Thursday, April 27, 2017

Hug, Kiss & a Tickle


image from theworldrace.com


Hug, Kiss and a Tickle

“If you tickle us, do we not laugh?”
--William Shakespeare.

I know it is full-on Spring
now that the night birds sing;
as the lawn demands to be mowed 
and my old back becomes bowed
from weeding, seeding & humming.

Soon I will have another birthday.
It is a time to shout a loud hooray,
because I will turn seventy-three
and too many loved ones have left me--
too young, too soon; definitely not OK.

There once was a billionaire bully named Trump,
who shouldn’t even be King of the Dump--
but OMG he became our President,
kissing chaos & favoring rules that are bent--
as History will label him a cancerous lump.

They tell me aging is not for sissies,
as I moan, fuss, & perform divers hissies--
angry at my ancient body’s failings
as youth departed other sailings--
only salved by my sweet wife’s kissies.

We now inhabit a vast empty nest,
though we never have confessed 
how much we really miss our kids--
as three daughters put in their bids
for us to baby-sit so they can rest.

I always travel with my trusty camera,
searching for remote & deep caldera,
or those fabulous golden light moments,
or rusted vehicles with their pretty dents;

I might even find a smiling chimera.


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub MTB

the title is what we get from grandchildren as they go home.
the image is a 125 year old man in Israel.

Tuesday, April 25, 2017

Packs & Prides


image from fineartamerica.com


Packs & Prides

“We have all known the long loneliness, & we have 
found that the answer is community.”--Dorothy Day.

As poets, many of us gravitate
toward one group, or one site--
or even a few, where brief forays
into fellowship validate our world view--
where friendship takes firm root and
poetics blossom like fruit trees in Spring;
         minds are being aligned,
        talents are being shared,
      lessons are being learned,
      & styles are being expanded.

There are no perfect solutions to complications
predicated by community & co-habitation. We 
have seen too often that the loners, outriders
and the isolated can become vulnerable.
                                               victimized &
                                               violated--
so nomads created tribes,      then villages.       
                                               then towns,
                                               then cities, &
                                               then countries.

Yes, we have found that by huddling together
in urban nests there is a safety in numbers,
but there is also a reduction of liberty & privacy.

History is littered with man’s failure to sustain a
perfect community. After years of defeating Roman
legions, Spartacus took his army of gladiators and
slaves to the toe of Italy & he built the Sun City--
where all men were equal. Soon though, he realized
that a community of 80,000 souls needed some sort
of constabulary, justice system, governing body, public
works & sanitation procedures.

Within six months over half of his population defected,
and fled, returning to the less stressful arms of slavery;
refusing to step up & do their part. As a reward for
Spartacus, his grand vision of freedom & brotherhood 
crumbled into treachery and crucification. 

We run in packs like
wolves, hoping communities

are sanctuaries.


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Monday, April 24, 2017

Still


painting by Megan Duncanson.


Still

“Shoot for the moon, and if you miss it
you’ll still be among the stars.”--Les Brown.

As my eyes open,
glancing out the window
at the dark gray underbelly
of Spring cumulus,

I realize I’m        still alive,
                          still behind on projects,
                          still in pain,
                          still hungry,
                          still ambitious,
                          still in love 
with my wife--
so I greeted

the new day.


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Q44  

Tuesday, April 18, 2017

Ground Control to Major Tom


image from fragrantica.com


Ground Control to Major Tom

“Take your protein pills and put your
helmet on.”--David Bowie

Please be aware that we really do care
that your broken navigational array
is causing you clinical dismay; all we can say
is look at things this way--for you it will
always be today as your capsule catapults
you, despite anything we could do, beyond
Pluto, beyond the sun--know that your
personal journey has just begun.

the stars are within
your reach--soon you’ll touch the face

of God  allthatis. 


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Monday, April 17, 2017

Baptism by Bullets


image from saatchiart.com


Baptism by Bullets

“I do not fear computers. I fear the lack of them.”
--Issac Assimov.

In 1967, when I was in the service, I feared combat
--and I worked very hard to maintain my clerical 
MOS. Why play hopscotch on the freeway? I had been
taught that fear is good, essential for survival. Beware
the fearless man, for he was an idiot--death in a hat.

