Wednesday, October 30, 2019

Blackthorne--Episode 104




image from antiquetrader.com 


Blackthorne

Cinemagenic 104

Triage

“My life is triage.”--Andrew Vachss.

1(sound cue) violin and branch flute.
2(tight two-shot) Buck: I have never seen
such courage, old one; touching the Indian’s
shoulder lightly.  
      Johnny looked up, moving his head
slowly, painfully. You are wounded...don’t
worry about me. Muerto waits.
Buck: It is nothing, a flesh wound...but they
have shot you to pieces.
3(sound cue) seed rattle & cello.
Johnny: I see it again.
Buck: See what again? as he gently wrapped his
arms around the Eagle’s quivering shoulders .
4(close-up) Johnny: El Blanco.
5(voice over) Buck: Where?
6(sound cue) coronet over buffalo hooves.
7(cut to a wide shot) the great albino bull bison,
alone on a bluff. As the men speak in voice over,
the camera dollys quickly toward the animal,
halting with a close up of its eyes.
Johnny: When I close my eyes, there he is,
my totem. The biggest buffalo I have ever seen.
He stands on a knoll and watches me.
Buck: And he is all white ?
Johnny: As white as a bank of dirty snow, with
small pink eyes and black horns. I think, I fear,
he waits for me.
8(close up) Buck: He waits for us all, my
brother. Rest now...we will get a doctor for your
many wounds.
9(three shot) I’ll go, Salina said, suddenly standing
beside him. Buck rose, wiped the blood from his
eyes, put his hands on his guns, watching the
ranch house crash in on itself, his mother’s room
and his mother, gone forever. He pulled his
hunting knife from its sheath, and handed it to
Salina, handle first.
Buck: Cut your palomino loose, girl. There isn’t
any other available horseflesh.
Salina: These bastards, her small right
hand waving over the many bodies, must
have rode up here on something!
Buck: Their broncs will be picketed and
hidden. I’ll find them later.
10(medium wide shot) Salina cut her palomino
gelding loose. She grabbed a handful of thick
mane, and swung up on its back. Buck squatted
down next to Johnny.
Buck: Hurry.
11(sound cue) French horn, guitar and castanets
12(overhead traveling drone shot) Salina jerked
the horse North toward town, kicking its golden
flanks all the way past the great gray boulder,
her skirt and hair, and the horses tail flying in
the wake of the hard gallop.
13(cut back to two-shot) Johnny stared glassy-
eyed at the inferno in front of him. The grand
rancho tumbling into embers and ash--and he
looked beyond, to the evening sky, also on fire
as the sun of blood smeared across the prairie’s
rim behind the house, fleeing west from the
fists of darkness pressing against it. A blood
moon made its entrance.
14(sound cue) piano & violins.
Johnny, with his cheeks wet with tears: My Buck.
Buck: Yes.
Johnny: It hurts.
Buck: I know, compardre, I know.
Johnny: Not my wounds, no, they are numb. The
pain is in my heart as I watch all your dreams and
hard work go up in owlhoot smoke. 
Buck, one tear rolling down his blood-stained cheek:
They are loco if they think this defeats us. Hell, no.
Together, we will dream new dreams, better dreams.
Johnny: Uh-huh, together, new dreams.
Buck held him in his arms in silence.
But for now, let me treat some of these holes in
your tough hide.
Johnny: Yes, go. I will be right here when you 
return.



Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Tuesday, October 29, 2019

Death Song




image from pinterest.com


Death Song

I don’t know why Batty saved my life. Maybe in 
those last moments he loved life more than he
ever had before. Not just his life--anybody’s life;
my life. All he wanted was the same that all of
us want. Where did I come from? Where am I
going? How long do I have? All I could do was
sit there and watch him die.”--Rick Deckard,
BLADE RUNNER.

I once faced death
without warning,
and experienced an
out-of-body scenario.
I recognized
My Higher Self
as a translucent entity,
standing in front of me
as I held it by the wrists.
Somehow I sensed
it was on the brink of departure.
It seemed to be struggling
with a decision; should it
return to my meat shroud
or abandon me, leaving
a soulless empty vessel.

As a reflex, I clung to
homeostasis, and pulled back
on the spiritual figure,
jerked it back to within me,
or it rejoined of its own accord
and the cosmic euphoria
of that significant re-morphing
convinced me that I actually
had something to do with it. 
In that metaphysical nanosecond
I understood another jagged piece
of my existence puzzle.

