The Sand Storm

The Arab's are great poets...

they're slick as the sand...

they'll cover everything... 

with their hot wind...

but don't give up your faith...

Jesus is coming...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Art: Agony In The Garden, by Carl Bloch

The Wisdom of a Fool

There is no fool...

like an old fool...

as is said...

just remember...

if you flew...

if you tried...

if your love 'thang'...

sputtered out...

in mid air...

enjoy the ride...

you can still glide...

say hi...

to the angels...

up  there...

you don't need to crash...

you don't need...

to bash your lover...

who is not...

your lover anymore...

and maybe never was...

we arteest's of the love brush...

we paint out of bound's...

quite often...

we get carried away...

on our hot air baloon...

I recommend...

a real lover...

graciously close...

that page...

and open another...

so no one is hurt...

and no one is mad...

you don't recieve...

a restraining order...

I'm just saying...

restrain your horses...

go ride another...

and pray a good prayer...

for the brother...

or sister...

you lost out there...

you did good...

you offered...

a precious thing...

it was sweet...

and what the hell...

butterfly's do...

come back to repeat...

more fish...

in the sea...

more sand...

on the beach...

you know...

what I mean...

just clean your machine...

keep it in the holster...

and wear your rubber's...

it's wet out there...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Art: Dance of Satyr's, by Max Ernst

Once And Final War

This poem is based, loosely, on two poems previously written: One by Dante, in his Inferno...called 'The Harrowing of Hell, and the other, referenced of Geoffry of Monmouth, called 'The Dragon Star...having to do with Merlin and Arthur, in preparation for a great and final battle...this subject, as I have conceived it...is, of course, non academic..which gives it a freedom, if not a storied provenance. So, although, it is therefore wild and brief...it should not be assumed to be 'a weed'...look upon it, if you will, as a sage herb...that one adds at last...B.J.C.
...............................................................................................................................................



Ye hath the words...

thou progeny of hell...

ye hath creep'd...

behind the scene...

of every play...

ye hath marked it well...

ye hath known...

and fore known...

of this day...

why then...

display ye no sign...

'cept thy flagg'd finger...

down hath come...

that spirit known...

to harry hell...

tis now upon you...

foul thou spawn...

set on thou fool...

as were the way...

of thou and thine...

destruction's tool...

ye morbid mentor's...

of all death...

without delay...

let us allay...

the doubt this...

may not happen...

for it will...

the hour is come...

arrange ye generals...

lieutenant's...

arrogantcy's in serried ranks...

that angels may...

begin the reaping's...

of thy last defence...

the standards fail...

the watchtower's fall...

she will count...

the dead of you...

he will choose...

the everlasting...

naught is left...

save smoke and dust...

for thy satisfaction...

pleased art thou...

need's not have...

come to this...

alas...

surrender thee...

this day now...

or end forever.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Art: HD Wallpaper, by artist unknown

Gone Fish'n

Sometimes I wonder...

why I even try...

I am impelled to try...

just as if I have...

a little outboard motor...

on my ass...

pushing me to write...

one piece after another...

in spite of the lot...

who don't give...

a great flogging shit...

if I do or not...

I do it anyway...

ptptptptptptptptptptptptptp...

my little motor boat...

puttering along...

see you at the lake...

and for those out there...

who do care...

I know there are a few...

thank you from...

the bottom of my...

ptptptptptptptptptptptptptptptptp...

heart...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Photo: Electric Paddle Outboard, credit to Chesapeake Light Craft

The Evening Angel

I wrote this for all of the poets and artists and lovers out there, whose posts and pictures, and beautiful meaningful sayings, inspire me to collect, to admire and mostly to share with others, their efforts...their voices...their unvoiced reaching's...to be understood..and desires to be hoped...for that impossible thing...yet not...that yearning to give and to receive love...however difficult it may be to express...or to believe can be...it has buried my own work...my own cry beneath their's...that's ok...

I am covered by you...

