Black Palette


life can be like
slamming your face down
on a bed of nails!



Old Man’s Dog

O let the long night winds blow
I hear Old Man’s dog howl down the road
then limps on
to yet another restless soul

past shadow-flits among tall trees
breezes whistle-play rust-rotted eaves
of this old house that’s not my home

silent figure slices through night’s dark
uncertain of the Old Dog’s bark
watching – waiting – agitating
then disappears from view

my house limps like Old Man’s Dog
inertia moving down the halls –
passing fears on floating ghosts
all remains are rotting bones

my soul picked clean from womb to tomb
no chance for change, no primal scream
no man’s best friend for me – alas
no St. Bernard to cross my path –
no freedom – no exit – no next dream

and tonight death is my soul’s repast.

Revised 02.15.08

Hello, my darlingest – Return to Sender #1

return to sender
address unknown
may 1968/2007

Hello, my darlingest –

love missile received
aimed straight for my heart –
and I want you to know
I lie here in bed
most nights –
sculpting your face into view,
a habit I’ve learned to replace you,
your letters stopped coming
too soon.

Watching the news is unbearable,
when all I think of is losing
Your tenderness fades during news briefs
like poking my eye in your sleep,
but baby –
your poking elbow I miss,
and all your bad habits as well.

those azaleas bloomed!
hot pink splashed on fuchsia –
your favorite colors on me
said so yourself!
lickin’ lipstickedy luscious you purred.

Caught in a stare –
colors freeze an image –
another memory of us
out on the veranda smokin’ chicken
a la “I’ll take the potata in the back, Jack,
don’t like ’em burrrrrrned, b-a-b-y!

and babe,

I feel burned
and crisp
and raw,
without the blanket of your love
wrapped around me tight
like roses clenched in my fist,
while our wedding guests danced round and round and
round us,
drunk on love and laughter!

and, baby,

that’s what I miss the most.
If I could “can” that stuff
I’d send a case or two
“for emergency only”


I wish I were there to recharge your fortitude.

Hello, my love – Return to Sender #2

return to sender
address unknown
june 1968/2007

Hello, my love –

looking at your photo
on your belly, rifle drawn
in jungle fatigues
is terrifying, hon…

Far cry from your get-up
in Mid-Summer Night’s Dream
Thought I’d scrrreeeam when you lunged at me –
your tights drawn and sword up!

Twelfth Night was even better –
prancing around
in those damn leotards!
Amazing fence-faking back-breaking gyrations –
awkward at first like love-making,
and like love-making –
quickly finessed.

You Errol Flynned me
with your fencing skills –
epee poised and ready to prick
some dastardly bastard! but nooooo!
had to lunge! twist! thrust! and plunge!
skewering my couch pillow as I grimaced –
not for my heirloom –
it was fresh-kill face made me shudder.

Your face has that same look
as I study your eyes in this photo –
no sign of twisted tights or eat-shit grin,
no hint of prance or ballroom dance, dear,
this is a last-time face, darling..

not the love-soaked Nureyev eyes
…………..I knew before your first kill.


Death as Life’s Lover

It’s hard to live
between life
…………………and death:
exercise the body,
exercise the mind,
exercise your right
to smoke pink lungs to black
smack my daughter up side the head
with your new! shiny! frickin’ red car!
while she sleeps, hammocked
between front yard magnolias,
……………………………..(ok, write him up)
……………………………..(verdict Friday)
……………………………..(sentence pending)
Mainline your soul to its knees
you bastard!
pant chant-like
after me,
I want to…….. LIVE!
(if you want to live)
I wanna live!
I wanna live.
I wanna see the Light.
I wanna see beyond
………………….steel bars
………………….cotton mats
………………….cell jars
Hear me! I’da be a freed MAN!
born of
………………….jesus freaks
who go to church
…………………and work
…………………and grumble
…………………and do battle
unarmed genetically;
…………………too weak
…………………too worn
…………………too torn
is this freed man,
…………………who pleads
…………………who labors
…………………who cries
………………………………for change,
……………………………………………..for change,
…………………………………………………………… for change!
Mantra me
…………………with panaceas,
………………………………………newage gurus,
…………………………………………………………..spirit guides,
……………………………………………………………………………..and quartz crystals.
Madame Oracle me
………………………………..palm me,
…………………………………………………tarot me,
…………………………………………………………………..and tea me
into richer times and grander schemes.