As Batty sat on that roof
in the rain, reciting his death song,
after a small pause, he said,
Time to die. 

This is a moment
we all shall share,
human and android alike,
the gateway, the veil,
the crossroads,
the shining time of transition.
Whatever we shall discover
on that journey, can not be
shared with those we left behind,
or those who shall come after us;
more’s the pity.

Remember what Tyrell said to Batty:
The light that burns twice as bright,
burns only half as long.
Will we ever really know if
androids dream of electric sheep?
When we get around to creating replicants,
and they become sentient, 
will they develop a digital soul,
some holographic spark of divinity?
When we play God,
what will it cost us?



Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Monday, October 28, 2019

Harvest Elegy




image from mississippicrop.com


Harvest Elegy

“What we plant in the soil of contemplation, we shall
reap i\n the harvest of action.”
--Meister Eckhart.

Growing up near farms,
I learned that Fall 
is the major harvest period.

The apple and pear orchards
burst with fruit.
The mustard fields
smother the hillocks
in school bus yellow foliage,
pungent from an acre away.
Fall wheat and rye sway
in rhythm with national pride.
Several kinds of corn and maize 
grow taller than sunflowers.
Potatoes, cabbage and lettuce
mantle their fields
in verdant fat wide leaves.

Of course, nature can be
a harsh bedfellow, when
insect infestation, drought or flood
interrupt Harvest’s bounty.

Corn fields, after the crop
has been picked, make me sad.
The broken and trampled stalks
remind me of dead soldiers
on a battlefield.
Even though I realize that
this is the barrenness of harvest
or pestilence, before the left overs
are plowed under, the spirits
of the dead cry out to me.



Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Thursday, October 24, 2019

Houston, We have a Problem




image from amazon.com


Houston, We have a Problem

“I prefer peace, but if trouble must come, let it
come in my time, so that my children can live
in peace.”--Thomas Paine.

Considering the state of the Union,
how can we ever be united again?
We know that Divided we Fall,
though we are complicit in that division.
Yes, Democracy dies in darkness,
but this time it’s not the Democrats
who’ve spawned the autocratic shadow.
Thank our Founding Fathers
that some of us are not cowering in the shade.
Conflict can crop up between
Dads and their prodigy, and politics
can be fodder for the conflicting views.

It’s not the age old battle between
morality and capitalism that’s to blame;
rather it’s the immoral, greedy, ruthless,
spewing of raw sewage that spurts
out of the White House, the rancid circle
of collusion, spinning shiny deflections,
with the Republicans circling the wagons
that leads us to snarls, clenched teeth,
vendettas, investigations, and litigations.

We hope, we pray to be led out
of this quagmire, 
    this steaming stinking swamp,
    this chaotic cacophony,
    this fucking nightmare.   
  
Glenn Buttkus

Polyptoton

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Tuesday, October 22, 2019

Inquiring Minds




image from etsy.com


Inquiring Minds

“I will wait for you like a lonely house till you see
me and live in me again. Until then my windows
will ache.”--Pablo Neruda.

When will all the glaciers return?

When will the endless wars
in the Middle East
turn into peace?

Where will you find a bell
that will ring
in your dreams?

Where is any
pragmatic plan
for dumping Trump?

Where do all
the extinct species
go to hide?

Isn’t being
in Trump’s cabinet
like following an elephant
with a shovel?

Is Jesus actually willing
to stop the next
Great Flood, or will he
just become
the King of Waterworld?


When the New Civil War
is full upon us, and
thousands are dying,
who will step in
for Lincoln?

Do cockroaches care
that young black men
are murdered 
on their way home
from the store?

When RBG dies,
will the Supreme Court
become ludicrous? 

Why not build a base on the Moon,
before trying for Mars?

Isn’t driving while intexticated like
playing hopscotch on the freeway?

Why does the rise of technology create
clueless, detached, selfish young people?

Will the angels rebel against all those
Evangelicals for  Trump?

With only a skeleton crew still aboard 
the Trump Train, what keeps it on the tracks?

There is a lot of heavy lifting to be done
in all sectors, should we call in the poets?

 Glenn Buttkus

Posted over atdVerse Poets Pub

Monday, October 21, 2019

All We Need




image from pinterest.com


All We Need

“Love looks not with the eyes, and therefore
winged Cupid is painted blind.”
--William Shakespeare.

Cupids missiles
are carried
in the cutest 
quiver, they’re
covered in 
red fox fur.

