Tuesday, August 31, 2021

The Song Of Spartacus


image from universalarchives.com

The Song Of Spartacus

“Death is the only freedom a slave knows.”


He grew up as a warrior-for-hire,

more than ready to walk through fire.

He went and joined the Roman Legion,

and he fought through every season.

But his officers were very cruel,

and he had to eat a lot of gruel.

He got mad and left for Thrace,

heading back to his birth place.

The Romans hunted him down,

and on him they did pound.

They sentenced him to the mines in Libya.

No one cared, not even Zibia.

Years later a fat lanista bought him,

thinking he was very strong, and dim.

He was trained to be a gladiator,

he had no friends and no mediator.

He fought well and lived on,

getting his revenge one red dawn.

He and a hundred more,

killed the guards, and smashed the door.

He was the leader of a slave revolt,

songs were sung, words were wrote.

He battled the Romans for two years,

died on a cross in a veil of tears.

We sing of him even today,

songs of freedom, keeping evil at bay.

He died as he lived, in chains,

but his spirit rises from the flames.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub

Monday, August 30, 2021

Pax Romani

image from pinterest.colm

 Pax Romani

“Wildflower, pick up your pretty little head. It will get

easier, your dreams are not dead.”

--Nikki Rowe

I grew up like a gypsy child in and around Seattle;

always in motion. We moved ten times in six years,

so I attended ten elementary schools. I was

isolated, an outsider, foot loose, anxious and

hungry for recognition, substantiation, and

attention. Always the new kid, a permanent

resident of the front row, becoming fiercely


These were urban schools, four stories, noisy,

crowded with hardwood hallways and the smells

of decades prior. Sometimes, reading about

pioneer one room schools, I would fantasize about

being in one, all the grades together in one room,

one teacher, and a pot bellied stove. Yet I do not

regret my chaotic energetic education, for it

molded me into a Type-A individual, and prepared

me for an uncertain future.

Crow on a window

sill, one room abandoned school;

in spray paint, “Love Hurts”. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub

Thursday, August 26, 2021

Kiss Of Death

image from movieposters.com

 Kiss of Death

“Far too easy is the kiss of death; much more

difficult is the embrace of truth.”--Glenn Buttkus

Oh damn scotoma, I do much wonder,

and I do honestly ponder,

how some men, seeing how much

other men suffer when they dedicate

their behaviors to lies, deflection,

political pap and forlorn cries, will,

after they have castigated others

for such harmful follies, become

the argument of their own ignorance

by slurping the kool aid.

Now tis’ brother against brother, husband

against wife, truth against illusion,

as the Republican dagger of deceit

stabs deep, and once pricked, there be

poison on its edges, inducing instant

ignorance, mesmerization, and onerous


Not since slaves were in actual chains,

when cotton was king, and there were

750,000 deaths (nearly matched by today’s

Covid fatalities) in order to sever the head

of Jim Crow and begin centuries of struggle

toward freedom for all, has something like

a plague year murdered more souls,

and blanched the trust between warring


I tell you, I have known when vaccines were

respected, and diseases were defeated,

and now millions mingle in the false

puissance of Trump’s fevered falsehoods,

literally welcoming Covid like insane lemmings,

facing terrible death as if it were no more than

a bowl of dandelions, embracing maliferous virus

as if it were holy sacrament. I will not allow my

heart to break over their sycophantic stupidity.

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub

Tuesday, August 24, 2021


image from pinterest.com 


“Knowing yourself is the beginning of all wisdom”.


Wisdom usually is acquired.

However, genius can be a gift, like

Your 4-year old suddenly playing Bach.

Animals also inherit traits,

Relative to their specific genetics, yet

Emotions seem wholly independent.

Wisdom, perhaps, can spring from past lives, and

Extra knowledges arrives along the way.

Have you wondered about your purpose? Yes,

Earth is a unique plane of existence.

Right, so put on your thinking caps, because

Everything fits in the vast cosmic puzzle.

Stay sharp, note every single twisT

and turn. Never fear a genuine hellO

Somehow we sense how speciaL

we are, with our bellies full of firE.

So lucky to live in our precious AmericA,

where Nazis are free, and women roaR,

where challenges await round every turN

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub

Wednesday, August 18, 2021

Blackthorne Episode 139

image from westernpulpcovers.com


Cinemagenic 139


“Decision is the spark that ignites action”.

--Wilferd Peterson.

1(sound cue) French horns & harmonica.

