Jestku

You are Always on my Mind
November 10th

Happy Birthday, Scott.
Are you and Rascal grinning-
face down in your cake?!

~ ~ ~

.

.

Afternoon Delight

tulips
bowl of fruit on the table –
a banana!

~ ~ ~

Critical Mass

two red-hot lovers
touch –
spontaneous combustion!

~ ~ ~

Balanced personality
a chip
on both shoulders.

~ ~ ~

Flamethrower

A wooden heart
one big mouth –
anybody got a match?

~ ~ ~

Summer Night’s Dream

a riverboat,
hot buns –
and a paddle!

~ ~ ~

Even Disposition

Flat line,
across
electrocardiogram.

~ ~ ~

rascal.gif

Mondays Suck

mondays suck –
too bad they built a ramp
from fridays to mondays
cuz it sucks pleasure
right out of the week
end.

mondays suck –
when Sunday days
alone
are rainchecks.

mondays suck –
for leafless trees,
and those for whom we leave
behind.

mondays tuesdays
wednesdays too
all suck darling
spent alone,
and not with you.

.

New Age RAP Mantra

To live to love to give,
The only reasons why we live –
Give them all to one who’s dear
And you’ll find him always near.

Just live for him from day to day,
When he stumbles show the way –
Let him know you’re always there,
Shower him with loving care.

If he differs in his thoughts,
TRASH HIS ASS and be unkind –
After all – how does one learn
Unless one’s flamed and left to burn?

.

Beg Life

We drink, ’til distant friends arrive
rise out of range, loom ghostly
recede again.

A thought walks in, asks
and what of life?
“..aging, sea change, choosing”
always choosing
one more Dutch door,
then drifting, drifting
toward another endless chore.

We walk this lunar beach – beg life
from birth to earth’s end,
to learn what good come from this, when
despair will reign the soul to cry

&

we die to love,
we weep for joy –
our worst our best,
we love to death.

Life’s a beach
combed clean,
unless you know the time of birth
of a single wave.

Spartan thoughts fuel our bloated bodies
engorged on luxuries,
double helpings of a thin line drawn too fat
reflects mourning – too many mirrored warnings –
and oh God we beg for more
we beg for more

&

life’s a drama
then we die –
beached whales
done in by our own wailings.

There is no end to beginnings
start line or finish line,
we’re all finished
in the end,

we do not heed Heaven’s plea –
save the plankton!

~ ~ ~

.Ezra Takes a Pounding
“The brain is a terrible thing to waste”..

I hasten to add my two cents
at our usual parlor mental-aerobics
Sunday evening, digesting Pound while
cake was served a la French maid;
skirting the main point, which of course
as anyone could figure by now, was
was he or wasn’t he?
Crazy, that is – or merely eccentric
we tee heed in unison.

Figure it was all the pondering –
nonsense! growled father, Nutcase the First,
gesticulating, digit drawing in air
drowning in another downing of cognac –
we drew breaths of agitation, then renewed
relentless endless debate, head to head
“he was crazy” behind Mother
“was NOT!” alone stood father, High Priest
of Art, expounding in countless ways
idiosyncrasies of the Misunderstood –
clearly demonstrating that fine line.

Number of discourses on Pound I’ve lost count,
what’s more, five women against Father, hardly fair,
we are no closer to did he or didn’t he
(it’s been a real trial for us all), no!
we are nearer St. Elizabeth’s than truth

and poor Muse! fled, screaming, tearing its hair!

The Trial of Ezra Pound
(streaming audio available until the weekend)
From Silliman’s Blog

Responses

  1. New age RAP Mantra is very sweet! Yes, love is about giving to your beloved, living for your beloved.

    Well, thank you for your kind comment, worldlywise, and especially for thinking it was “sweet” because it was actually in response to the incessant flame wars on rec.arts.poems that prompted me to write it. I must confess it was meant to sound sarcastic, which really isn’t my usual writing mode.

    My Jestkus are just that – done in the spirit of joshing or jesting about something. It’s my more playful, naughty side, so to speak. Hope you’ll come back. :)

    BTW, I *do* hold the sentiments expressed in the first 2 stanzas. Love is about giving, giving, giving and living for the one you love.

  2. Janet, I like your naughty side … in an un-naughty way, of course. :-)

    Of course, Allen, understood. We all know here that I only bare my soul,, nothing else.. ;>

  3. Flamethrower/ New Age Rap are my favorites on this page. I got a good laugh from Flamethrower and it is so true about giving to and loving the one you are so fond of. Keep up the good work.