The love darts
are very sharp.
and are dipped
in cherry treacle.

Some arrows create
a quiver of lust;
others create
a perpetual love quiver.
Then we are all in.



Glenn Buttkus

Quadrille

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Wednesday, October 16, 2019

Blackthorne Episode 103




image from pulpcovers.com


Blackthorne

Cinemagenic 103

Bulletspeak

“Thoughts are the gun, words are the bullets,
the bullseye is heaven.”--Douglas Horton.

1(sound cue) French horn and kettle drum.
2(tight one-shot) Buck fired both pistols at once.
3(cut to overhead wide drone shot) and both
brigands went down like twin tin ducks.
4(two shot) one was dead, shot through the
temple, the other was wounded just above
the kidneys. He rolled over and fired back at
Buck.
5(sound cue) two loud simultaneous shots.
6(tight one shot) Before Buck saw the gunman’s
smoke, the Thunderer had thrown a bullet at him.
7(close-up) a sledge hammer hit Buck on the 
side of his head.
8(sound cue) Coronet, one loud long note.
9( cut to overhead crane shot) both men 
lurched forward, thudding to the dirt.
10(medium one-shot) When Johnny saw Buck fall,
he raised up, his shoulder open to the bone,
his forearm numb, his left knee cap crushed,
his rifle pointing at nothing.
11(close-up) Johnny: BUCK !!
12(one-shot) the Eagle felt his guts explode
as a rifle slug tore apart his abs. Johnny
clenched his teeth, dropped his Winchester,
sinking to his knees. Both hands went to his
screaming bowels, holding them in, keeping
them from rolling out into the dust.
13(medium wide shot) The firing stopped. 
Johnny could hear the chickens, the windmill
creaking over the ranch well, and the sound
of the bunkhouse front door opening.
     The gunman from the bunkhouse walked out
slowly onto the porch, his rifle cradled over his
left arm, and a pistol in his right hand. 
14(sound cue) guitar.
15(medium close up) He was a big man, with a
dirty face and a shapeless hat.
16(medium wide shot) He took a few steps into
the yard, his eyes riveted on Johnny, waiting for
the Eagle to reach for the gun at his elbow; but
Johnny just sat there, his eyes to the ground,
holding his guts in. The brigand raised his pistol.
17(sound cue) three shots, fanned almost as one,
blasted across the yard.
18(one-shot) one bullet hit him in the throat, piercing
a hunk of chewing tobacco--one slug struck him
near his heart; blood splattered into the air. The third
hunk of angry lead hit him in the left eye. His body
leaped backwards, like someone had jerked him
with a rope. He pirouetted to the ground like he had
been run over by a stagecoach, dead in the dive.
19(cut to one-shot) Buck stood in the corral, blood
running from the gash in his temple, down over the
side of his face, the Thunderer and the Navy Colt
puffing faint blue smoke.
20(sound cue) piano and harmonica.
21(close-up) the sweat and blood stung in the 
corner of his eyes, and he couldn’t focus on
anything. He shook his head violently. It didn’t
help. He stumbled over to the corral rails, and
leaned against them. He holstered the 
Thunderer, returning it to its cage. He tossed the
Navy Colt into the dirt. The left side of his face
stung as the heat from the flaming ranch house
danced across it. 
22(wide shot) He stared at the house. The flames 
sprang hundreds of feet into a poppy red sky, as
the hungry fire consumed the barn and the house.
23(two-shot) the palomino carriage horse, his
gentle eyes on Buck, sat with his legs under him,
still harnessed to his dead companion.
      Buck struggled over to Johnny. The Eagle did
not look up, kept staring at the ground holding his
stomach. Buck knelt down, wiping the blood from
his eyes, shaking his head as more rolled in from  
the wound. The fires raged behind them.



Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at  dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Tuesday, October 15, 2019

Purple Majesty




image from amazon.com


Purple Majesty

“If there actually is majestic poetry in my book about
the sea, it’s simply because no one can write
truthfully about the sea, and leave out the poetry.”
--Rachel Carson.

There can be
a majesty
in so very many things--
mountains do top my list, 
living as I do in
the Pacific Ring Of Fire
volcanos.

Kings, Queens and royalty
occupy the bottom of my list,
for they are merely
just iconic shadow memories
as they cling to tradition
with their fingernails.
Their fabulous wealth and status
are ludicrous and ridiculous,
even silly.