I am buried...

in your beauty...

I am smothered...

in your loving intentions...

and yet you never knew me...

how many of us...

know the other...

how many of us know...

outside the prison...

that we are...

beyond our soul...

to pity another...

to show mercy...

yet to share from...

the sake of isolation...

we indeed do know...

for this is...

who we are...

and without you...

we are no more...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Art: The Evening Angel, by Alexandre Cabanel

The Truth Teller

The 'Truth Teller' is...

the vampire...

that most dreaded thing...

to the pretender...

who hold...

their crucifix aloft...

even their false dawn...

yet dawn afar off...

nor can they rush...

from life's stage...

fast enough...

being discovered...

for that they are...

and that...

they never were...

for truth be told...

the story would unfold...

another way...

the lover slay...

the dragon nay...

let's hear the way...

it truly was...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Art: Oh, What's That In The Hollow, by Edward Robert Hughes 1893

Our Dreams

You will receive dreams...

where the people...

you dream of...

are locked into the memory...

of your soul...

yet, these prisoners...

are free to come and go...

as the breath...

of your heart...

is also free...

your lovers are there...

when they were new...

or as old as...

yellow teeth of joy...

known ages ago...

your family...

your siblings...

waiting for you there...

with tales to share...

of how they...

have missed you...

and no pry'er of locks...

nor picker of dreams...

can steal these things...

nor stay their inevitability...

for these are yours...

of your hard won journey...

and these will know you...

as you are known of them...

and these will abide...

in the ways of...

your love forever...

as together...

hand in hand...

you shall remain...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Art: Pan Playing His Flute, by George Percy Hood

La Belle Dame sans Merci...(The Beautiful Lady Without Mercy)

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel’s granary is full,
And the harvest’s done.

I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever-dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful—a faery’s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan

I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery’s song.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna-dew,
And sure in language strange she said—
‘I love thee true’.

She took me to her Elfin grot,
And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.

And there she lullèd me asleep,
And there I dreamed—Ah! woe betide!—
The latest dream I ever dreamt
On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried—‘La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!’

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gapèd wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill’s side.

And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.

Written by John Keats 1819

Art: La Belle Dame sans Merci, by Henry Maynell Rheam 1901

I came to this poem after a dream whispering "dan sans grot" led me to Dame sans Merci...Bruce James Clyde 2015

Peace Or Piece

This poem, I dedicate to Thich Nhat Hahn...Nobel Peace Prize recipient...and his endeavor toward World  Peace




I had made a sandwich...

for lunch...

our dogs began...

to follow me...

toward the stairway...

Miho my wife...

stopped me on the stairs...

to mention something...

about the great...

Vietnamese Buddhist Monk...

Thich Nhat Hahn...

his mission to create...

the peace within...

that will ignite...

the peace in the world...

my Abbey girl dog...

'sat pretty'...

just as pretty...

as she could...

I could hear her...

say quite well...

"I only know the piece...

of your sandwich daddy!...

Pleassssse!"...

Don't worry...

she had some bologna earlier...

It was Thich Nhat Hahn...

my wife...

and Abbey...

who helped me...

appreciate that moment...

of being human...

and canine...

on the stairway...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Share The Fantasy?

An ingenuous person...

masking as a...

pretty young woman...

is actually a fat guy...

with a size medium...

greasy tee shirt...

over a size extra...

large lard ass body...

or vice versa...

you meet her...

on the internet...

you notice her 'likes'...

are astronomical...

her 'shares'... 

are indescribable...

you 'like' her...

and she 'likes' you back...

you 'follow' her...

she 'follows' you back...

you go to her profile page...

there's one pic...

there's no bio...

you forgive that...

cause she's just 'so tight'...

you comment on her pic...

"I like your ass"...

she comments back...

"I like your words...

so deeply meaningful...

you're such a poet."...

"You really think so?"...

"Oh yes!.. 

Tre chic!"...

how much farther...

can this go...

do we really...

want transparency?...