I be a dead man.
I want to live.
I want to LIVE!
Mantra me, my man, mantra me.
Pass the panacea,
and table the God talk, wouldja?
As my steel gray matter clank closed.


  1. We must always retreat to the dark, like my mother’s womb, for strength for the next day. Sobering.

    I feel honored that you’ve spent so much time reading what I have posted. I’m also excited to have a like-minded person I can visit with, too.

    One of the things I like about poetry is that it can serve as a catharsis for repressed emotions, and so it can certainly be autobiographical. However, writing poetry can mean delving into subjects and themes we don’t personally experience. A lot of my work is based on my life’s experience. I wrote Old Man’s Dog during a dark season in my life. I thank God it didn’t last for long. And the “silver lining” is that it made me stronger, reinforced my faith and gave me some satisfaction that I hung in there and walked through the crisis, rather than walk out or around it. I’m sure you know what I mean by this. You’re very perceptive:)

  2. We all experience dark times at different periods in our lives but, I think the people who withstand that time becomes stronger. They have reached a place that no one can touch and still be human. I admire you for facing your dark time. I am glad to see you on the other side.

    Hello My Darlingest, Return to Sender #1 and #2 I feel are about a lost relationship. Who hasn’t experienced one of those? How anyone can survive such a blow is beyond me but, I think it somehow makes one realize what they can achieve after said person is gone. I hope I am not rambling to much here.

    Have a nice day.

    Keep up the good work.

  3. BLACK PALATTE indeed…yes, those dark corridors we all must tred, those shadow conflicts, those twisted place of anger and anguish.

    OLD MAN’S DOG really clicked me into your despair, as fleeting as it may have been. I once wrote a poem of desperation.


    I was born stinking
    of fear;
    vile placenta fluids
    rushing off me.

    I found terror
    in mud puddles,
    as they snarled at me.

    I could,
    close my eyes,
    and the terrible clutching crawling
    would retreat.

    Yes, I could
    swim, shower, wallow, and be drenched
    in my dreams;
    only to wake up wet,
    frightened of my own sweat,
    as it slithered over my private parts.

    Each day,
    I flexed my muscles against
    the water devils,
    bashing and bludgeoning and banging
    my dry fists
    into their feral faces,
    as the sad slime swirled
    all about me;
    and I continued to fight
    until that damned dire day
    when I realized
    that man is but driftwood;
    his soul floating forever
    on the ocean inside.

    None of that matters
    for I have journeyed
    through hell-dampness
    to lie
    on this flat hot rock.

    I stretch out,
    bleached like a bone,
    brittle as a fall leaf,
    and the sweat has left me.

    As I stare at the sun
    there is nothing left
    but the beautiful baking,
    the catharsis of fire.

    The wetness has fled,
    evaporated and metamorphed
    first into mist
    and then into air.

    Death rustles in my dry hair,
    and all is good
    as the red hot sand
    fills my mouth.

    Glenn Buttkus 1972

  4. I read and re-read your Love Letters to your soldier boy lover, husband or ex-husband. It sounds like you two performed some Shakespeare together. Community theatre, college plays? “This is a last time face, darling./not the love soaked Nureyev eyes/I knew before your first kill.” really does hit hard. Love and pain, pining for the simplicity of the innocent, and confronted with the muzzle, the chaos, the hardness of spirit that our soldiers are immersed in and twisted into. I wrote some soldier’s poems back in the 60’s when Southeast Asia was America’s playground.


    Ferns and creepers rustled softly
    as a crisp breeze gently tousled
    the hair of the hanging man.

    in the mud,
    a soldier in a foxhole
    peered over the lip
    and there in the moonlight
    was a man on a cross

    The crucified one hung there
    in silent agony;
    another man on a cross
    seekingdown a road of sorrow
    in a world of pain;
    red pain,
    sunset orange, yellow, and deep red.

    Rusty railroad spikes in his hands,
    the flesh split,
    he would not let loose
    of life;
    though it raced ahead of him
    in the darkness.