If I were King of the World,
I would disband
all the royal families;
they would scurry from me
as the aristocrats did during
the French & Russian Revolutions.
I would return their wealth and property
back to the people.

Asshat Trump would love
to be called Your Majesty,
instead of    Your Miserableness,
                    Your Malfunctionalness,
                    Your Mafianess,
                     Your Misinthropicness, and
                     Your Minimalness.
                      
Trump is leaving a shit stain
on the future pages of history
that will never be able to be
spun or beautified.

There is so much more out here
that can be labeled as majestic;
a person’s kindness,
                  love
                  loyalty,
                  faithfulness,
                  devotion
                  heart,
                  talent,
                  creativity,
                  imagination,
and as Eliza Farnham said,
the majestic mistress, the soul.

To me,
my incredible wife
has a majestic soul.
She is our family’s Matriarch,
and completely my soul mate.
She lights up a room
when she enters it,
and she floods our hearts
with an unmatched love.

A buzzard is not
majestic, but still it has
an important role.



Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Monday, October 14, 2019

Good Indians




image from fineartamerica.com


Good Indians

“It almost seems that nobody can hate America
more than Native Americans. America needs new
immigrants to love and cherish it.
--Eric Hoffer.

Columbus Day--BFD. Most of us know that
Columbus did not discover America. He never
set foot on it. He made four voyages across the
Atlantic, and he made landfall in the Caribbean,
Central America, and South America. He was 
searching for a trade route to the East Indies;
that’s why he named the indigenous people he
encountered Indios. The Mongols had cut off
access to the Silk Road.

The American tragedy was not a new one.
Throughout the entire globe, as conquerors,
and colonists discovered the indigenous
populations, they murdered, abused, robbed,
raped and enslaved them. Indigenous tribes
were called many things, Natives, Aboriginals,
Originals, and First People. Several thousand
years of residency meant nothing to the new-
comers and outlanders. In Seattle today we
celebrate Indigenous Peoples Day--fuck
Columbus.

Working for the VA for decades, I found out that
working with Native American Vets took special
skills. Annually they send some employees to
attend a week long Native American Sensitivity 
Training. I attended a session in 1997. It was held
at Camp Chaparral, on the Yakima Reservation, on
the east side of Mt. Adams.

We gathered daily to hear Vets testimonials regarding,
alcoholism, education, wife battering, drugs and
suicide. I entered a sweat lodge and passed out during
hour two. I found my niche in the Artist’s Hogan. I 
made sketches and drawings of Pow Wow dancers and
gave them away as gifts. One of them is still framed
and hanging on their Wall of Respect. I became an 
honorary member of the Yakima tribe. I made several
good friends. We stayed in touch for a couple of 
years, but then we let the bond slip away, quietly at 
night on a warm Spring breeze. I could hear the 
haunting flutter of a branch flute as it departed.

Eagles nested in
a tree outside my window;
I gave them good names. 



Glenn Buttkus

Haibun

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Thursday, October 10, 2019

Beautiful




image from amazon.com


Beautiful

“When’s the last time an actor has assassinated a
President? It’s been a while--perhaps it’s time.”
--Johnny Depp.

The career and persona of
   John Christopher Depp III has
      fascinated me. From his stint on the
              series 21 JUMP STREET, when he
      became a teen idol, to his 40 year
    career playing geeks and misfits,
he still found time for straight
dramatic parts in PLATOON,
                            FINDING NEVERLAND, 
                            DONNIE BRASCO and
                            DEADMAN.

The camera loves him, with his dark
handsome features, pouty lips and
chick magnet eyes. Women sense
what they think is his vulnerability,
sad lost soul, and bad boy posture.
Beautiful men are branded as very
effeminate by most other men.

                              Born in Kentucky, he
                     claimed a Native American
             heritage, It’s probably Cherokee
     several generations ago.
This caused
the Cherokee Nation to challenge his claim,
as they had done with Johnny Cash, Elvis
and Burt Reynolds.

I used to feel the same
way. My family claimed I had a great great
grandmother who was Cherokee. Recently
I had my DNA checked, and the only
        aboriginal blood I have belongs to the
                Inuit of Eastern Asia. Johnny luck-
                       out when a female fan, who is
                               Comanche, adopted him.

His career has been quirky and completely
unorthodox, but regardless, he became a
huge success. He is the third highest paid
actor in the world. He has been
nominated for 10 Golden Globes,
and has won one.
He has been nominated
for 3 Academy Awards.
His movies have grossed
more than 14 billion dollars.

