Tuesday, September 29, 2020

Ramtha Ranch

image from pinterest.com

Ramtha Ranch

“I tell you, you are indeed ongoing immortal

essence, who has been living for a billion years”


I live near Yelm, WA.,

where J. Z. Knight

has her 80 acre compound, the

Ramtha School of Enlightenment.

I’ve read several of their texts,

and could see the Gnostic influences.


The following is a conversation

between Ramtha and myself.

To just let life happen is irresponsible.

What about the Zen teachings, where our

Higher Self beyond the veil, is setting the bones 

and parameters for our next reincarnation?

Yes, just face your fears and allow yourself to

recognize their illusions.

Alacrity & fear are necessary processes, but I do

feel that the monsters of my mind can and should

be controlled. We are powerful entities.

Accept that these thoughts that were bred into you

are just crust on the loaf--the Universe is calling .

Yes, my spirit guides do whisper in my brain, and

sometimes I do pay attention.

You, who were brilliant light in the void, did create man

in order to experience life on this plane.

I always did like the notion that we, each of us, 

co-created matter and man, but that implies that we

also helped to create chaos, war, and pestilence, and

that is a leviathan on our backs.

If you are referring to the Covidvirus Pandemic that

presently ravages the planet, you must understand that

the Universe has a plan. Stupidity is not rewarded.

Christ’s eyes--millions are dying.

But billions will survive, unshackled, unfettered, cleansed

and awakened--ready to reboot and rebuild.

I hope you’re right.

Hope is poor currency. Ardent focus and clarity will blow

you to safe harbor.
But what is the Great Pumpkin gets re-elected?

Then the purging and culling will not yet be completed.

I can dig it, don’t like it much, but I hear you.

The Ascended Masters are applauding. We appreciate

you paying attention.

If I’m above ground, in about a year, I’d like to talk

Above or beyond, it shall be so.

Glenn Buttkus

Vatic Voice

Posted lover at d'Verse Poet's Pub


Monday, September 28, 2020

Luna, Cynthia, and Selene

image of moon goddess from pinterest.com

 Luna, Cynthia and Selene

“At night , I open the window and ask the moon to

come in and press its face against mine.”--Rumi.

Damn, what a bummer to discover there is no Man 

in/on the Moon--and no Nazis and no space port for
UFO’s; doesn’t seem to be made of cheese either.

She is quite shy about revealing her dark side, never

allowing us to get a peek; demure, mysterious.  But

satellites and astronauts have now seen her naked

behind, and the report is it’s unremarkable.

In 1959, post-Sputnik, the Russian crashed an

uncrewed space craft on the surface, and another one

that made a softer landing in 1966 . Then the United

States orbited the moon in 1968. Between ‘68-72,

America put six men on the moon. They planted a

couple of flags, bagged up some rocks and dust, and

left. For 48 years, no man has walked, or played golf

on it.

All dogs howl at the

moon; what do they know we don’t?

Prehistoric fears?

Glenn Buttkus


Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub

Thursday, September 24, 2020

Chronic Trump Fatigue Syndrome

image from pinterest.com

 Chronic Trump Fatigue Syndrome

“To argue with a man who has renounced reason, and 

whom has a contempt for humanity, is like

administering medicine to the dead .”--Thomas Paine.

I just heard a clap of thunder

that sounded like a 747 hitting

one of the twin towers, like my righteous anger

shooting from my fingertips

and cracking open the sky, followed by a deluge

pounding on our deck cover and garage roof

relentlessly, overpowering, seemingly unstoppable,

like the quintet of years of Trump’s lies, 

infantile tirades, 


dumb deflections, 

bellicose bullying, 

and defecating on our Democracy.

Ben Franklin, John Adams, and Thomas Paine

were passionate poets and patriots

who raised their Excalibur Pens and defiant voices

in order to elucidate, illustrate and illuminate

the Truth.

When it comes to the truth, Trump has

brutalized, raped, and sodomized it

in plain sight for 1,185 days.

Impervious to criticism, #45 is busy

doing his Caligula imitation while

finger-banging his beloved dictator dolls,

and spewing raw sewage from his fetid innards

onto the political landscape and the face(s)

of America. He plants his nose in the sacred

vaginas of Liberty and Justice, and his vile forked

tongue in the pliant ears of his willing lemmings.

Every night he reads Mein Kampf as his devotional.

This very day, at a press conference, he called

mail-in ballots a Democratic scam, and he would

not guarantee A peaceful transfer of power if/when

he loses the election. We’ll have to see, it depends 

on how much fraud we uncover from the Deep State.

He wants to Throw out all the mail-in ballots, 

knowing full well that 85% of his followers will show up,

maskless, in person to vote.

His malevolent disturbed nature is uncaring

of human life (210,000 dead),

of truth (23,000 lies documented),

of decency (not a shred),

of shame (never subscribed to),

of honor (a lifetime without it),

of tradition (does not respect it),

of the Constitution (has never read it).

The rabid wolf is at the door, folks;

better load the blunderbuss.

Glenn Buttkus

Meeting the Bar

Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub MTB

Tuesday, September 22, 2020


image from etsy.com,


“ I have learned silence from the talkative,”

--Kahlil Gibran.

As a youngster

I hated

having my Mom.

or a teacher

shush me.

As an Old Soul

and a Gemini,

I’ve always got a lot to say.