I don't think so...

are we really happy?..

"Let's Skype!"... 

"I don't think so." 

Share the fantasy...

or let it go...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Photo:Wallpaper, by credit unknown

Choices

I actually disdain using this image to replicate an internet experience, but I ran into one of these today, minus the snakes, and decided to write this poem and give such people a look at what they show me...maybe seeing themselves will give them a better view of what they do unto others...

..........................................................................................................................................
Those who know only...


how to hate...

will soon be a thing...

of the past...

not the future...

those who choose only...

to bring others down...

will soon be brought down...

those who refuse to smile...

and would rather frown...

will know the jagged edge...

of humor...

those who refuse to give...

will be given more...

than they can bear...

so let us choose then...

to do better...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Art: Speed Art Medusa, by reddawn 011

Got Balls?

You know, those little jumping spiders?...

They're so small and cute, maybe kind of furry...

You suck on your beer...

You stick your finger down there toward them...

They don't move away...

They jump right for you...

Whoa! You can't believe it...

You put your finger down there, again...

They come right for you...

"Hey! Gringo! I fuck you up!"...

Says the little guy...

You look...

You look closer...

"Hey! Gringo!..

What you looking for?..

You never seen balls?..

I show you balls, Gringo!"...

You raise your shoe...

The little guy stands his ground...

Eight eye's looking straight at you...

You decide to be buddhist...

That he's bigger than you...

You've learned a dharma...

For today...

Oh yeah!


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Photo: Male Jumping Spider, credit unknown

The Tide Pools

The tide pools lapped...with water cool, of ocean tide...of ocean wave..a million moons...a billion suns...by hand of nature's lapidary made...like pockets or like cups of sea...the mother offer up to thee...who seek her...

And there I took my not yet bride...to view the jewelry of God...to wash her hands...in sacred sills, above the deep of salted silts...Poseidon stirred...the glitters of le mare...the ocean god's own goddess there...all amniotic life within her...

Across the sands...we made our way, when tide declined toward middle day...around eroded driftwood lay...and flotsam from around the worlds...storm tossed homes...these sands, with little eddy's played...with little shells of hermit crab...

Creeping up the beaches slight incline...round tough and blighted grasses, made their way...as tiny beggars, bowing to the wind...crawled they...aboard their little caravan's of shell...upon the stone's all wet with spray...

And there did we...I holding to her hand, imprinting in the sand, our passage...took her through the caves...and there at last, the fronting sea...whose gentleness, just then...said "play with me"...as we stepped toward the foam...

Right there, before our gaze...the mother showed us many thing's...for which I love her...in her palms, did she, hold forth the bounty of all dreams...in polished stones...in smooth'd shell...forgotten glass, all softened sweet, as lips of Mother Nature...

We took little there, that day...but just a handful of her treasure...and we guarded it away...so we remember we were with her on that peaceful sea...we children of her womb...a little stone with hole...a tiny pipe of clay...Abalone shell...

Some glitter's from our play...she let us walk away...she kissed us with her salt tears...her mantle of the mist about our shoulder's as she whisper'd "Never go away...forever...just remember me and I will be with you" and still do we remember to this day...and always shall...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

FUCK!

I worked for this Attorney guy...nursing him and doing odds and ends for him...he was a quadraplegic man...dived into some river stones...on his eighteenth birthday, now he's going on sixty...long time in a chair...could happen to anybody...high German...that he claims he is, his pride has been the bain of him over the years...

I cannot work for anyone...I cannot make a friend of...and we butted heads, like two competing rams...again and again...then he would do the kindest things...out of nowhere...his catheter...his bath...his toilet regimen, we would perform in very early morn...his mother would look in...she's eighty four...all her youth she sacrificed to him...

I would whistle...he would bitch and would complain...where ARE those classic German geniuses he loved to quote, and listen to their opera...Nibelungin...I would disdain, but never raise my voice, nor ever say a thing..."Let's take the back way then" he would order...we would board his old decrepit van and drive away...he would explain every mile to me...

He wore this German hunting hat of wool...I gave it to him one Christmas Day...he was so proud of that thing...he could recite the codes of every county law...he ran a business office, in a busy rural town...he would have me stop for breakfast, at a drive through...and would always buy me coffee...or a sausage sandwich...we would drive away...

Yet...ever was he back seat driver...mother hen..."Not here! Drive there!...oh, you stupid thing!...where IS my classic German opera!"...he would never let me strap him in or tie him down..."Stop that!...he would declare,,,and I let him have his way...he was a stubborn man...pig headed friend...he might not admit he were...him and me...

One evening...setting out and driving home...through this busy rural town...streets slick...ice fog and frozen everywhere...my friend instructed me..."Go there! You'll make the light!" "It's yellow John." "Just drive, I said!"...he said...I stopped instead...to save our lives...he shifted forward in the chair...diving forward to the dashboard..."Fuck!" he uttered dismally...

His hunting hat was crushed...but he was ok...it went like that throughout our tenure of intimacy...you will not be forgotten friend...you were a hard and bitter man, but who wouldn't be...and you could be so kind, and never taking credit for a thing...oh, by the way...though I speak in past tense...he is very much alive..."Where IS my classic German opera!"...here's to you buddy...

Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Photo: October Fest, credit unknown

For Those With and Without Eyes To See

Sometimes I think...the sense of sight is what offends us all...the world be more at peace, if we just felt around...each other...touching, kissing, clutching, hugging...holding on to one another's hands...is that you...Ouch! Oh! My!...sweet air...Oh! Scuse em muah!...I was not going for your derriere!...is that a pot handle???...sigh...I hope so...smile...

Just think of what might then transpire...true love might be...without  a doubt, nor judgement, based on what you got...or haven't got...and wrinkles would be krinkles of our character...not canyons we could fall in...and belley's would be pillows...and the rest would not embarrass or arrest us...for our fondle's, nor our foibles, nor our grasping curiosities...

Our needs to know, would be quite brotherly and sisterly and motherly and fatherly...just helping one another find the door, the key, the can...the woman from the man...quite humanly and subtly, and sensibly...excepting where it almost pokes you in the eye...Oh my!...well that was fun...is that your cane???...a flasher on a rainy day we could ignore...we'd need to find another way...to objectify...

We would not watch the evening news...the handsome falsely phony faces that amuse, could be anyone then...and the bloody lies would all just drift away...and then suspend...due to lack of interest...The bus lines would be out of business...cars and airplanes wouldn't buzz around the earth and sky...annoying us...and we could grope our way's to parks to play...to roll upon the grass...

To feel each other's...yeah!...no more excuses to build war machines...those brightly gleaming dildo's of the Generals...cause, I mean...whose gonna see them???...It wont mean a thing...and that would be the end of that...and dogs would lick our faces...and teach us how to use our tongues...in places we had never dreamed...and ice cream...would taste...Outrageous!

Don't get me wrong...I do not want to lose my eyes...and hope the ones who have, forgive my ribaldry and metaphor...I thank my great good God, that I can taste and hear and touch and smell...and most of all...read sweet poetry...I merely wish a wish for you and me, that we could rest, from hell...to find a harmony and humor in our soul...that all might live and love and enjoy...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

The Buddha

Miho and I met, on account of a dog named Hooch...a garden buddha...and the kindness of God...she was a fairly recent 'emigre to America...from Japan...I watched her there on that farm, where I found her...the westering sun shining through her long dark hair...

She introduced herself to me and I to her...my little buddha brought her there..."Are you a Buddhist?", she asked with broken tongue..."I am some times."...was my answer. She had seen my little buddha, sitting at the front, of my tiny travel trailer...