His love life has be a whirlpool,
with several wives,
and dozens of girlfriends.
He has been accused of
battering many of them.
He admits to spending
40K a month on drugs & booze,
which doesn’t faze him, since
he’s worth 75 million.

He is a talented musician as well.
He formed a rock band, which
he at first called TONTO’S GIANT NUTS.
Today the band is called
                           THE HOLLYWOOD VAMPIRES.


Undoubtedly, he is one of the most
unique, bizarre, and mysterious
artists alive. I can dig it.



Glenn Buttkus

Ekphrasis

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Tuesday, October 8, 2019

Pop




My grandfather.


Pop

“More and more, when I single out the person who
most inspired me, I go back to my grandfather.”
--James Earl Jones.

Earl Melbourne Carpenter was born in Colville, WA.
in 1897. He grew up on a farm, raising apples and
watermelons. Twice a week, his Dad would load up
a wagon with fruit, drive it ten miles to town to sell 
the produce. Earl was the only son, so he always 
accompanied his father, eager to see the elephant, 
and get a candy cane. Colville swarmed with farmers,
ranchers, miners, and lumberjacks; all jobs that
young Earl would later try on for size.

There was no middle name on his birth certificate,
so when he was 18, he gave himself the name
“Melbourne”. He had read about Australia, and
dreamed about going there some day, and doing
some homesteading. He never made it there, but
he kept the dream alive.

I made my appearance in 1944, and he became a
grandfather at 47. Before I was born, he moved the
family from Spokane to Seattle, driving a Model T
Ford, pulling a trailer. In 400 miles it broke down a
dozen times. He always called this his Steinbeck
period, “It was pure Grapes of Wrath time.”

During the Depression, midst soup lines, erratic
unemployment, and fist fights with cops and thugs
while on picket lines...he became a progressive,
joining the Communist Party. This haunted him
later during the McCarthy witch hunts.

He made a living as a house and bridge painter,
joining the union. Heights never bothered him.
He thought he could make a fine steeplejack.
In his spare time, he was an artist, painting
Western landscapes in the style of Charlie Russell.
In his life he painted hundreds of these, getting
a modest reputation.

When I was about ten, one day I took stock of him,
becoming more aware of who he was in the world.
He had always been a laborer, and had muscular
arms and shoulders. He was six feet tall, combed 
his hair straight back (always smelling of Rose hair
oil), always wore glasses, had false teeth, and wore
a thin mustache in the style of the 30’s movie stars.
He had piercing hazel eyes. He had big powerful
hands. It was fascinating to watch him working on
an oil painting, as those big hands delicately held
thin camel hair brushes.

He was always more like a father to me than just a
grandparent. He was very aware that I had no idea
who my biological father was. My mother had passed
away by the time I was in the Navy. It was my
grandfather who wrote me twice a week. After he died,
I was surprised that he had kept all my letters, for I
had kept all of his letters to me as well. Today, all of
our letters are mixed together by date, and are stored
in a metal brief case that he had kept his oil paints in.

As an actor, I
travelled to Australia for
work; he just loved it.  

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Monday, October 7, 2019

Liar in Chief




image from grandamericanstore.com


Liar in Chief

“Things come apart so easily when they are held
together with lies.”--Dorothy Allison.

We have
a presidency
set in lies.

I’d like to set
my time machine
for December 2020,
and discover who
has been set in office.

I’ll tell you what,
my mind is pre-set...
Vote Blue,
No matter Who.
we just have to
Dump Trump.



Glenn Buttkus

Quadrille

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Wednesday, October 2, 2019

Blackthorne--Episode 102




image from pulpcovers.com


Blackthorne

Cinemagenic 102

Pistoleros

“A shootout is not a gunfight of honor, it is the 
work of backshooters.”--Jessica Savitch.