    The soldier had watched
    for several days,
    but dared not
    cross to the other,
    over a hundred lethal yards
    of barren ground
    to the death that crouched there
    with the Mongols
    that also waited.

    the silence was sliced open
    with a burst of M-16 rifle fire,
    and the thing on the cross
    no longer quite a man,
    was slashed to ribbons;
    the lead searing through
    his loin and chest.

    The last flicker of life
    rushed from him,
    red-washing his limbs
    and the greasy wood.

    The man in the trench
    felt himself tremble,
    felt the tears on his dirty cheek,
    as he heard the blood birds shriek
    and the night became full
    of their flapping.

    Glenn Buttkus 1968


    By the bus load
    they rolled into Balboa,
    their asses shot off,
    carried roughly on taunt khaki stretchers.

    Weary eyes
    that wore a planet’s pain;
    their heads shaved,
    their underwear stenciled,
    their blood spilling in little puddles
    in quiet green hallways.

    Cripples all,
    they limped and wheeled,
    hobbled and crept
    through all of the limbs
    of the gray octopus
    military hospital;
    within wire fences,
    beneath post card palms,
    gathering up gobs
    of their old selves.

    Metal and plastic and airplane glue
    became tendons.
    Canes, crutches, and chrome prosthetics
    became new legs.
    Empty pinned shirt sleeves
    caught the ocean breeze
    like sad May pole streamers,
    a melancholy tune.

    There were white jagged scars
    running over the bodies of menl
    ike angry dead veins,
    hard to hide,
    those inside.

    The doctors, nurses, and corpsmen
    raged through the sterile wards,
    and their insane anger was leveled
    like a loaded rifle
    at the patients.

    For Christ’s sake,
    the patients;
    that dull thick red river of broken men;
    damn goldbrick sonofabitches.
    Make sure that those lazy bastards
    shined their shoes,
    and cut all their hair,
    just scrape their heads bald;
    filthy germ-ridden hair.
    Geld them,
    stab them,
    break and slice them;
    deny them comfort,
    harass them,
    give them pain
    and then give them aspirin,
    only aspirin.

    They must get their minds right.
    Shake them from their fitful slumber,
    and stand them at attention.
    They are just meat,
    infitesimal maimed expendable insignificant protoplasmal service numbers,
    and they are not useful
    when bedridden.
    Those slackers must not stay.
    They must go back,
    back to the front…
    they must.

    The men and boys of pain
    absorbed the anger,
    heard the words,
    suffered the scapel,
    took the aspirin,
    shined their boots,
    cut and recut their hair,
    stood at rigid attention,
    and they did not

    Glenn Buttkus 1968


    Bogie and the Duke
    never made a war movie together,
    and that’s a damned shame;
    it would have been
    a proper piece of propaganda.

    is always so clean
    on the silver screen.
    Explosions are intense rainbows,
    tramping troops start toes tapping.
    Great machines of war on wheels
    and tracks of steel,
    groan and roll,
    clang and bang,
    crushing foreign soil
    and foreign devils beneath them.

    Actors in pancake make-up,
    carrying toy guns,
    recite bellicose bullshit,
    wearing the masks of heroes,
    and the blood
    on their hands and faces
    is merely strawberry jam.

    But the problem is,
    in those darkened theatres
    battalions of boys believed
    in the ersatz brutality,
    and found themselves
    in Viet Nam.

    The Freedom Birds,
    screaming jet liners,
    took them there,
    and for those who survived
    Tour 365,
    and remained somewhat
    brought them home again,
    with the steaming blood
    of the Orient
    still clinging to their swollen lips.

    to work in their Dad’s
    hardware store, lumber yard or machine shop,
    with the stench of the ‘Nam
    still strong in their nostrils.

    They remembered
    how proud their fathers had been
    sending them off to war;
    and how,
    their only embrace
    was stone silence.

    Warriors walking
    the streets
    of every city in America,
    hundreds of thousands of them,
    with their fists clenched
    and their minds still scrambled
    from that Soc Trang overload.

    and waiting,
    year after year,
    clear into their bones,
    with society’s spittle
    down the front of their dress uniforms.

    There it is.

    There were no parades,
    no handshakes,
    no welcome home dinners,
    no easy bank loans,
    no talk of valor.

    The calloused fact is
    pain can only be withheld
    for so long.

    War creates warriors,
    and not all of them
    are willing to lay down
    their weapons.