I used to have a reoccurring nightmare. I was on patrol,
deep in country--walking point. Suddenly we were 
ambushed, The jungle canopy was alive with active
sniper fire--gunshots blossoming all around us. The
nine of us were cut to pieces, and we all went to 
ground.

Out of the bush, the Cong appeared. I was wounded in 
several places, but I played dead. They jabbered a bit 
in their clipped sing-song, & then the gunshots began.
They were shooting the wounded. A shadow crossed my
face. I felt the barrel of a rifle against my temple. I heard
the discharge, as a dark rainbow of ballistics exploded
in my head. But then I realized that miraculously I was
still alive. The universe was telling me that they couldn’t
kill me. I always awakened shaken but smiling.

A jungle is not
a garden. Death awaits you.
Do not befriend it.  


 Glenn Buttkus

Thursday, April 13, 2017

Blue Rain


image from vogue.om


Blue Rain

“If you ever come by, for Jane or for me;
your enemy sleeps & his woman is free.”
--Leonard Cohen.

Four in the morning, end of December.
New York is cold, but I like where I’m living.
I’m writing you to see if you are any better;
always for you it’s the taking, not the giving.

Yes, you used to look so much older,
as you went to the station to meet every train.
Your blue raincoat was torn at the shoulder.
You always came back without Lily Marlene.

My brother, what can I tell you?
What can I possibly say?
I miss you & I guess I forgive you--
thanks for standing in my way.

You treated Jane to a flake of your life.
After returning, she was nobody’s wife.



Glenn Buttkus

Lyrics remix from Leonard Cohen's
FAMOUS BLUE RAINCOAT.

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub MTB  

Tuesday, April 11, 2017

Daddy Lost


image from fr.redmp3.su


Daddy Lost

Papa, please get the moon for me.”
--Eric Carle.

In 1954,
when I was ten, 
a fifth grader attending
my 7th elementary school,
I was watching
THE HIT PARADE
on our 13” B&W TV--

Eddie Fisher was hosting,
Coca Cola was the sponsor.
He sang his #1 hit,
OH! MY PAPA,
& every time I heard the song
I was reduced to inexplicable tears;

perhaps it was the poignant trumpet solo,
or maybe the saccharine lyrics:
                Oh, my Papa;
                to me he was so wonderful,
                                       so good,
                                       so funny,
                                       so adorable,
                                       so gentle,
                                       so lovable.

Damn, somehow this song highlighted a
mysterious loss in my life, the lyrics vibrated
like cello strings, & emotions exploded.

My mother’s first husband, my “father”, was a
liar, a wife beater who cheated on her routinely.

Her second husband was a pedophile, who had
molested neighborhood children.

Her third husband was a handsome felon, who 
rode a motorcycle, drove hot rods, & had potential
for fatherhood, before he started molesting my
sister & beating my mother.

So the song was a trigger, & my adolescent
instincts became a voice that announced I had
no father, just a succession of stepfathers. Oh,
how I missed this lost phantom father that my
mother never mentioned. Years later my odd
suspicions  were confirmed, & I had to own them.

Papa was not a
term I ever embraced, for

it was a ghost’s name.


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub



Monday, April 10, 2017

Exodus


image from saatchiart.com


Exodus

“The metaphor of Exodus has dogged the Jews
from the outset. Their very success attracts
resentment.”--Jack Schwarz.

Riddle me,
drizzle me    with 
                     double-speak,
                     political spin,
                                              and all other forms
                     of drizzletude.

Truth seems                          archaic
                      at present,
something     unseen,
                      unheard,
nearly                                     invisible.

My eyes
get drizzly,
my mind
dizzy, as        common sense,
                      equality,
                      liberty,
                      closure &
                      justice
run for the 
door.                      

      

               
Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Q44

Tuesday, April 4, 2017

Trio


image from Pinterest.com


Trio

“There is something magical about three, you 
know. A trio is tight.” --Ian Williams.

I’m a big Golden Lab named Larry.
I guess I live on an Animal Farm,
because each time our humans 
leave the area, we all speak clearly
to each other. My two best pals are
a pig, Pecos, & a cat named Katie.

Larry: We need to hatch a plan to catch that fox,
old Red, who is killing our chicken friends.
Pecos: The killer comes during the wolfing hour,
so it will be tough to stay awake.
Katie: Do we have proof it is Red? I’ve seen a 
rogue Dobie skulking around lately.
Larry: Farmer Fred thinks it’s a fox.
Pecos: Truth be told, the predator only kills what he
will eat. Dogs go ape-shit & kill dozens, eating none.
Larry: Go easy on the dog-trashing, Bub.
Katie: I almost side with Red. He’s the only fox in our
area, & I’ve heard pups yelping late at night.
Larry: Something to consider, I guess. Those damn
housing developments have destroyed the forest &
green belts all around us.
Pecos: Gosh, we are so lucky to be domesticated
and have humans to feed us daily.
Katie: You’re the lucky one, bacon-breath, that day
when little Suzie made you her pet.
Pecos: Don’t remind me--I hide during breakfast &
Sunday dinner.
Larry: Come on, Katie, quit being so darned catty !
Katie: Zip it, dudes--I hear Wife Wilma headed our 
way, her milk bucket rattling & rubber boots squeaking.
Larry: Fine, we’ll talk later.
Pecos: Around here it just seems like one damn crisis
after another.
Katie: It’s just not kosher for a pig to whine.

The barn door creaked open & Wilma made her way to
the cow stalls: Hey, kids, how you doing?

I looked at Katie & we kept our composure, but Pecos 

giggled & had to turn his face away.


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Monday, April 3, 2017

Shadows Know


image by glenn buttkus.


Shadows Know

“The very substance of the ambitious is merely
the shadow of a dream.”--William Shakespeare.

Shadows are companions, artists, jesters and
sanctuary from Sol. I love to click images where I
find shadows have created their own geometrics,
complicating & complimenting the composition.

When the wind is active, clouds race across the sky
and shadows streak like ghostly bullet trains. As the
playful clouds smother the sun, the shadows smile,
deepening as they mantle things, magically in flux.  

Moon shadows are sprites, specters, & night dancers.
On bright days, shadow kaleidoscopes cut abstract
swaths under, behind, & adjacent to everything--
comprising a second reality, an undulating ever-
changing dimensional shift.

For me, the finest
shadow artists are trees, for

they spin dream catchers.


Glenn Buttkus






Thursday, March 30, 2017

Dances of Dissimulation


image from cwallpapersgallery.com


Dances of Dissimulation

“The irony is that too often the people we tend
to vote for actually look down on voters.”
--Steven Weber.

Tanka Time

A man who strives to
paint masterpieces might end up
drawing comics for 
a living--you know, Silver
Surfer & Thor & Batman.

**************************************
A woman who studies
ballet for twenty years might
find herself walking
dogs, teaching the tango &
some physical therapy. 

***************************************
A boy from Detroit’s
projects, wanted to be a
draftee in the Pro--
NBA, but instead he
became a great math teacher.

*****************************************
Hey, who makes a good
President--a person born
to wealth & prestige,
or someone with bleeding lips
from the far side of the tracks?

***************************************
Once a loving dog
begins killing chickens, he
becomes only a
killing machine, slave to blood

lust & dark primal murder.


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub MTB

Tuesday, March 28, 2017

Treespeak


image from bingimages.com


Treespeak

“The clearest way into the secrets of the universe
is through a forest wilderness.”--John Muir.

I have been standing right in this
very spot for over 5,000 years.
I can see Bishop, Ca. from here, 
above tree line atop the high
foothills of the Sierras.

I am more dead than alive these 
days, but you know, it is quite the
honor to actually be the bristle cone
pine that is the oldest living thing
on the planet. I am all alone now.

About 200 years ago, they nick-named
me Methuselah. I had a little brother,
Prometheus, who was 4,800 years old
when some miscreant geologist chopped
him down.

Most humans are ignorant of my supreme
sentience, & my complete awareness of
the events surrounding me. I remember
Atlantis & Lemuria before recorded history.
I am a living memory bank that could rival
even the cyber-intelligences of the present.