    Have a nice day.
    Michelle

    I’m really happy to know you like Flamethrower, too, Michelle. It’s one of my favorites. Thanks also for your kind words, for stopping in again! I’ll be coming by soon..I have a backlog the size of which you wouldn’t believe. I hope I can get out from under it. I love visiting your blog, too. You have so many interesting things going on there all the time. Such fine work. Wishing you a perfect day, Michelle..:)

  4. My last name is Buttkus, so how apt it is for me to now weigh in on the Jestkus. Your poetry does move me.

    CRITICAL MASS is a passionate piece, a small but essential clue to you–revealing much.

    BEG LIFE pulled me into it, made me whirl with your possibilites, your contradictions and profunity. It is a dark travelling, and makes me want to circle back and slap a label over its title, retitling it CELEBRATE LIFE.
    Yes, we all do “walk the lunar beach”, but regardless of your religious or spiritual bent, realize within the core of you that life just does not end with “death”. Death is a doorway. Death is a shucking of mortal coil, or dysfunctional body and carnate misalignment. Death is a transition only; nothing to fear, nothing to scare the timid with, nothing to use as raw manipulation of the other directed. Soul is the most powerful of universal engergies. It is “energy” itself, and energy cannot be destroyed, only transferred or transformed or reassembled.
    I love the line,”unless you know the time of birth for a single wave.” But then waves are active, and shed part of their essence on the beach ad infinitum, but they, none of them, are truly disconnected from ocean, or from sky, and the clouds recyle the salty brime, one continuous cycle and movement into the clouds until their bellies are dark and fecund, only to spill back to the sea, and we, like waves, are never completely disconnected from the universe, from the cyclic nature of reincarnation and life between lives, and multi-dimensional shifts.
    Likewise loved your line,”there is no end to beginnings,” so wonderfully and metaphysically accurate. So enjoy the lesson of your immediate life, and plug into the infinite energy of your inner medatative state, as you move hand in hand with your soul on its journey through the universe.

    See what you have started. Really stirred up the old gnostic cognitive cortexical visualizations. I do not apologize for my intense responses, even though I realize they will puzzle and shock a few. There are those who will recognize some remnants of truth in my rants.

    But more in the lovely spirit of this section of your blog, following are some of my “jesting” poems that are part of my Richard Brautigan period.

    G r o u t t

    Groutt is a grouch
    who lives under my porch
    near the tiny stream
    under the house
    that runs diagonally
    north to east.

    Judging from the smell
    that wafts up from his den
    he lives on trout
    and earwigs and earthworms
    and perhaps
    the odd handful of dry
    cat crunchers.

    I have never actually seen
    Groutt.
    He may be a troll
    or possibly that dwarf
    bus driver
    that disappeared last summer.

    I do think
    that his name is Groutt
    because he growled
    something like that
    one time
    when I peered into his domicle.
    Or maybe it was “Out!”

    I just leave him
    Alone,
    And I hope he appreciates
    the lack of attention.

    Glenn Buttkus 2007

    Grout Fishing in America

    Oh how I like to rise
    before the sun,
    before the cock’s crow,
    heavily laden with creel,
    spinners, hand-tied flies,
    and my new Warshall’s pole;
    pushing hard
    and swirling up dust
    hopping between the washboard ruts
    on that twisting road
    to Palmer Lake;
    in order to sneak off
    to that lonely south end,
    where I am willing
    to brave the devil’s clubs and skunk cabbage –
    because that’s the best spot
    to catch the wily grout.

    I know that
    a lot of serious anglers
    won’t bother with grout,
    but hell,
    I’ve been catching them,
    carefully skinning them
    of their sharp barbed multiple layered fins,
    then flaying that deep purple meat,
    dusting them lightly in flour
    and frying them up crisp
    in bacon grease. Yeah,
    it makes me drool
    just jawing about it.

    I grew up spit poor
    and hungry,
    and I learned the hard way
    that a lot of critters exist
    that can be eaten
    if you get your damned mind right;
    rats, snakes, slugs, crows, weasels, marmot, and fire ants
    amongst others.

    We used to guffaw
    that in our small town
    the chicken joint was really
    Colonel Sanders Kentucky Fried
    Buzzard.
    It probably was.

    Grout will bite on bright flies
    or worms, or juicy fruit wrappers,
    or raw hamburger.
    They look prehistoric
    what with their third eye, double tail,
    and spiny fins;
    but I am here to tell you,
    you ain’t truly lived
    until you have eaten one.

    If you are curious enough,
    Gimme’ a jingle.
    I got a dozen of ‘em
    in my freezer.

    Glenn Buttkus 2007

    Kid Grout

    Kid Grout was a short
    drink of water,
    and it left him
    with a hair-trigger temper
    and big knuckled hands
    that hovered constantly
    over the twin pearl-handled .45
    Peacemakers
    in his black leather belt.

    They say he loved the whores
    at the Bella Savant,
    and one humid afternoon
    he shot a miner in the groin
    for disrespecting Miss Annie;
    who was his favorite.

    I guess he loved to play poker too,
    and it became his unraveling.
    One night in December,
    Bart Harte sat himself down
    at the beer-stained green felt-covered table,
    placing a fat pile of greenbacks
    next to a tall stack of twenty dollar gold pieces.
    Kid Grout’s pig eyes lit up,
    shining with mescal
    and arrogance.

    The kid drew for an inside straight,
    and he didn’t get it;
    but he was all in
    so like a man who had crapped his britches,
    he put on the glower
    and bluff, but
    the gambler had the full house,
    aces over tens.

    Kid Grout bellered
    like a wasp-stung bear,
    and his big hands dove
    for the Colts,
    dangling from his waist
    like great silver cocks;
    but Harte had one of those
    terrible and tiny one-shot derringers
    spring loaded under his coat sleeve,
    just above his right wrist.

    The fancy pop gun made
    it’s small noise,
    and the hot slug parted
    the kid’s eyebrows,
    burrowing like a tick of lightning
    knuckle deep into his brain.
    Before the Colt twins could bark
    death, death itself
    like a searing cowled shadow
    leaped ravenously upon him
    and devoured the light.

    Harte played at being
    the big man
    for about a month,
    until two Indians backshot him
    in an alley in Tombstone.
    I wonder what the hell
    he said to Kid Grout
    when they met up
    in the town of
    Glory?

    Glenn Buttkus 2007

    As Alexis Zorba once said, “I have others if you are interested.”

    Glenn

    First of all, thank you so much for all your kind remarks about my blog, Glenn. It’s so very appreciated; the time you put into this post is phenomenal and I’m so glad you posted some of your own work here as well so my dear readers can see for themselves how very talented you are as a writer and poet. And yes, Zorba, I’m interested in others! Please feel free to post your poems here, as well as any of your creative endeavors, at any time. I love the Groutt trilogy! Super. Engaging. Jesting, indeed. Mercy! I really don’t know how to address all that you’ve written here; I’m overwhelmed by your response to my blog and work here; you’re so spot-on with your analysis of Beg Life and I’m delighted that you know of the spirituality of which I allude to and my metaphysical bent, so to speak; and please do stir up the old gnostic cognitive cortexical visualizations. (I do not get enough of this!) Do not apologize for your intense responses, even though you “may puzzle and shock a few.” There are many more than you realize who will recognize truth in your revelatory pronouncements! It’s a gift to all of us to partake in your generous helpings of knowledge and experience of these truths. You have a full plate of gifts. Share them with me (us)!

    Just so you know, I love that you want to slap a label CELEBRATE LIFE on this poem – but – there’s no need to – really! I’ve done that, too. Read on: (Just ignore the initial periods preceding stanza lines, you can’t see them in normal VISUAL mode; Comments are in HTML mode. Go here to read it on my blog: https://janetleigh.wordpress.com/2007/08/12/life-just-is/#comments

    Life Just Is

    Life
    is what you make of it,
    forget the propaganda
    ………..and get on with it –
    only thing about life don’t change
    ………..is change,
    as sure as the rain falls
    we all can catch a wave

    Life
    it being a force,
    a sea of arms, legs, jacking jaws
    all moving to the same beat
    ………….as breathing,
    each its own snowflake
    here, by the grace of God
    we go

    Life
    as cruel, walking in mocs
    …………one size too small,
    yet expected to grow zen minds,
    and walk
    …………in other men’s shoes

    cool, to contemplate all isms
    …………sidestep useless osophies,
    fool, to mess with all things pithy
    ……………………….poetry to piety
    lest life’s foes convict you phobe –
    ………….albeit homo peda theo

    Life
    too – taken by the horns! or b-a-b-i-e-d
    ………..is at peace
    ……………………..with love, strawberry
    shortcake, long naps and choices,
    …………determine its course, baby –
    have it all!
    suck the essence out!
    ……………………………catch that wave,
    ………………………………………………….ride it up!

    come down
    ……………..to life
    …………………….on water
    ………………………………..falls..

    I don’t know if I’ve touched on all your fine points. I do know it’s 3:26 am and I’m loosing my concentration – but I had to write to you tonight so you wouldn’t think I hadn’t seen your comments! You’ve put such a broad smile on my face, Glenn. Thank you so much for the kindness and attention given me so generously by you! Wishing you a perfect day..:)

  5. On FFTL, Doug Palmer posted a poem written by his sister, Janet, as if it were written by her dog, Laylah. I loved it. It was called “dog poetry”. I composed a poem as if written by my dog, Taffy, thus joining the ranks of dog poets.

