Camino Real

The trail...

the path...

the road...

the hardway...

the journey...

the low way...

or no way...

I've taken them...

my way...

and his way...

and her way...

again...

and again...

and maybe...

perchance...

a smidgen...

quite possibly...

therap'ly speaking...

it drove me...

a little bit...

crazy...

but...

ok...

what matter...

you're daft...

as a hatter...

get over yourself...

and see...

we're all look'n...

for someth'n...

a nugget...

or dumpl'n...

or that...

that's substantially...

free...

as we stand...

at the end...

with our dick...

in our hand...

and no clue...

as to where...

it could be...

now there's...

the fine point...

as I roll up...

a joint...

of me own...

philoso'fay...

to critic'ly choose...

which way...

the lips...

o' the wind...

are blow'n today...

be nay amazed...

that I've played...

and paid...

for what...

I've pissed away...

for the man...

is a boy...

as he plays...

like a fool...

on...

the King's highway...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Photo: credit to Kurito Afsheen, Indonesian frog hitching ride on a snail

Grouses Wisdom

There is a kind...

and radiant soul...

who glows like...

a candle flame...

his tears...

the flux of...

an ancient stream...

from God's...

eternal time...

and once...

in a half...

a thousand years...

this humble...

creature...

molts...

to leave...

a gift...

and rise...

in fire...

as...

the Phoenix bird...

departs...

that every feather...

fallen here...

of metaphor divine...

will grow...

to a soul...

one day...

who will leave...

another gift to find...

toward this intent...

has heaven sent...

to spare...

the earth...

he made...

the father lay...

his little friend...

at the midst...

of the earth

to say...

hide not...

from God...

nor cover that...

that you...

would not...

have him know...

for he see's...

all things...

and is very wise...

to what passes...

here below...

all hearts...

with his...

are truly bless't...

confirmed...

in poetry...

what gift...

to men...

he'll leave...

some day...

tis not...

for you...

to guess...

ye nay decline...

a poet's rhyme...

you never know...

at all...

the long neglected...

Phoenix bird...

perhaps...

will pay...

a call...

a feather fallen...

from the sky...

of many...

that had done...

to lift...

the world...

in ages past...

and futures...

yet to come...

for this...

the fain...

of a fire bird...

most wondrous light...

by far...

would turn...

to dust...

on the faith...

of a trust...

then rise...

to become...

a star...





Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Art: Grouses Wisdom, unknown artist

This face

This face...

this face...

you know...

as well as I...

this visage...

of a myth...

so clear...

of saddened soul...

that majesty...

has chosen...

to display...

come...

tell me this...

who say you...

there...

this man...

was once...

forsooth... 

will ever be...

is he some saint...

or vagrant pilgrim...

on his way...

you recognize...

as King...

come...

tell me this...

who called him...

thence...

without a name...

how can he help...

who can you blame...

if now...

you hold...

your tongue...

from one who...

stands before thee...

stare ye back...

are you so...

deaf or dumb...

or blindly love...

a ghost...

you've seen...

come...

answer me...

this thing...

why ignorance pretend...

of he who's...

face is...

just the same...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Painting by Khalil Gibran

Bonum Amoris ( Ideal Love)

Of far subtler...

words forgot...

I note...

that love's...

a questing thing...

more accustomed...

to some...

increment of loss...

than multitude of gain...

in love...

what humans...

truly are...

is vague...

uncertainly conceived...

of finer realms...

undoubtedly...

descend...

and yet...

fair love...

takes that...

slow air...

to rise again...

have we then...

chosen tears...

are lover's prone...

to mournful calls...

apart...

as loons...

on lakes...

or doves...

without a mate...

beyond all hope...

and yet...

we pray desire...

be not in vain...

for it is rare...

that love...

is ever consummate...

still...

there is that...

sublime surreal sense...

that one would...

rather not profane...

of those that...

we may never...

know again...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Painting: Noonday Heat, by Henry Scott Tuke 1902

Wisdom

Sweet son of sand...

of lion and of lamb...

of God and man...

thus would...

I paint you...

as gentle...

as a dove...

as seeing...

as a sage...

as secret...

as a soul...

knowing many things...

your heart singing...

though...

to sad to sing...

your sympathy...

convicted...

on a tree...

of feeling...

your poetry...

a mystery...

of love...

commended from...

the Christ...

who sent you...

then beside...

your very stone...

you linger for...

the last of them...

waiting...

they are so blind...

though yet by...

words you wrote...

forever touched...

I love you so...

yet more...

than you...

may ever know...

dear one...

Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Painting of Una and The Lion, by Briton Riviere 1840-1920

Cheer

The grave is...

poetry's bed...

the skull...

it's pillow...

one single hope...

alight on loneliness...

it's fellow...

and they...

together cling...

as lovers do...

they weep...

they spin...

the spinning loom...

o'rhyme to tangle them...

and there...

they whisper...

in the dark...

and cast around...

for radiance...

and laugh...

when it is found...

so...

here and happ'ly...

at that...

the last place...

had been thought...

to find...

a renaissance...

of cheer...

for 'umble poetry...

has little...

in the way...

to let it down...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

This grace

I know that...

many times...

you've spared...

this flesh...

my lord...

that many times...

you've overlooked...

such childishness...

that ...

when there truly...

wasn't thought...

of any sort...

you had...

an angel call...

to us...

how dear...

we children...

must appear...

in foolishness...

of choice...

in carelessness...

of play...

of certainty...

to harm...

but you save us...

anyway...

time after time...

we run about...

without...

one single thanks...

of grace...

forgiving us...

our ignorance...

Thank you...

God...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Photo: skateboarders of 70's California

Khalil

Where ever you are...

Khalil...

I know...

you are alive...

for your heart...

is too beautiful...

to die...

when the wind...

blows softly...

or the rain...

comes gently...

I will watch...

for you...

in hope that...

some day we...

will meet again...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Photo: Khalil Gibran as a boy, by Fred Holland Day 1898

High fructose

let the ground...

lay fallow...

in the field...

from time to time...

that it may...

better yield...

it's bounty...

to the world...

for now...

the water gone...

the drought...

has come...

and all...

that you prepared...

to spare your own...

will burn...

and justly...

for you never...

thought to share...

you have changed...

the way of...

every herb...

and every grain...

that it will not...

produce again...

and this is...

not to be...

for you...

have cursed...

the very world...

God set you in...

so...

when the wind...

comes low...

and fierce...

and you...

and yours...

are starved of thirst...

recall...

the secret plans...

you made...

behind the wall...

to let...

the whole world...

end...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Photo: 1935 Texas

Genesis

Evidence of life

I peer down...

the felon hall...

yet...

there is...

nothing there...

at all...

but dead space...

in a dead world...

where loneliness's...

hang on chains...

that clank...

on ev'ry passing air...

for death...

bereft...

will shout...

as if it were...

though...

only echo...

echo's from...

the silent heart...

for...

failing proof...

of life...

it cries...

somehow...

Save...

save

yet...

there is...

nothing...

more...

for each life...

bound to life...

must share...

and death is that...

that can not...

listen now... 


Written by  Bruce James Clyde 2015

Photo: Abandoned Mall

Commentary to a friend

It is said...

"when the bough breaks...

the cradle will fall"...

and then our childhood...

truly will be over...

man makes a great show...

of effort toward repair...

of titanic difficulty...

but in the end...

the world...

will wash it's laundry...

of our mistakes...

and it's own...

there will be...

a silence...

for some time...

and then renewal...

clear tide pools...

virgin forests...

herds of creatures...

thundering across...

the open plains...

balances rebooted...

and set on course...

again...

we go around...

as the earth does...

over and over and over...

I know you see a lot...

it is a great mystery...

let us be hopeful...

for those things...

that must come...

and I wish you...

the very best...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Whatever

What ever you do...

to hide history...

will only reveal...

a greater truth...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Photo: Palmyra Monumental Arch, Syria

Whisper's

By ancient art...

of Druid'n...

whose clever sense...

of every thing...

the footless path...

was found...

to henge all...

present tense...

to past...

all verdigrac'd design...

to deep and deadly...

secrecy was bound...

the olden days...

when Great Prydain...

would sing...

her poetry...

allowed...

is gone...

now ev'ry syllable...

is sealed beyond...

occluded mist's...

whose forest paths...

turn deocil...

all seemly same...

und widdershin...

if...

any soul in there...

be lost...

will cost it dear...

so silent the arcane...

and all your own...

the whispering...

yet...

of the trees...

be wise...

that one may learn...

the way's of god...

through nature's eye's...

and fear thee not...

the penitent are watched...

and saved...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

The Book

From "In" to "end"...

this book is his...

no man of earth...

is graced for this...

tis God's alone...

for who...

aside from God...

could ever pen...

so wonderful a thing...

mayhap...

it even fell from high...

one scroll of many...

from some...

mansion'd hall...

where heaven's...

angels study...

if it were this...

a fallen boon...

now overdue...

from some great...

distan'd library...

should we not...

for our sake...

glean...

these drops...

of everlasting dew...

one poet...

to the lot...

can you attest...

ability...

so blessed as...

this...

this elvish thing...

so smith'd...

to hold you...

at your dying breath...

and make you...

live again...

I think not...

yet...

one has done...

and it is he...

I seek...

in hope to find...

thus...

noting ev'ry verse...

of scripture timed...

to come upon...

at last...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Art: Still Life With Open Bible, by Vincent Van Gogh 1885

The Shepherd

To go looking...

in the lines...

to find...

his kids...

and lambs...

he'd left behind...

up high...

where adjective...

abut design...

fond...

frisky little colon...

dot and comma...

play beside...

the parapet's...

divine parenthese'...

bells jingling...

ding donging...

from across...

the mountain...

towered mind...

the shepherd...

set his flock...

a scurrying...

from valley's pre...

to present...

tense with glee...

had not forgot...

soliloquy...

thus...

going on...

o're ramparts...

rife with edge...

rills racing...

from cathedral...

'spired caves...

the stream of poetry...

for there be...

grass aplenty where...

the shepherd rest...

to happ'ly watch...

his progeny...

each word...

of finely...

figured nuance...

is at right's...

and in it's place...

at last...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Art: The Lost Sheep, by artist unknown

Trillium

In deepest glade...

a forest stand...

far older than...

all grasp or ken...

vast megalith...

of paradigm...

titanic...

dole...

dream't out of mind...

more deep than man...

from timeless time...

beyond beyond articulation...

here...

some fell or phantom wisp...

hew'n out of wraith...

of apparition...

grin...

My God!...

My God!...

What must I trow!

The holy ghost...

the holy ghost...

is with you son...

fear not this place...

within you known...

as Trillium...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

One Sweet Moment

What I do when loving you, is letting go of ego so, for one sweet moment, you are you and so are we...



By Bruce James Clyde 2015

Art: The Rapture of Psyche, by William Bouguereau

Love? Really?

This lady and I...

are getting laid...

perhaps for a moon...

perhaps for a day...

our marriage will stand...

as such marriages do...

to the end of time...

or the end of the tune...

where they pop the balloons...

you know...

those rubber ones...

it's been nice...

it's been keen...

it's been fun...

but I've seen...

something better I like...

what...

you're having a thing...

there's a pill for that...

well...

it wasn't me dear...

you messing around...

we can't have that...

I'm out of here...

time...

the boy is fine...

a toe headed twerp...

whose outlook on life...

seems a little bit warped...

he was born to a child...

in the back of a van...

lived a few years...

with the orphanage man...

kinda wild and crazy...

incorrigibly lazy...

really cool...

if you know what I mean...

went hard...

for an older woman...

at least fourteen...

shacked up...

and shaggin' by eleventy...

these are the times...

that nobody cares...

all the kids fec'n...

and shav'n their hairs...

and they bitch'n and grip'n...

they all been forgotten...

it was somebody else...

made the whole world rotten...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Photo: Teenage Lovers Unwanted Pregnancies

Love just is

Love is neither mean nor sly nor vain, knowing not, its own beauty, bearing no conceit, but the contrary...

Written By Bruce James Clyde 2015

This I wonder

Would love condone...

what men can not...

if careful...

and discreetly sought...

or gentleness castrated...

for it's tender...

and forgiving way...

would sweetness...

be condemned...

to die...

or traded for...

a dirty lie...

more easy to accept...

would love be stripped...

and ogled at...

for being innocent...

and rare...

by some damned judge...

upon a bench...

whose leach'rous eye...

were bent upon...

love's naked body there...

would heaven be...

as earth'd...

as all...

the master painter's saw...

conceiving...

that the god's themselves...

with man...

would play...

in nature...

this I wonder...

why...

if not...

then place...

these higher truth's...

of love...

on grand display...




Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Art: The Awakening of Adonis, by John William Waterhouse

The wound

Love...is the wound of the soul...and it's sweetness

Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015


Art: Romantic young lovers, by Bouguereau

Say Love

What can one say of love...it is worth the briefness...the awaking thrill of newness...and the aching pain of loss... 


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Art: Cupid and Psyche, by Narcisse Guerin

I will love

Love is an isle...

in merchandise chains...

mismanaged...

as well...

as management's aim's...

carelessly strewn...

pitif'ly put...

to be purchased...

then tasted...

and kicked to the dirt...

all gaudy and garish...

all plastic'ly varnished...

soon to be used...

till tawdry and tarnished...

dressed up in tinsel...

and red...

from wax pencil...

and sold...

on the street...

like a whore...

is it any wonder....

humanity hunger's...

for something...

you've taken away...

and then...

when the closet...

is full...

of their cravings...

you lean on...

to make them pay...

you wasters...

of manner's...

you crippler's...

of scrupple's...

you devil's desciple's...

of morally maimed...

you  single percenter's...

you god damned...

resenter's...

of God's...

most precious thing...

for it is LOVE...

you have...

thrown  on the rug...

and defamed...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Real old school

When you're out...

and about to arrive...

with no idea...

there's always...

the tasteful classic...

place to go...

if one hasn't a clue...

back to old school...

if it's not passe...

to think so...

is it just me...

this sounding brass...

of every ass...

unwinding here today...

has the pooch been...

screwed...

buried some where...

in this...

psychoramic fuckaroo...

is it crass of me...

to criticize...

in this home...

of the fee...

in this land of...

the lookee...

lookee...

look at me...

I was horned here...

so...

hey...

brothers and sisters...

what happened with...

keep'n it real...

did it die too...

of a rush...

to acquiesce...

to this land...

of the tool...

I really want to know...

what happened...

to the so and so's...

that used to be...

our son's and daughter's...

are  you so cloned...

so badly stoned...

or soulless...

you forgot to call...

don't tell me...

you haven't time...

in a busy world...

you cross the line...

to sext some slime...

you never knew...

ten times an hour...

so chew your gum...

and scratch your nuts...

and keep your cool...

impressing who...

as you drive...

the blinding line...

of the fast lane...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Photo: Old one room school house, along 110 in Indiana county

Fair Ganymede

Fair Ganymede...

the god's endowed...

how helplessly...

we gaze upon...

as Zeus himself...

what mortal...

if immortal narrowly...

resist...

could but fawn...

to fain pursuit...

of such enchantedness...

were it natural...

to be...

by sun...

wind...

water...

stone...

so near the norm...

of heaven's golden mean...

I would thank God...

for thee...

and gaze the more...

and more...

I dare conceive...

for now...

alas...

we set aside...

such things...

though in the heart...

discretion's harbor...

holds thee tenderly...

in love's embrace...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Art: Ganymede in Presence of Jupiter and Juno, by Ippolito Scarsella 1595-1600

The passing of Merlin

Stand not on the lot...

 his grave is called...

in disappointment...

nor shake...

in epileptic rage...

for he...

who ever was...

this thin lipped...

wonder of all...

time and space...

you seem to hunger...

he is not so vain...

to plan in pain...

to meet the maker...

and has had to take...

his prat fall...

from the stage...

that you concur...

with his demise...

this conveyance...

to another vale...

for Salem...

has prepared...

as he is now...

incredibly alive...

thou hath wasted...

precious gall...

thus...

haste...

but do not stumble...

on withdraw'l...

oh...

say...

of the quickened...

is there not...

a sough...

not a trace...

in all the forest...

not a trace...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Kathy

Remember...


those spring calves...

in the lily pads...

swimming...

mama moose...

all watchful...

recall...

the beaver dams...

and playful otter...

and the muskrat...

playing in the water...

go back to that...

sweet time when...

we were children...

in the garden...

remember...

the strawberry mountains...

to the south...

as sun would set...

upon them...

recall our funny...

white ducks...

when mom would call...

and they'd come running...

go back to...

the spring...

at the bottom of the hill...

and our black cat...

silky...

fishing...

remember...

there...

when dad...

and charlie fair...

would buzz the lake...

recall...

when mom and dad...

took us all...

to town..

and they'd fool near...

to crack of dawn...

and we'd play around...

the bar...

go back...

to those days...

when you and I...

would hike...

to the mail...

in hope...

of some small dream...

from that...

old Sears catalog...

remember...

how we climbed...

like little monkeys...

all the time...

to swing on those...

birch tree limbs...

recall...

how mom would yell...

double shit...

when she'd wring...

that old...

gas wash machine...

go back...

go back...

dear sister...

to those times...

when we were...

friends...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Frames per second

Of this...

annuated life I lead...

I say...

tis but one page...

of many...

in a cavalry of same...

that have turned...

many many times...

yet once again...

and once again...

as dog eared of a tale...

has ever been...

through dearth of desert's life...

and forest's damp with rain...

o'er battle bloodied ground...

and menacing terrain...

of ladies to have loved...

and men...

of infamous and noble gesture...

or of  useless and profane...

this is but one...

to bring to life...

to know...

to really know...

what has gone on...

you would of need's...

to bring them...

all together...

in a show...

of strange comedic characters...

of god's set down...

dismantling their own...

their dream...

amid fair ruins...

strolling...

purpose full of plan...

as if of souls in trance...

drinking to a death...

that used to dance...

this tome...

this book...

to briefly blighted  life...

and life unseen...

of chapter after chapter...

of degrees...

of vanity or shame...

is but a shadow...

of a mad...

and many colored race's...

bid to be...

I...

ode warden...

myth gremlin...

word keeper...

gaurdian...

of this realm...

maintain...

the long memory...

sealed...

to superconscious being...

I see you all...

I see you everyone...

I know you none...

I owe you nothing...

which is equal...

to the sum...

you've given me...

but farewell...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015


Photo: Scottish primeval forest

Dubious at best

Science is suspect to me...

like they say...

the Big Bang...

were you there...

could it have been...

a soft Ahhhhh...

to science that would be...

against the law...

and then...

coronal mass ejection...

it should conform...

to man's erection...

of pathetic inculcation...

but again...

it simply...

beggar's man's self certainty...

passing light up...

like a pinto to a sports car...

then there's the search...

for life out there...

and all the buttons...

and the lights...

and all the dollars...

sunk from sight...

against some scientist's opinion...

so some stranger even stranger...

than the cat...

across from me...

can be found...

go figure...

I despise that term...

as much as.............

well...

we wont go there...

and there's others where...

we never should have gone...

take CERN...

take gene splicing...

take those iffy little nano bots...

all the rage...

ten years ago...

take the genome...

cloning replication...

what's that...

tiny little spot...

if I just touch it...

with this...

OH MY GOD!...

made you say it!...

made you say it!...

just keep it up...


dubious at best...


hope we make it...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Funny Things

Things I think are funny...

letters urging Estate Planning...letters urging me to call THIS number to get out of my time share condo...letters urging me to save my family expense and grief, so purchase a burial plot now at looney toons cemetery...letters urging me to be cremated...talk about a POT party...social media asking me to reveal every wart on my ass and any friends asses...search engines asking me to reveal my current location, so targeting can lock on...magazine subscription companies for assuring me that, if I will just fill out all their forms and divulge all of my whims and desires, they will give me a bazillion dollars a day...forever and ever...amen.

To any I offend, you deserve it, and besides, you claim, it's a free country, freedom of speech, another thing I think is pretty funny...honey...bunny...money...money...money.

This world has given me so much...laughter...tears...fears...isolation...litigation...procrastination...castigation...intimidation...and several years of bitter regret...it's been fun...son...I've saved the real things in heaven...my fathers there...my chariot's there...the mansion...the golden city on the hill...all the angels singing...trumpets blowing...everlasting...blessing...love...none of these lies... jealousies...detesting...hating...baiting...waiting for me to fail and fall...pictures at eleven...if you don't like it man, why don't you just go back where you came from...throwback...hillbilly...that's my plan and that's God Almighty's plan as well...just some thoughts from a tree hugg'n hillPERSON...enjoy...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Serenity

Sweet serenity...she's a lady I knew...back when my heart was clear...of the memory of you...sweet serenity...will it ever be real...or just ancient history...of the way that I feel...

cause...I've begged you every day...and I've loved you every night...nothing's ever entirely sure...and your tearing apart my soul...it could be like you want it to...if you'd just love a little more...we could have what you're wishing for...it could come out ok...

Sweet serenity...I lost your number some time ago...I hear your voice...and it sounds so dear...your face...so close in my rear view mirror...just like a lovely ghost...that is always just out of touch...you know I love you so very much...will you ever return to me...

Sweet serenity...she's a lady I knew...back when my heart was pure...not a memory of you...Sweet serenity... will it ever be real...or just ancient history...of the way that I feel...

Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

The Storm

Was a hundred and two...when the storm started through...careening across the southland...was a hundred and eight...at the tailgate party...when all the umbrella's flew...was a hundred and ten...and sticky as sweat...when men shook their fist...at God's heaven...was a hundred and twenty...when all of a sudden...all of the fuses blew...

Now men seldom make...so big a mistake...or even their gossipy women...but the word went around...that the storm come to town...might be of devine invention...for the ignorant sods...with malice filled hearts...handing out lumps of chagrin...and flagging their hand...in devilish gesture...for the good...in God's intention...

Now they knew they'd been rude...and they knew they were screwed,,,so about a day or two later...they all gathered up...to calculate whether...God was a fool or not...turns out he wasn't...so Billy Bob and his cousins...got down on their knees and prayed...but it wasn't enough...and the swamp rats and gators...knew that they had it made...

Bout a week or two later...a break in the weather...brought some relief to the few...cause that's all that were left...when heaven felt finished...of parting the meek from the crew...then the southland got better... and all of the weather... moved farther and farther east...cause it had a date...and it just couldn't wait...to clean the reflecting pool...

Was a hundred and two...when the storm started through...careening across the eastland...was a hundred and eight...at the tailgate party...when all the umbrella's flew...was a hundred and ten...and sticky as sweat...when men shook their fist...at God's heaven...was a hundred and twenty...when all of a sudden...all of the fuses blew...



Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Dundee Dan

There's a little man...named Dundee Dan...who has been...around the world...he has seen it all...he has done it all...yet his heart...is still unspoiled...he is like a child...and he always smiles...at every passing thing...if you ask him why...he'll just look at you...but he won't know...what you mean...

cause he's a happy man...his simple plan...is not to plan...at all...and he has his dreams...in a sack on a stick...that he keeps...around his middle...and his only means...would appear to be...a kind of silly song...that he sings...to every passerby...as he walks along...

I am Dundee Dan...and a happy man...but I know...you see a fool...I gave up long ago...pretending...someone else would do...cause a man...he is what he is at all...and not what...he wants to be...so...be yourself...is all i got...for me own philosophy...

There's a little man...called Dundee Dan...and he's been...around the world...he has seen it all...he has done it all...yet his heart...is still unspoiled...he is like a child...and he always smiles...at every passing thing...if you ask him why...he'll just look at you...but he wont know...what you mean...

Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Art: Painting by Frans Hals 17th century, of Rene Descartes as a fool and musician

Scent of Heaven

A simple mountain melody...plays through...my mind...on a breeze...between the trees...these lines of lyric came...as water...to my soul...these poetry's unroll...just like...pretty flowers waving... in the meadow grass...


Some high...sweet strain...of melody I hear...like it's given...to a man...who has...a precious gift to bear...it has opened...up a path...that this son...can take...at last...can walk along...to find his father's place...


And there's... a sweet scent... of heaven...to the words...from a mountain top...the music's...slowly moving toward...I can feel it...in my heart...like some...ever living part...that's a dear...and tender place...in me...to rest...


cause...a simple mountain melody...plays through...my mind...on a breeze...between the trees...these lines of lyric came...as water...to my soul...these poetry's unroll...just like...pretty flowers waving...in the meadow grass...

Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Open eyes

All the news...

and...

all the schools...


and churches...

in the land...

have fiercely forfeited...

their place...

to tell us...

anything.

They've tromped...

our trust...

and turned...

to dust...

what fragile faith...

we had.

They've traded off...

the truth...

we loved...

for subtle lies...

instead.

It's lunatics...

and heretics...

and politics...

be damned...

freedom is...

a fantasy...

and liberty's...

a scam.

Money...

can buy anything...

but anything...

that counts...

cause...

blessing isn't up...

for sale...

nor love...

on auction block.

So...

write the rules...

to suit...

yourselves...

rape...

the statutory clause...

irrevocably screwing...

every balance...

in the laws.

The well informed...

the dilettante...

the vain...

e literati...

further...

obfuscate and stir...

the pot...

to make it...

cloudy.

It's their great plan...

the money clan...

at root...

of every trough...

all trusts...

all grants...

all begging plates...

belong...

to them...

in perpetuity.

Every great...

and minor cause...

every small...

donation...

from church...

to school...

to motor pool...

they get...

a cut...

or take one.

You don't believe...

you think it's real...

this crap...

they've spun...

the four prime...

oracles of medium.

Tis a sad...

surprise...

for your...

sorry eyes...

when you...

open them...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015