Let me just illustrate as I glance back at some
near-historical events that occurred on this day,
March 28th, over the last 2,000 years:

In AD37, Caligula accepted the title of Principate
from the Senate. fanning his madness.
In 1854, the Crimean War was declared.
In 1868, writer Maxim Gorky was born.
In 1902, actress Flora Robson was born.
In 1921, actor Dirk Bogarde was born.
In 1924, child actor Freddie Bartholomew was born
soon to pretend he watched Spencer Tracy drown.
In 1939, Franco conquered Madrid during the 
Spanish Civil War before Hemingway wrote about it.
In 1941, writer Virginia Woolf drown herself.
In 1951, the First IndoChina War began.
In 1953, athlete Jim Thorpe died, right after
Burt Lancaster played him in a movie.
In 1959, Dwight D. Eisenhower passed away.

If you had another century to listen to me,
I could share so much more. We are living in
a unique era now, & I look forward to being

a chronicle for several more centuries. 


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Monday, March 27, 2017

Messenger


image from freeakingnews.com


Messenger

“Man is a messenger who forgot the message.”
--Abraham Joshua Heschel.

Balloon me to
the stars--a man
muttered,

but as I turned
to him,
his face inflated,

detached,
and ballooned
past me.

Above it
a comic book
balloon hovered,

saying--
the balloon 
in your heart valve
is bursting.


I knew it was a lie.


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub Q44

Thursday, March 23, 2017

Blackthorne--Scene 61


image from maplesprings,com


Blackthorne

Cinemagenic Sixty-One

Cost

Good words are worth much, and
cost little.”--George Herbert.

1(sound cue) snare & bass drums, from rapid to
slow beats as the riders disappear.
2(medium wide shot) Buck with his big hands on 
his hips, Johnny with his strong arms folded.
3(sound cue) piano & harmonica.
4(medium close-up) Buck: There it is.
He pulled his flat black hat low over his angry eyes.
5(two shot) the Eagle remained stoic staring after
the intruders. Buck strolled over to the burlap grub
sack, and sliced off four more thick strips of bacon.
6(tight close up) His thin sharp skinning knife slicing
off the lovely fatty meat.
7(sound cue) Cheewa whining.
8(two shot) Buck & the black dog: Here, big fella, you
might as well have a treat--as he held out a slice.
9(close-up) Cheewa’s soft mouth as he accepted meat.
10(sound cue) dog munching.
11(widen two shot) Buck returned to the campfire. He
flipped out the old burned bacon, much to the canine’s
delight. Buck added wood to the fire, & squatted beside
it. He dropped the fresh bacon into the blackened fry pan.
12(sound cue) bacon sizzling.
13(tighten two-shot) Johnny appeared at the fire, and he 
squat down midst the blue cooking smoke, his arms still
folded. They had a quiet moment. Johnny picked up a
twig & began drawing glyphs in the dirt.
14(close-up) Johnny, over Buck’s shoulder, speaking
softly: You know, we could have ended this right here.
Buck: Maybe so.
15(sound cue) harmonica & cello.
16(close-up) the Eagle: I was plenty pissed off. I think
we could have taken them
17(voice-over) Buck: The price was too high.
18(close-up) Johnny, over Buck’s shoulder: Were you
afraid of them--or was your fear for my safety?
19(close-up) Buck, his eyes softening: Both.
20(two-shot) angle on Johnny, as he snorted: Tell me,
will you actually do as you said? Will you play nice
with with that fat cinche hefe?
Buck: You tell me--what would have happened if we
had killed the Bronsons?”
21(close up) Johnny, grinning slyly: They would be
dead, & their trouble with them. We would have 
burned their bodies, then maybe got drunk.
22(close-up) Buck: I like your conclusions, fierce one--
but what about the wranglers? We would have had 
to kill all five of them--a terrible cost.
23(two-shot) Johnny, over Buck’s shoulder: A price
I would have paid.  None of them were innocent.
24(close-up) Buck: It is a sad thing--peace is harder
than war. What we do must have consequences. I
don’t think I could build my rancho upon those burned  
bodies. I came home to build a new life. So, if it is at
all possible, I have to wage an ugly peace. Bronson
is ten kinds of asshole. Today went to him. We will
have to see about tomorrow.
25(two-shot) Johnny, over Buck’s shoulder: God damn,
my Buck, this is tough steak to swallow.
26(close up) Buck: We both know this is not over--it is
just the beginning.
27(medium close up) the Eagle forced a tight-lipped smile,
and nodded yes.
28(sound cue) Indian seed rattle over blues guitar slide. 



Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub OLN

Tuesday, March 21, 2017

River Lore


image from npr.org


River Lore

“A good river is nature’s life work in a song.”
--Mark Helprin

It is fascinating
to hike up into the glaciers
& visit the deep alpine lakes
that constitute watery wombs
for the divers icy creeks,
born to sprint downhill
toward their erotic
rendezvous with a river.

They say
that even the mightiest
of rivers--the Columbia,
                     Amazon,
                     Ganges,
                     Nile,
                     Colorado,
                     Yangtze &
                     Mississippi,
just single-mindedly flows
from its source to the sea,
and that regardless
of its strength,
it cannot return
to that source
as easily as we can
to our own--and yet

in my view, a river
ever recycling,
ever reinventing itself,
does not think of tomorrow
or dote upon its yesterdays;
for it flows only in the Now,
rushing headlong toward the sea
in order to embrace saline & change.

If it has its own version of a soul,
some metaphysical consciousness,
it remembers its past journey
as it peers into the clouds
and prepares itself
for winged transport
back to another beginning,
a new journey,
a new Now.  

************************

I always feel sad
while in the midst
of a desert trek, 
and I come upon
a phantom rivers’ dry bed imprint
sculpted into the hot sand.
Where did it go?
Why did it leave?
When will it return?

In America’s Southwest,
during rain torrents,
there often are river demons whelped--
flash floods--born as innocent
as black butterflies, sharing
a short life, but adopting the guise
of water-borne behemoth,
eager to wreak havoc
and drown old people
in their classic Cadillacs.

“I have great wealth, yet I am poor--
because I am a river to my people”
--Anthony Quinn 

LAWRENCE OF ARABIA


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub

Monday, March 20, 2017

Thespis Ate Here


image from godecookery.com


Thespis Ate Here

Is it possible disdain should die while she has
such meet food to feed it on as Benedick?”
--William Shakespeare
MUCH  ADO ABOUT NOTHING

Sense memories often collide with recall as the
tattered pages of the past reassert themselves.
In the mid-70’s, when I was actually paid to be an 
actor, I was on a Bus & Truck Tour sent out by the 
Seattle Rep, performing in a classic comedy, SEVEN 
KEYS TO BALDPATE, originally done by Jack Benny
in 1935.

We were on the road for six weeks, performing in four
Western states. One of the stops was in Winnemucca,
Nevada, setting up the show in the Richard Nixon Civic
Auditorium. This is a high desert town, famous for its
colorful cluster of casinos & cathouses.

Actors only get Mondays off, and during one about eight
of the cast visited a local Cajun restaurant. Oddly it was
set up with long lines of white-washed picnic tables. It
was family dining, with no menu. You paid a flat rate &
they brought you whatever they were serving that day.
It was “all you could eat”. As a vibrant group of mostly
young & always hungry Thespians, we were delighted.

There were four servers, and they started off with tall
chilled pitchers of wine, juices, & soft drinks. Then 
came a cavalcade of salads--classic green, caesar, 
fruit and pasta. Ten minutes later they bought out huge 
hot platters of meat--beef steaks, chicken, & pork roast,
accompanied by steaming pots of vegetables--green
beans cooked with bacon, broccoli dripping in tangy
cheese, & asparagus spears seasoned with Cajun
spices. In addition there were several kinds of potato
& rice dishes. We devoured the food as if we had just 
broken a fast. When we were stuffed, they cleared the 
tables and brought forth the rich desserts--cakes, pies 
and puddings.

Two years ago I revisited the spot where that restaurant
had been. It had changed to a Mexican establishment, so
we ate there anyway. As I munched my enchiladas, my
mind buzzed with the particulars of that fabulous feast
from forty years before.

Meals from the past must
remain there since memories

have no calories.

Glenn Buttkus

Thursday, March 16, 2017

Perspective


image from internationalabstractartists.blogspot.com


Perspective

“There are no facts, only interpretations.”
--Friedrich Nietzche.