1(overhead drone shot) wide shot, Johnny behind 
the tree, Buck behind the carriage; silence between
gunfire.
2(sound cue) guitar strumming over Voice Over:
Buck: Are you still with me, old one?
Muffled horse cries.
3(cut to medium close-up) Johnny: I am shot to
hell, but they cannot kill me.
4(jump cut) a ranch cat screeched and hissed as
it bolted out of the bunkhouse.
5(sound cue) fiddle and Indian branch flute.
6(roving overhead crane shot) Neither man spoke
for a long moment. The barn roared and crackled
with flames. The horses were silent. The ranch
house began to blow out windows. Bullet casings
clicked as they were shoved into cylinders and
rifle breeches. 
7(close-up) Buck: Sonofabitch--you were too right!
8(medium close-up) Johnny, clenching his teeth,
reloading his Winchester, but saying nothing.
His wounds were beginning to stiffen up. The
front of his shirt was blood-soaked.
9(sound cue) snare drum and banjo.
10(medium one-shot) Buck: Cover me! He began
running, crouching as he ran toward the house.
Firing resumed suddenly from many directions.
11(cut back to roving crane shot) the wrangler
in the woodshed attempted to pin Johnny down,
while the three in the bunkhouse sprinkled shots
all around Buck as he now sprinted; no sign of
life from under the front porch.
     Buck made it to the north side of the house.
Angry slugs split the siding as he ducked behind
it. The gunman in the woodshed appeared, and
squatted behind a tall chopping block, hoping to 
get a better shot at Buck. The Eagle delivered
30-30 lead to his stomach as he crouched. He
stood up. Johnny shot him in the throat. He
fell over the chopping block, and crumpled
into a heap, as his rifle barrel was crammed
into the hot dirt.
12(sound cue) it went quiet again, just the
sound of the wind, and grumpy chickens.
13(wide shot) Buck worked his way along
the west side of the house. He paused at
the south corner. The intense heat from
inside the house penetrated the walls. 
Buck bobbed his way out from the corner, 
both guns cocked and leveled at the front
porch. No one was there. 
14(cut to the burning barn) the barn’s roof
caved in, crashing down, as the greedy
flames leaped higher. 
15(medium wide shot) a gunman, the one
from under the porch, was crawling on his
hands and knees across the corral, holding
his side where Buck had wounded him.
Buck snapped off a pistol shot, and it hit
the man in the butt, knocking him flat into
the horse shit. The man struggled to get
back up to his knees.
16(sound cue) snare drum bap & coronet bleat.
Using both hands, Buck held the Thunderer’s bead
on the man’s head.  Hey, asshole! The slinger
turned his head and a Colt .41 slug made a new
hole between his eyes. 
Are you still alright, Johnny?
The Eagle waved a Yes. 
17(one-shot) Buck quickly vaulted over the corral
rails, then snaked his way over to the body. 
18(one-shot) Johnny fired into the bunkhouse, and gunfire 
was returned.
19(sound cue) castanets & Indian seed rattle.
20(medium close-up) Buck picked up a pistol,
a Navy Colt, off the dead brigand. He continued
across the corral on his belly, with a gun in each
hand.
21(cut to a wide shot) Two men rushed out of the
back door of the bunkhouse. They ran fast & low.
A third man, still inside, kept Johnny pinned
down with rapid gun shots.



Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Tuesday, October 1, 2019

Pachyderm in the Parlor




image from plasticstoday.com


Pachyderm in the Parlor

“Each and everyone of us has unknowingly
played a part in the obesity problem.”
--Indra Nooyi.

Sustenance
is one of the big words,
like truth, love and liberty,
multi-layered and faceted.
Its definition encompasses space
between starvation and spirituality.

Our absolute need for it
supersedes everything
but our desperate need
for air and water.

I used to do a lot of hiking
and camping out for days
deep in our Northwest forests.
Fish may be caught
and berries may be picked,
but most of our meals
would come from the food
we packed in on our person.
A variety of freeze-dried delicacies,
but when you are hungry from hiking
the processed foods taste mighty fine.

That was one of the rare times
that I would only eat what I needed.
The good air and exercise seemed to
reduce cravings. The week’s provisions
did not include snacks.

Scientists and nutritionists inform us
that our poor food choices
are endangering our health & longevity.
Fast and processed foods, steroid-
ravaged beef, chicken and pork
wreak havoc with our entrails;
fats, sugars, and calories
all act as our adversaries.

Damn, you hit middle age
like a melon against a brick wall,
and you are presented with a new label
in your medical chart--
you have become morbidly obese.
Out of self defense, you take a handful
of chronic meds to combat
hypertension, stroke, heart attack, gout,
asthma, cholesterol, and blood clots.

Come on, we fully understand our dilemma,
more’s the pity, but without the high metabolism
of a manic teenager, we spend painful
decades dieting and binging.

Sadly, we pass on this conundrum,
this legacy of poor food choices
to our children. Shame on us.
Maybe, as some believe, when
Jesus returns at the last moment
to save the planet from global warming,
he can do something miraculous
about our attitude adjustments
regarding sustenance.



Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub