Poetmeister …on the road to Parnassus

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..:)

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..:)

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