As times went on...I working as a bus driver...I'd arrive home after dark...I'd play a little music low, on that old worn acoustic guitar...Hooch, her dog...would come to listen some, an old Rottweiler...seemed to like me...he would guide and almost beg me to get close to her...and I inclined...not knowing our future...

And so it went, from day to day, and month to month...until we got together...Hooch was almost dancing, the night I invited her to dinner...that went well...what the hell...we got married in a fever, not to borrow lines from other men's songs...but yeah...so, "Wanna move in?" I asked...she said she only had a couple things...

Forty boxes later...I was one cooked goose, flaming duck...fortieth blackbird baked in a fourteen foot trailer...this would not do...we had to find an apartment...sweet and lonely gypsy days were through...but I had this hot new little partner...and two kids and fourteen years later...here we are, still together...

I'm a bit older than a fossil now...and she, sixteen years my junior...talk about a cradle robber...I still watch old gent's and youngsters too, check out her caboose...and I go..."Hey! Hey! Hey! That's my wife!" She pretends not to notice...keeps me hopping...I can tell you...and just life in general...as god squats back with a video recorder...and captures funny times between us two...

And our dear children...well, there's another chapter...perhaps tomorrow I may jot it down...we have the two, a boy and girl...fruit not fallen very far from the tree...and they are smart as hell...and gearing up to beat us at the game...but I'm a dad, an old and wise one...and I think that really foils their plan...yet, overall, they love us, and they're just great kids...that I'm glad are in our lives...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Art: Buddha, by artist presently unknown

Screech!

Screech!...not the sound of screaming brakes, or water pump...or raptor peering down, from high in sky...Screech, a skinny sort of hippy guy...who had a gift...restoring old antiques...and that was me...for sure. Screech came around, from time to time...with his dear mate, Marilyn...and we would chew the fat...as they say, and drink beer, and talk and talk and talk...

Then...Screech and mate, would roll old Screech's jerry rigged contraption...clean on out of there...and me and Angie...we would miss them...and weeks and months would fly on by...and Screech would call..."Hey!...duck plucker!" He would say..."Want to come on up to North Dakota?...You can buy a whole damn town for five k."

"Oh...yeah, Screech...that's right up there at top of Angie's priority." And then, he went away, a few weeks pass, months, a year...ring a ding..."Hey! Duck plucker!...what you gotta say?" and we would shoot the breeze...Marilyn would take the phone, and Angie on the other end...the girls would chat...the real brains...and there would be a pause for months...or years...

Old Screech, the kindest carpet bagger man, had a plan for every thing...hated him the city..called and called again, to try to get us on their frequency...trouble was, Angie needed specialized care...we couldn't drift out there to jerry rig land...even if we wanted to...and Screech was my soul...calling me again, but I never went...my choice was clear...you do not leave a friend...

In the middle of no where...so that went on, and then, as time went by, we never heard again, from old Screecher...did he die...or did his girl of many years, just up and go...weary of her same old creature...I don't know...but I know, my sorry  soul has a hole, where my pal never calls no more...stay in touch folks...it hurts...when you don't...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Art: Junkman Frozen In Time, by presently unknown artist

Angie and Me

My girl Angie, had to leave us here in this world, in 2004...I miss her every day...she was my best pal, we went every where...and we'll hook up again some day...I just know we will...by the way, that's not a 67 caddy in the pic, or a Prairie Schooner...they're too rare, just like my Angie...
............................................................................................................................................... 


We left Ojai...threading up the coast hiway toward Monterey Bay...that first day of our journey...our bright  orange and white vw camper van, chugging along...quite happily...We made it all the way to San Francisco, that same day...hungry for some dinner that late afternoon...

Angie, my sidekick, my friend, my quadraplegic dear...we escaped again...from Doctors and from nurses...and from antiseptic smells, and protocols...they trained me to take care of her and trained me well...we even raised a little hell...now and then...

We found a bayside restaurant...standing high on piers...Angie couldn't sight a ramp...just many many steps, to mount to their front door..."you ready Angie?"..."Yup!" was all she said...we spun around, I tilt her back in that old wheel chair...we mounted thirteen steps, up the gallows there...

Bump bump bump bump!...it went...we finally there...that front door hard to open, yet, no sweat! I got the damn thing open...proprietor's were giving us 'the glare'...'why'd you think we put the thirteen steps out there?" they thought..."to throw you down.", my silent minded muse conjured...my lips quiet...

We had a dinner there, in spite of cold and friendless fare...then we left...bump bump bump bump! I shook the dust from off my feet, at the bottom of the stair...we high tailed out of there, across the Golden Gate...and on a few miles more...we stopped for lodging, rest and care...

Next morning come...bright sunny day, more miles we chugged our way along the coast hiway..until we came, at last...to a little place called...Trinidad...had a lighthouse, and a store, an artist gallery or two,,,as all sea front villages are wont to do,,,and a very good chowder seafood cafe...and there we stopped to eat and reconnoiter...

They were very kind to both of us...I said "Hey! Angie! You suppose we'd stay if we could find a place here?"  "I guess." she said...I walked across the parking lot to the busy grocery store, and there upon the wall, an old cork board...stuffed with notes and business cards...I looked, and nothing there...but then...

This 'post it note' falls down to the ground, just like a magic feather...Trailer house and Cadillac to trade, call Patrick's Point, View Crest...blah blah blah...we called, we went, nice couple, bent on leaving there...this day...eyed our sweet VW..."So what you think." I said...and Angie looked at me. a little tear at the corner of her eye...

We traded straight across that day...they drove away in our van...I looked at the 1947 Prairie Schooner trailer, and the 67 Cadillac De Ville...said..."Angie!...Oh My God! We got a home!" That was the last day of sunshine, and for six months it rained and rained and rained...and I knew Angie, my girl, was sore at me...

I hooked us up...we pulled out there, down that California coast in Cadillac style...two 'stylin' gypsy's, bent for warmer climes...drag'n that silver beast...inside of three days, we were camped again, above the town of San Luis Obispo...we would camp there for ten years...a few tears, a lot of smiles...a lot of living lived by both of us...a lot of growing...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Swinging Through The Trees...Haha

This poem was written for and of a dear friend of mine...he is an outspoken activist for good things...in this world and against bad things.  My use of poetic license, first line of second verse..."what a dick"...is not meant derogatorily, but as a euphemistic friendship 'tag' in this case. I hope I have not harmed, where reaching cross cultures, is iffy and often misunderstood...he's a pal and very probably my best friend...
.................................................................................................................................................................




There's not a dime of difference here...twixt you and I...you catch the prick...I  get to flinch...you wrath and froth and beat the air...Quixote at a tender twenty eight...I drag my ass along...to  all your wars...for love of being there...your sort of Sanchoismo...

What a dick...whose pen is sword with ink...thou fling to 'luminate the world...or 'liminate the whore...I ran the trenches with my messages before...and laugh to see myself in you...you mad melange of beaten brother lover soldier...caring more than all the lot together...

Bet you can't imagine...where I saw your face before...surprising after rising from the can...appearing in the mirror...I cut it there shaving...just a little nick of time...a thousand years before...no better...here we go again...another cock up of the slow changing...

Fuck a duck...you've got a clock to clean thou lad...glad it ain't mine...I fall to floor upon thy sharpened parody...I listen for the crowd to roar...they humorless and droll...their souls caught out...if soul they know...in shitleness of subtlety...in littleness of entity...in brevity of masculinity...hater's of all right as wrong they that...thou lovingly do battle for...Praetoria!

Thy cod be filled with balls...I will say that...though love would be a better peace...and harmony for thee and thine and time to...maybe toke a joint...to let the world pass by...thy pricks are quite enough of struggle...Kingdom's thou create...enjoy the grape...go ape with heady arms of ribaldry...swinging tree to tree...so very very funny...you are something else...keep on...keep on dear one...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

The Fertile Forest

Come with me...in the forest here...my hand in thine...to thee all...secretly sustained...enchanting's find...faint whisper'd...mystery so sweet...for this the...bower of thy bed...will tell thee...things thou never...ever dream't to...know conceptions...nay conceived...nor ever in...ten thousand lives...such things dear boy...

Come lay with...me and play...with me the forest said...dream with me...to be with me...that I may...teach you...of the way's...of nature...for I am the tree...I am the sky...I am the brook...and I am grasses...that your body lay...where mosses softly...cradle thee that...thou may rest...a rest of angels...all protecting thee...

Come listen boy...the cry of aerie...harbored eagle...high above near sky...the brown mole...down in ground...yet blindly...find his way...the wild ewe...her ram o'er shadowing...her back...their rutting song...of earthly joy...the wren her...busy nest...the cat bird fain...would'st steal  away...into my forest come...a'now dear boy...

And as we age...the forest...you and I...we listen for...those melodies...the forest play...in every note...a new design...all secretly enlace'd...and layered...in a web...of fine connecting...lives and lines...of bird and...bear song wind...and water rippling's...of space and time...and you...young boy will be...a learned fellow...of this sorcery...

And now we stand...this cup in troth...of spring'd water...cold as any...night in mountain...suck and... we shall sup...round campfire bright...arranged of stars...for table light...as dagger'd as...a winter's fangs...of 'cicles...yey I keep... thee close and...round about thee...warm as if...the forest...were in love...with thee indeed...thou son...indeed it were...will always be...

And this the way...of wild and men...and young men ever...knew this way...to be far better...than that soft...that cloying style...that steal...man's soul anon...is there a'naught...the wizard miss...for there his rare...apprentice lay...bare nakedly asleep...more trusting of...more pure and sweet...than any fair...and tender maiden...

It is now...the hour of dream...the time of sheep...dim distant bleating...in the night...to Pan there opening...his oaken door...and smiling gods...of pastures green...of forests verdure crowned...of supple children...playing in the light...as thou dare witness...majesty of faun...observed by thee...thou star crowned child...thou young man...rising with delight...

In manhood whole...young twig...no longer twig...thou pole blown...softly of the wind...young finger's dream'ly...wrap round...pull and play...thy Pan pipe... fairly free...thy proud and rigid... tree sway...ready to display...that rain of nature...that a young man spray...upon the flow'r...of every field...upon the meadow...

In the sky...upon the belly...of the world...that sigh is heard...preceding joy...that ever tones...release of that...white milky way...tis life...thou young man...wet with vision...of a pasture'd place...his own quiescent...now thou gentle os...lay down upon...thy little nest of hay...to thank and pray...and rest the forest...on it's nightly way...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Art: Reclining Pan c. 1535, attributed to Francisco de Sangallo, Photo by Preston

Book Of Hours

I have my...body of work...the poetry the prose...I have molted...very well...feather's folded...pop up angel...in a book...that disappears reappears...in one instant...all my life...my love sincere...chalk drawn soul...could be washed...away with tears...yet still be...no matter that...the world care...or not care...

I will still be...there beside you...loving you...whether not...or if you know...a billion lives...it took to...make you as...you are...do not think...lightly of yourself...therefore...thou kindly limned...of verb of vowel...of word and thought...I made you...and will love...you every bit...

You are there...your grace...your  sweet and...gentle face indelible...caressed and sweetly...noted in my...book of hours...to find thyself...this quest thou...may not choose...or may'st...to the end...of which...unraveled from...thy wrapping stand...as naked as...a child before...me think'st thou...and thou appear...

All copyrights and...time stamped notary's...are jests...the which in...all I find to...be so very funny...
for what dost...thou horde so...jealously thy word...thy love...my word my...love are free...nor have I...box or bag...with which...to capture thee...nay only that...that sweet love...you will know...the day...you come to me...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Art: River Landscape With Rustic Lovers, by presently unknown artist