2(medium close up) Buck stopped, and turned


3(medium wide shot) seeing Ryker slumped in 

unconsciousness, and the Palomino rearing and 

squirming in his stall. He wrap-reined the 

Appaloosa, and rushed back. He unlatched the

stall gate, and the Palomino burst out and

charged for the rear door. Buck snatched up the

rope rein and Chatawa pranced behind him, smoke

already in its wide nostrils. Buck could hear the

two other horses crying out in panic.

4(sound cue) snare drum over fire crackling.

5(close up) the fire found some dry straw and it

burst into a frenzy, racing across the south end

of the barn.

6(one shot) Ryker regained consciousness, and

immediately panicked, struggling against his bonds,

kicking and jerking, screaming against the rag in

his throat, watching the flames burning their way

toward him, both fascinated and petrified. The heat

from the fire began to scorch his shirt, and its demon 

tongue began to burn the skin on his face. He closed

his eyes. He could smell his hair burning. For a 

moment the pain was unbearable, until shock dulled

the heat. He knew he was screaming, but it sounded

far away. He could feel a dripping as the flesh began

to melt on his face. Then he saw his dead wife in the

flames, saw her reach for him.

7(cut to outside) Buck swung up onto the dappled

stallion’s back. The palomino had galloped off south,

toward the dark mountains. 

8(sound cue) Castanets and horses crying out.

9(close up) Chatawa’s nostrils flared, and his ears

lie flat to his regal head,

10(medium wide shot) Buck leaned forward, and

lightly nudged the horse’s sides. The stallion’s 

hooves dug into the clay, and it scampered up the

steepest part in five leaps. Soon they reached the 

safety of the darkness in the timber. Buck swung

down and led the magnificent Appaloosa through

the thick ebon trees. Crackling through the brambles

and underbrush, they soon reached the three

hundred yards to where he had picketed the dun 

mare. He secured Chatawa to a scrub oak branch,

and struck out again, working his way southeast.

Now his eyes had adjusted to the night, and he

moved rapidly through the dense growth, moving

like a ghost, like a demon in the dark. He emerged

well beyond the barn, near a brush-choked gully.

11(sound cue) coronet and seed rattle over men


12(wide shot) By this time the barn was an inferno,

the flames leaped into a starry sky hundreds of

feet. Bright sparks and hot cinders swirled in the

air like angry squadrons of fireflies. Buck could

clearly hear men shouting, Jesus Christ! Find more

buckets! Poor fucking horses!  He could catch

glimpses of busy shadows rushing between the

barn and the ranch house. 

  He worked his way into the gully, and moved along

and in it until he was past the barn, near the

mountain road. He could feel the heat from the flames

from where he crouched. The fire had spread to some

of the work sheds. Two dozen men cursed and labored

back and forth from three large water troughs and the

flames, tossing cold stream water on the behemoth 

blaze, the howling inferno. 

Just pissing on the sun, Buck thought.

  Staying in the shadows, the hunter crawled along

close to the ground. The huge barn became a colossal

torch burning back the night. He lie at the edge of the

first corral, only a hundred yards from the house. He

checked his dynamite sticks. They were intact, and

ready for battle.

  A rider came galloping into the yard from the south;

his travel dust was visible in the fire’s glare. He pulled

up in the middle of the yard. He was greeted by two

hands that rushed out of the bunkhouse, jerking on their

jeans, wearing long john tops, rubbing the sleep from

their eyes. The rider was Paul Bronson. 

13(medium close up) What the fuck is happening?

his whisky breath strong in the air.

Glenn Buttkus 

Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub OLN

Tuesday, August 17, 2021

America Weeps

image from pinterest.com 

America Weeps

“May God keep you away from the venom of the

cobra, the teeth of the tiger, and the revenge of

the Afghans.” --Alexander the Great.

Afghanistan, like Viet Nam

is a country perpetually at war,

a Muslim monstrosity that is

mountainous and medieval,

where war lords and archaic

beliefs, and the sad bastardization

of the Koran, retards progress,

education, women’s rights, and all

attempts at democratizing, a crude

place only loosely united by Jihad,

AK-74’s, blood lust, rape and murder.

The breeding ground for 9/11, where

terror is a prideful pursuit,

and the insidious Taliban

was never fully defeated, and

has rebuilt its strength like quicksilver.

America had to go to Pakistan

to kill Bin Laden, and has spent

twenty years in Afghanistan, spent

trillions, and sacrificed our military,

all for naught, as we witness today’s

Saigon moment, as tens of thousands

attempt to flee, some clinging to C-17s

and falling to their death, as we face

the fact that we no longer win wars,

or make a difference, as our White

House struggles to white-wash this

tragic ending, this damnable dark dirge.

Glenn Buttkus


Posted over at d'Verse Poet's Pub