    TAFFY

    The Bitch
    Feeds me better nice
    Than the Himself.
    She heats it warm
    Or gravy smothers, and
    He scrapes and pours
    Wet or dry
    Into bowls of chew glass;
    But OK,
    He is allow tongue many licks
    From his dish,
    And the Bitch holds out.

    My yard is small,
    With a steel fence of tall,
    And over 13 summers,
    I’ve peed on patch all;
    Remembering those treasures
    In dark garden corners,
    Or porch unders—
    Those bones and birds
    I love to chew
    Dirty.

    My dog naps
    Grow long and many,
    Where I can romp
    Again,
    Without that bad pain stiffness
    That catches up me
    On stairs and leaps.

    I pretend
    To love my summer cuts,
    With red ribbons tied
    Behind those ears
    That too much do not hear
    When am I called
    Or recalled.

    Call I would be
    Lucky dog,
    Who loved is,
    And my humans
    Accept my kisses
    And wags,
    Fresh each time,
    Lifting their spirit,
    Widening their grins.

    Yes, yes,
    Know I too well
    One day soon,
    Or in the darkness,
    I will not able be
    To return
    From the Spirit Land
    I travel to
    With lids down.

    But in those times,
    I will be pure love,
    Light as sunray,
    Warm and speeding travel.
    I know
    I will be able to fly
    Then,
    Like a maple leaf
    In the wind.
    Oh joy,
    What adventure awaits!

    Glenn Buttkus 2007.

  6. Your LIFE JUST IS impressed me, and touched me when you posted it, but this morning it reached out to me, on this Maypole Day. It seemed more than the sum of its parts, like all fine poetry. For me, it became a blues anthem, and my head spinned with B.B.King, Muddy Waters, and Leadbelly, or the Led Zepplin, Stones, or ZZ Top covers of classic blues tunes, WHEN THE LEVEE BREAKS, JESUS DONE LEFT CHICAGO, and so many more; slide guitar, mouth harp, pounding foot, old chair, nappy hair–and so much more, carpa diem, live in the moment, seize each breath and cherish it, don’t waste a moment; bury your face in flowers, chew clover, swim in the ocean, hike in the mountains, and put lots of whipped cream on that strawberry shortcake! It is new age, old age, every age; existential, hippy-dippy, pantheist; and it is a tango, a real dance of love. Thanks for posting it as a response to my silly poem, for yours is not silly, even though there are some light hearted imagery and moments in it. I posted it on FFTR.

    Glenn

    Your description is so spot-on, Glenn! And your choice of music is a propos! I’m certainly familiar with them all, and probably to a lesser degree as far as Leadbelly. I regret not listening to more of their music. I can tell by just reading your comment that you can feel my exuberance in this piece, my love for life, and joyful spirit. And that’s a great feeling for me..:) Your run-on sentence also reminds me of my piece called You, the title of which doesn’t make itself apparent, initially… hee hee. Have you read it? (It’s at the end of page 4, if you’re interested..:) It’s like your comment, at the end of which you could have blurted out, “Wow! What a rush!” Right?!? lol I love your enthusiasm, Glenn! And, many thanks for posting Life Just Is on your blogsite. It’s very kind of you to do so..:)

  7. Cheez Almighty

    Cheez, cheez,
    Oh Jeez;
    do you think our Savior
    liked any kind of Cheez
    on his unleavened bread?
    Dude had all kinds of wine,
    so why not the Cheez?

    And then there was Lincoln,
    who it is said
    scarfed down a fried peanut butter
    and Cheez sandwich
    before he took his seat
    in the balcony of Ford’s Theater,
    waiting to have his skull
    perforated.

    Even Attila,
    the nasty Hun,
    turned back his mighty horde
    from the massive gates
    of Rome
    because the wily pope
    gave him several hundred pounds
    of Cheez.

    I read where
    Lewis told Clark
    to chew cascara bark
    to alleviate a severe case of constipation
    brought on strong
    and fully induced by the over ingestion
    of Native American Cheez.

    You know
    Superman and Batman
    do hang out at Palmer’s Pizza joint
    in Gotham,
    where Supe gobbles
    Cheez Whizz sundaes,
    and the Bat
    craves and consumes the hot sausage
    stinky Cheez calzone.

    Hell,
    Cheez is cool,
    when it’s not hot,
    stretching out two feet
    from plate to lip.
    Either way,
    dig it while your colon
    is still Cheez friendly.

    Glenn Buttkus 2007

  8. Your BIRD’S EYE VIEW simply cracks me up. To take a challenge like that was wonderfully executed, showing that a poet only needs some level of impetus to “do her thing”. It certainly gives a whole new dimension to the male phrase, “sprouting wood”. I put the poem and the explication on FFTR for your perusal, finding a great pic to go with it.

    Glenn


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