Camp alone on the high desert,
near midnight, when coyotes voice
your frustrations, your anguish;
while staring hypnotically
at the molten shades of flame
within your fire--

tracing the swarms of live sparks
that launch skyward above
the popping & snapping
of burning mesquite.

Hold your gaze at the trajectory’s apex,
where the sparks drop back to ground--
then further up into stratospheric ebony,
that ant’s nest of stars that choke the sky,
dancing like Navajo silver jewelry
around the blood moon.

The cosmic conundrum congeals
behind your eyes, beyond your
visual cortex, as you ponder 
on how anyone can grasp 
infinite universes expanding--
a never-ending metaphysical drama?

Are we but dust mite microbes
in a macroverse residing
within a viscus dew drop
on an illusory Joshua Tree?
Are we co-creators of AllThatIs,
or simply window dressing
created by hordes of gods,
unseen, faceless, genderless,
beyond comprehension?

Then rejoice, for at those moments of projection
& introspection, when quantum insights have to
be distilled & rendered down to coherent thought-
bites, we are simply too awed by our infinitesimal,
yet colossal, essence, fully encased within the 
meaty manifestation of our spiritual entity,
to really give much damn credence to the
present neo-fascist alternative facts barrage
that pelts us like corrosive acid rain in a foul
continuous Trumpian turd-storm.

People survived
concentration camps, so we

will survive the Trump.  


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub MTB


Tuesday, March 14, 2017

Trumpland


image from coming-cinema.com


Trumpland

“When you’re a star, they let you do anything
you want.”--Donald J. Trump.

Michael Moore made a movie
about it, dripping with satire--
but I heard that Trumpland
will be for real;

when the building of the Wall is stalled
due to lack of funding, the POTUS
in 2018 will erect his dream park in Florida,
and of course it will be huuugggee;

bigger & more fun than Dollywood,
brighter than Bollywood,
darker than any of Disney’s lands,
dwarfing Disney World
and the Universal theme parks,
sprawling out like a sinister Kraken.

The Main Street will be called MyWall
Street, where every building, every business
will proudly display the Trump brand.
There will be a gargantuan casino
called Putin’s Palace, and the Russian
decor will be all original & imported.
Putin, himself, will have an executive 
penthouse atop it, and will make several
personal appearances.

There will be ten golf courses,
and 25 cocktail lounges where
ex-Hooter’s blonds will serve
Trump vodka,
Trump Steaks, 
Trump kosher dogs,
& Trump Emperor cheese burgers.

There will be Fashion stores
selling Trump suits.
Trump wigs, ties, & socks--
& Ivanka ladies apparel.

There will be an Armed services
Playland where you can ride in 
real tanks & shoot real guns
while the kiddies can ride on
rockets, humvies & fighter planes
on the military merry-go-rounds.

There will be 50 Trump gift shops
where his fan base can purchase
I don’t have small anythings,
I have a good brain.
Make America great again,
Grab them by the pussy ,
I’ll tell you at the time.
Mexicans are rapists,
Muslims are terrorists,
That makes me smart
ball caps, underwear, & sweatshirts.

To enter the Fun House,
you will walk through Trump’s
huge clown face;
inside after being vetted
one can buy KKK gear
& David Duke books.

There will be Republican elephant rides
shooting galleries with Hispanic, Islamic,
& Democratic targets, Obama & Hillary
Halloween masks, a Trump Tower ride
that will have a rotating VIP restaurant
atop it.  

Billionaires get in for free,
the rest of us will pay
500 bucks per day. 
I suspect ten thousand of his
followers will show up during 
the first week, & he will tweet
it was ten million.

The theme park Trump dreamed of,
that taxpayers paid for,
will go bankrupt after six months,
and mysterious fires will consume 
it all and Trump will sue for the insurance.



Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub



Monday, March 13, 2017

Inexorable


image from pinstake.com


Inexorable

“Adapt or perish, now as ever, is nature’s
inexorable imperative.”--H.G. Wells.

Deep
into the Yukon,
within
the northern-most 
forests,

in every
snow-choked
canyon,
burrow & cave,

beneath
crag & evergreen
spires,

Spring
is stabbing
into the icy
heart of winter--

and all
the spawn
of gestation
ready

themselves,
eager
to blossom
and be

born.


Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub