuck out like lettuce on a 
sandwich around the newer shingles. Adjacent to
the bunkhouse, a low lean-to wood shed bristled
with freshly split pine chunks. All the rail poles in
the corral fences were freshly white-washed.
Johnny had sharpened a sturdy red scythe he
found in the barn, and had cut the grass around
the main house. Buck had washed all the tall
windows on the ground floor. That morning, the
doors were opened, and the screen doors
glistened, airing out the old Victorian structure.
6(cut to a medium wide shot) to the first corral,
next to the bunkhouse, where the Eagle was
halter-training one of the more obstinate pinto
7(pull back, widening the shot) to reveal two more
stock pens; the first one was rectangular, and it
held thirty head of sleek horses; wild-eyed, long-
maned saddlers that were milling around, eating
hay, but dreaming of the grasses of freedom.
8(cut to interior of the main house)
9(sound cue) heavy boots and screen door opening.
Buck appears in the doorway, and stops in the foyer.
10(sound cue) banjo and fiddle violin.
11(cut to overhead crane shot) To Buck’s right was
the living room, and his father’s adjoining den. To
the left was the kitchen and the dining room. Every-
where, furniture sat and stood just as it had been left
fifteen years before, draped in sheets that were dun
gray with a decade of dust. Ahead of him were the
wide stairs to the bedrooms on the second floor.
12(cut to the top of the stairs) observing Buck
ascending the stairs, stopping at the landing.
13(medium wide shot) His parent’s room was at
the head of the stairs, little Jack’s to the right, and
his old room was to the left. Buck stood staring at
the three brass padlocks on the door to the
master bedroom. 
14(flash back) the day of his mother’s funeral, when
his father, still in his funeral suit, clicked shut the
third padlock, screaming: Fuck you, God! You have
reclaimed my angel, and torn open my chest, and
devoured my heart! She loved you--I only tolerated
you for her sake...and this is your revenge?
15(cut to exterior ranch pond) Bill Buck tossed the
padlock keys out into the dark water, then slumped
weeping to his knees, pulled out a whiskey bottle
from his inside pocket, tipped it up and guzzled
it like lemonade.
16(sound cue) voice-over: Roddy?
17(back to the present) Buck turned slowly. He saw
himself as a ten year old boy at the bottom of the 
stairs, his oversize boots muddy, his shapeless hat
on the floor beside him, struggling to unbuckle his
raincoat, and chewing his lower lip.
Roddy, is that you?
Yes, Mama--looking up at Buck, his eyes bright blue,
his tousled blond hair starting to darken.
Did you wipe your feet?
The boy looked down and saw the mud he had
tracked in. He pulled off his boots and sat them by
the door, then looked up at Buck again, holding a
tiny finger to his lips for silence.
Yes, Ma, I wiped them...but I still got some mud on the
rug. Buck heard her footsteps, smelled the apple pie,
and suddenly, there she was.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Tuesday, April 2, 2019

Democracy Redeux

image from scienceABC.com

Democracy Redeux

“This is your country. This is your democracy. Make
it. Protect it. Pass it on.”--Thurgood Marshall.

Welcome to the “Save Democracy Now” helpline.
Where all alternate facts are vanquished.
Where all dictators have no clothes.

This call may be recorded for truth purposes.
Pay close attention to the political menu.
Thank you for calling “Save Democracy Now”.

For certified data, press 1.
For proven facts, press 2.
For all alternate facts are banned.

For whistleblowing, press 3.
For justice for all, press 4.
At the place where dictators are stripped naked.

Where free speech is encouraged,
but ignorance does not trump knowledge;
where college tuitions are free.

Where every citizen has health insurance,
where immigrants are greeted with open arms,
where teachers make more money than plumbers.

Where the middle class thrives,
where the poor are never homeless or hungry,
where there are no apes in the corner office. 

Does this sound like a New Democracy,
a racist-free Republic,
a land with actual unalienable freedom?
Well, Christ--it’s about time, isn’t it?

I believe that we need to save our Democracy,
before we take on saving the planet, and
after the dystopians are run to ground.

I live near the great
Cascades, where waterfalls sing their
ancient tribal names.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Monday, April 1, 2019

Poisson D'Avril

image from alamy.com

Poisson d’Avril

“Let us be thankful for the fools--but for them, the
rest of us could not succeed.”
--Mark Twain.

In 1686, dozens of people were tricked into going
to the Tower of London, to see them “washing the
lions.”  Of course a good snipe hunt can happen
during any month, but when it happens on the
evening of April 1, it is especially effective. On
April 1, 1935, 20,000 people attended Bonnie 
Parker’s funeral only to find a Mae West mannequin 
in the casket. In Scotland, on April first, called
Huntigowk Day, a person is given a sealed 
message to pass on to another. The message
reads “Dinna laugh, dinna smile--just hunt the
gowk another mile .”

George Burns, on April 1, after his 100th
birthday, posted in Variety, “Actually, I died three
years ago. Haven’t you noticed I’m always sitting
on Edgar Bergen’s lap?”  Mickey Rooney married
all of his eight wives on April first, and he divorced
them on Thanksgiving. In 1957, on April 1, the
Swedish National Television broadcasted a five
minute special reporting that if one holds up a
woman’s stocking over the screen of a B/W TV,
it would broadcast in color. on April 1, 2008, the
BBC did a story on a rare breed of flying penguins
discovered in Antarctica.

Noah sent the dove from
the ark before the water
ebbed, on April first. 

Glenn Buttkus


dVerse Poets Pub