    Glenn Buttkus 1979

    Shock and awe
    assaults our many senses,
    like a cat does with a snake,
    shaking it
    until it snaps its head off;
    and yet
    even in the terrible death throes
    of that reptile,
    and the keen killer’s instinct
    of that feline,
    I find poetry.

    Glenn Buttkus (1944-)


    You snake along
    on your belly in the black soil
    with fire ants chewing
    the fungus on your feet,
    the jungle flora jingling near your nose
    mirage mammeries,
    tipped with swollen pink nipples,
    filling your mouth
    with fern sweetness.

    You ford the warm stream hoping
    it won’t be squirming
    with savage fish,
    or lousy with leeches.

    You try to disregard the green-eyed
    beasts of the night,
    whose every movement
    strokes the hard fear-lump
    in your colon,
    and dampens the steel wool
    in your throat.

    Your eyes are clear,
    but they see nothing
    in the tropical ink.
    Your nostrils are flaring
    full of the acrid midnight mist
    hanging in the humid canopy
    that hides the moon and the stars,
    leaving every tree pregnant
    with the possibility
    of snipers.

    This is recon,
    and you know that you cannot afford
    to fire your weapon.
    No sweat,
    just remember your indocrinations;
    hate the Asian today
    and be his friend tomorrow,
    when he thinks as you do,
    or says he does.
    But on this day
    kill him
    before he kills you,
    as he has been ordered to do.

    a man dies easily.
    He is one of the easiest animals there is
    to kill.
    He has no claws, and his teeth are dull;
    just a flash of steel
    or a well-placed fist or thumb,
    and he is dead meat.

    is in front of you,
    also on patrol,
    crouched in a steaming bush
    with his back to you,
    and the moonlight barely illuminating
    his NVA uniform;
    that fucking stupid pith helmet,
    those deep red insignias,
    and that awesome AK47.

    You gently set your M16 aside,
    and your assault knife
    slides lethal
    out of its khaki scabbord.
    When you are close enough
    to smell his armpits
    the gook hears you;
    but his lethargic response will cost him

    You leap upon the smaller man
    and he manages to say
    ” Dinky-dau,”
    before your hand covers his mouth.

    You are a heartbeat slower
    than you should have been,
    and your advesary will not submit
    without a struggle.

    So you roll in the elephant grass
    arms and legs wrapped around each other
    like lovers;
    his muffled cries becoming frenzied
    as your naked blade
    rips his flesh
    and tears his bones.

    Then both of you are on your knees,
    facing each other,
    and for the briefest of moments
    you are able to look deep
    into the painful bulging eyes
    of the country
    you have come to conquor.

    Sweet death finally comes
    for your yellow opponent;
    and his desperate grip relaxes
    on the thick muscles of your forearms,
    and his bare head rests
    against your swelling chest
    like a tired child.

    You let go of him,
    and his limp body collapses
    beneath you,
    lying like something broken.
    He is dead,
    and so is a tiny part of you
    for killing him.

    Your strong heart pounds as you blow
    spit-bubbles in the blood
    that covers your hot sweaty face.

    You pick up a scrap of paper
    that must of been in his dead fist.
    It was the lyrics to
    ” California Dreamin'”
    in English.
    Stuffing the paper into your pocket
    you crawl off like a snake.

    It’s all fucking crazy.

    Glenn Buttkus 1968

    But enough about me. Let’s look at the lines of RETURN TO SENDER #1.
    “love missles received/aimed straight for my heart.”–what a lovely way to describe your soldier’s love letters, and how it tugged on my tears to read,”your letters stopped coming/too soon.”
    That and the travail we all suffer;”watching the news is unbearable/when all I think of is losing/you”. The line,”like roses clenched in my fist,” conjures several forms of textured and emotional responses.
    Since both RETURNS TO SENDER were post-dated 1968, perhaps we are referring to the same conflict. Did you lose your husband, your love in the quagmire of Viet Nam?


  5. Janet:

    On my blog site you requested that one of my poems be exhibited on yours. I am so very happy to comply:


    I am the Christ,
    he whispered,
    and they laughed at him;
    at his thin unshaven face,
    at his long blood-caked hair.

    But no one looked at his eyes
    the way I did.
    He could have told them,
    if they would but listen.