You may pick the subject

and I will take it from there.

God help you

if you pick movies, politics, or religion,

for I have 76 years of stored data,

that will pour out ad infinitum,

untilI I take a breath,

or you speak,

or that ferocious forefinger

presses your glossy lips.

Of course, I refer

to social intercourse,

not silence.


is something sacred,

and to some extent

is unattainable.

You can’t find it or capture it

midst a meadow in a dewy glen

or the verdant depths of the forest,

or underwater 50 fathoms below,

or in the catacombs of a city,

or in the flinty bowels of a cavern,

or at the bottom of a mine shaft.

Even meditation

if rife with breath and heartbeats.

Maybe in outer space,

between galaxies,

where I am an astral projection

passing through black holes

for a few precious moments
there might be an absence

of everything;

actual virtual 


where even movement is soundless,

but I would submit

I might hear a faint whoosh,

or the fluttering of my cosmic wings.

According to my Sci Fi training,

I expect that motion




too much is just

conjecture, hope, faith & imagination.

Seventh Day Adventists believe,

that initially there is no after life,

that we are thrust into the Land of Nothingness,

until Jesus, or his saintly minions rouse us.

Probably, these folks’ souls do encounter

this terrible silence because

they expect it, actually create it.

Since time does not exist beyond the veil,

all souls do, at some point, discover

the truth, no past, no future, just

the Glory of the Eternal Now.

I’m pretty certain, while there, I remain just

as gregarious, vociferous, garrulous, and

loquacious as I have ever been. I cannot even

imagine God’s lips covered

with his holy forefinger. 

Glenn Buttkus


Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub

Wednesday, September 16, 2020

Blackthorne Episode 122

image from pinterest.com


Cinemagenic 122


“These here jail baits is just set on the trigger

of the hoosegow.” --John Steinbeck 

Of Mice and Men.

1(sound cue) banjo and harmonica.

2(two-shot) Buck stood with his thumbs in his belt,

staring at the dimly-lit bulletin board of wanted

posters adjacent to the front door. Blackthorne

had a dozen outside lanterns; one hung in front of

the jail. Hop unlocked the big door and motioned

for Buck to step inside. 

3(three-shot) Wallace stomped onto the boardwalk

just as Hop followed Buck through the dark doorway.

Wallace: The shit’s in the fire now.

4(sound cue) door slamming & shuffling boots.

5( cut to interior of jail--low light) The men stood as

silhouettes in the semi-dark for a few silent moments.

6(medium close-up) The sheriff struck a stick match

and the interior lit up.

7(cut to wide-shot) The jailhouse was clean and well

kept. The back of the front door was a plate of steel,

and it was hung with massive hinges. It had taken

the blacksmith two weeks to forge and fit. A steel

plank perched in a poker stand alongside; an extra

precaution to seal the door.

     To the right of the entrance was one barred window,

fitted with metal shutters that swung down over it. Three

tall arches were the main support of the building, dividing

the jail into three areas--the office and reception area, the

cooking and living area, complete with two Army cots, and

the cell block. There were three cells, one large one in the

center, and two smaller ones flanking it; all double-locked

     Behind Hop’s desk there was a gun rack, sporting a

Creedmoor, a Spencer, four Winchesters, and a couple

of scatter guns. The walls were brick, surrounding them

with square red muscles.

8(two-shot) Hop opened the deep side drawer in his hand

carved desk and plunked Buck’s weapons into it.

9(sound cue) metal thunk over blues guitar chords

Hop: Better give me that damn vest too.

Buck shrugged and began taking off his ammo vest,

never taking his eyes off the Sheriff. He handed the

vest to Hop.

Buck: You still haven’t told me what you found out at

my ranch.

10(medium wide-shot) The deputy entered the room,

carrying Buck’s Sharps. He stopped next to Wallace.

Billy: Six dead, two wounded.

Hop holstered his handgun and held his arm out for

the buffalo rifle. The heavy breech-loader looked large

in his short muscular arms. He held the rifle up to his

shoulder, and sighted at a calendar on the wall of a

herd of buffalo blocking a train. 

Buck: Well?

Wallace nodded, also wanting to hear.

Hop: Uh-huh, what do I know? I know that in six

hours, Mr. Buck, you have participated in two

gunfights, and fourteen men have been killed.

Buck: All in self-defense.

Hop: I know that right now, after disregarding my

advice, Bronson could pop open this jail like a man

with a Bowie knife opening a can of peaches.

Wallace: Now just a damned minute, there was 

provocation and murder.

Hop, calmly and coldly: Henry, there was a time when

your opinion had worth. That time lit out hell-bent a

couple of hours ago.

Wallace: Are you carrying Bronson’s water?

Hop stared at the storekeeper, not answering him.

The deputy leaned against the wall, the brim of his

hat covering his eyes. A yellow bandana was wrapped

around the knife wound, stippled in blood.

Buck, his voice low and tired: The man asked a

fair question. 

Hop: Billy, you escort Mr. Wallace over to the Doc’s.

I imagine Doc and Salina could use some help. They

got a full house. While you’re there, get your arm

tended to.

Billy opened the creaky front door. Wallace left the

room without a word, angry and frustrated.

Hop: When you finish at the Doc’s, make some rounds,

and then get back here. We’re staying at the jail tonight.

11(sound cue) piano and coronet.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub OLN