    He remembered
    the cold castle walls
    and the cockroaches that chewed his ankles.
    The club and the chain,
    and the many-tailed whip
    that tore hunks of flesh from his body.
    Roman guards that had beat him.
    Thorns in his hair
    tearing at his scalp.
    Men who had feared him,
    pummeled him with their fear,
    Blackening his eyes;
    those sad eyes
    that could see

    Herod was fat,
    and loved his whores,
    and his little boys.

    Pilate was lean
    and he splashed his hands
    in a flowered urn as the people
    cheered the thief Barabbas;
    placing a straw basket on his head,
    and carrying him on their shoulders,
    a frozen smile on his lips,
    his liberty barren.

    It was a dirty amemic yellow dawn
    as Jerusalem reeked of refuse.
    He put the rugged cross upon his shoulder;
    a huge thing
    that smelled of creosote and tar and pitch;
    fresh cut
    brought from the dark forest,
    bolted together with iron clasps.

    The burden was heavy
    and he fell under it.
    the cobblestone bit into his raw knees.
    the whip kissed his scourged back
    as he stood up.

    The sky appeared dead.
    The narrow streets were open cesspools
    in the dim light,
    rubbish in rainbarrols,
    gutters that rannith over
    with filth.
    People leaned out windows
    and spat,
    though some did not.

    Come see the parade,
    it is free,
    like hunger.
    and the people came,
    an army of shopkeepers, drunkards, farmers, artisans,whores,
    pick-pockets, thieves, cutthroats, lepers,
    and rabbis,
    huddling, steaming, and shuffling,
    as dirty children played
    tag with the rats.

    Another painful stumble at the corner crossroads,
    flat onto the hard street,
    but this time gentle hands
    reached out to him
    and a negro named Simon stepped up
    to help shoulder the burden,
    and although conscripted,
    he too
    was whipped and beaten
    as the procession continued.

    His mother was there,
    in that sea of whirling souls,
    though he had missed her at the trial.

    Porta Judiciarn,
    a Roman gate,
    stone and ornate,
    marble and impressive.

    Then Calvary at noon,
    a sickly place,
    stinking of carrion and death;
    the place of skulls.
    The crowd jeered and bellered and wept.
    Dysmas and Gestas sweated,
    watching the crosses being arranged on the ground.

    The four corners of the world heaved,
    black clouds raced for the hillock,
    a pallid ring hid the desert sun;
    noon and dark.

    Pain hid the rising,
    three sharp white sihouettes
    against the indigo sky,
    yet the iron spikes still hurt
    as the flesh split, cracked, and crunched
    in his hands and feet.

    Jesus of Nazareth,
    King of the Jews;
    words on a hand-written wooden sign,
    nailed lop-sided over his drooping head.

    The spikes were thick and cold,
    and blood flowed,
    slowly trickling down,
    spiraling around his body
    and the cross.
    Little red rivelets of life
    in a rubious world;
    becoming a steaming puddle
    on the bare trodden ground.

    I thirst, he cried,
    and they sponged his swollen face
    with vinegar;
    while the black sky brooded,
    his crown caught the light on a barb.
    Whispered words with his father,
    dice that rolled,
    winners that did not win.

    4:00, Good Friday,
    April 7th,
    30 A.D.;
    a scratch on eternity,
    a wound that never heals,
    bleeding still,
    becoming words that will not clot,
    from a Christ,
    and from all men suffering,
    and not suffering.

    My God,
    My God,
    Why have you forsaken me ?

    Glenn Buttkus Easter 1966

    Enjoy and comment, all.

    Thank you so much, Glenn! As I stated elsewhere, this poem really gets to me. It feels like I’m walking the Stations of the Cross with Jesus, and you make me very aware and pained over what His walk must have been like, and what a bloody mess He must have been by the time they hoisted Him upright to settle in agony. Your poem makes it so personal and believable. It’s a great poem, worthy of the high mettle your subject sustained.

    I once went on a similar “walk” with Jesus while in meditation, and once I even heard the sound of trickling water out of the blue. Every Easter I read the passages leading up to His crucifixion, every Easter I cry while reading the Prayer He sent up to the Father in the Garden of Gethsemane (John 17) asking God to keep and protect His own from the Evil one. Sanctify them by Truth: Your Word is Truth. So very powerful.

    So, thank you once again, Glenn. I’d like to put this up on Poetmeister 4 Poets!
    also, at the appropriate time, if that’s okay with you. Poetmeister 4 Poets! is where I concentrate my efforts on other poets, poems, and poetic bytes…:)

  6. Janet: With your blessings, I have been selecting some of your masterful poems to post on FEEL FREE TO READ. You are aware of this, and it is fun to find illustrations to compliment them. The latest one of your poems I have picked was OLD MAN’S DOG, something lovely, dark, deep, full of despair, restlessness, pain, reaching out, pulling back into a curled ball, lotus, fetus, make the harshness go away. Death has come close to you, brushed you with its flithy rags, filled your lovely nostrils with its fetid breath, smiled its dead smile into your terror, and moved on, melting into the shadows, merging into night.
    Silent figure slices through night’s dark/uncertain/of the Old Dog’s bark/watching–waiting–agitating/then disappears from view.
    oh yeah, the demons of our mind, the evil fousted upon us by circumstance; with the wind as its ally, that your heart, like that old rickety house has been rammed, violated, and the once pink and vibrant flesh, lies brown and gray with inertia, like rot on meat, like “rotting bones”. We could call you Mistress Poe with this one, dear; middle of the night kind of poetry, of anguish, of anger, of desolation, as you feel done for, done in, or at least your protagonist poeticus does; nowhere to hide, nowhere to travel to,/my soul picked clean/–no chance for change/no primal scream/; the worst kind, the silent scream, void of vibrance, void of life already, worn down, beat down, no savior, not even a St. Bernard /no freedom/no exit/and tonight/death is my soul’s repast.

    This paints the old picture of death, the grim reaper, the last resort. But think of Death as a friend, like Robert Redford on that old TWILIGHT ZONE, a kind blond cop who takes the old woman’s hand gently and leads her out of pain; death is a doorway, a transition. This poem was your penance, your catharsis–and now your lovely soul can move on, back into the light.


    omgoodness, you give good crit! You’re interpreting my poems so spot-on that I’m beginning to wonder if you know me personally and blogging under a nom de plume, Glenn. What a gift you have!

    I’m making this a short response as I’ve just come from your blog having written extensively. Hope you understand..:)
    I go to bed now..:)

  7. DEATH AS LIFE’S LOVER was so strong, it had to be read three times, first at a distance, and then slowly up into the images.

    The photo on FFTR is Jack Kerouac, who who you may not have made any specific reference to, but he died young and left a beautiful corpse, ala River Phoenix and Heath Ledger.

    “It’s hard to live/between life/……and death;/ Well, yes, and no. We must not forget that whatever our challenges, we are here, in this lifetime, in lesson, and every calamity was preset by our, ourselves, before our birth, putting us into spiritual groups and exercising metaphysical dynamics. And then the pain shows up; /exercise your right/to smoke pink lungs to black/ which is sad enough to watch, to view a person you care for killing themselves with each drag; thanks God that you stopped smoking, dear. But then a shocker; /smack my daughter up side the head/with your new! shiny! frickin red car!/ Abuse, violence–not acceptable, out of balance, requiring of a change and a solution. Someone you know,perhaps loved, was incarcerated (at least poetically), and you want to separate yourself from that negativity, from seeing/ steel bars/cotton mats/cell jars/, oh yeah, because, /I want to live/ and later, or earlier you want/to see the light/ as you, or the narrator struggles with drug abuse, religious hiprocracy, liers, seducers, con men…until overwhelmed, consumed with pain and anger–you turn away, turn off your mind; shut out the lies and pain. Man, this poem reads like Ginsberg’s HOWL, or some of Kerouac’s, or some of mine. Excellent job, lady.


  8. i really like death as life’s lover

    “As my steel gray matter clank closed.”

    great ending/line


    this is good/honest writing


    Thanks so much for stopping in again, Toby. I appreciate your feedback and especially your last line. That’s quite a compliment. Thank you.

  9. […] March 8, 2009 · No Comments life can be like slamming your face down on a bed of nails! […]

  10. powerful stuff. good to be back and making the rounds. glad to see you are well and writing. i’ll be back soon.


  11. Thank you, Janet, for sharing such powerful words of enlightenment and peace as in Lotus Unfolds. Escaping barely a horribly stressful period as Old Man’s Dog, I can really relate to your poetry.

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