Love Will Come

One year, at Halloween time...I confess to being somewhat depressed...that seasonal change of light and moment, offset from the rhythm of the usual. It was early evening. Neighbors were stopping by, children...all done up in their paint and faux finery...princesses, pirates, sticky gooey ungoodness of high fructose, and fossilized candy. You know...the usual, the completely expected. Then, there was this boy, a little boy, maybe seven or eight or ten, in his mothers arms. They weren't wearing costumes. The mother smiled like the mother of a savior...the boy smiled, into me...like God. The boy was crippled in body, but in spirit, in love...the presence of the savior was there. I felt it, I wanted to know more. The boy touched me. He and his mother faded into the crowd. I knew everyone in town. They knew me. I had never seen the boy or his mother before, nor since.

It is only to say, the unexpected may arrive for you...one day, there at your doorstep, whether you are of no belief, or of some belief...in something. When it happens, it will change you...seal you, into a new cognition. You don't even have to be ready. Love is a gift from goodness, from the most high source. It finds its way to you. Don't give up, and don't forget to give...and, when love is given...it isn't visible. It doesn't make air's. It is subtle and gentle as a breeze. It gets to you, and it never leaves.

Some Halloween, some Christmas, some day of no particular note, when you are just walking along or sitting on the couch, or worried of debt...love will come.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: istock, Getty Images

What Is

What is illusion? Is god illusion? Is love, then...also? How can you prove, such assignation? What does it prove to cast down thrones, figments of illusion, where, we are but...imagination? We must wisely choose our wars of words, or how are we to know, it isn't simply...some old bitter bag 'reproving' them? We are, none of us, much...but what we think we are. We are, but tiny flames...burning in the night, melting down our hour.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico

Art: disney.wikia.com, Castle of Illusion

Nineteen Forty Seven

In all of the following: fun and pun, intended...




In 1947, I crashed here, on your beautiful troubled world...well, me and David Bowie(we called him, 'lucky two eyes'), and several others. Of course, the ruling 'junta' here, took advantage of our metal, and our mage power, and they told a 'big fat lie', to everyone. It just figures, 'the lie', was full of gas. So, in the heat of the moment...it was a 'UFO', but after due consideration, and misappropriation of truth, justice, and the American way...it became, 'a weather balloon'. Then, just tell me, "I'm full of 'balloonie'. But NO! That final significator, of 'ain't gonna fly', ain't what it was. It was a 'niche', a 'notch', a 'crevice'...into which, they jammed their big bogus banan-a-rama, and nine stifleing months later, we popped out our pods...without a stitch on, and no green card. You could say, instead of 'born again'...we were 'twice hidden'. You had 'aliens' among you. Dad had two of everything...two marriage licences...two birth certificates, two big hairy balls, and at least...two excuses, for why he had what he had, and...he had me, there, that day, at my US Navel induction. Now, we're mind readers...you know? We don't need to hear you, to know what you're gonna say. We know, when your mouth starts moving, it's gonna tell a 'big fat lie'. Thus, we gathered quite a lot of intelligence, and we passed it along...in the form of 'potty poetry', dirty limericks, and just 'shit for all', and now...the whole galaxy knows, how funny you think you are...and, how 'sneaky'. So, you go straight ahead to hell, me? Well...there's lots more, but why bore you with the truth?


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico

Photo Cred: Dale Miles, strangesounds.org

Orlando

What can one say? It's emotional. It's a day to mourn. This is the darkness we must walk through...the darkness in the hearts and minds of human kind. 

Whose guilty, the villain, who pulled the trigger, the religion, that exonerates the monster, the police, who did...nothing, the reveler's, who reveled, or the 'judge's', who said, in their minds..."it served them right, for reveling"? Maybe, one should say..."Who isn't guilty"? It's called 'Orlando' today. What will it be called, tomorrow? 

I'm sad, like you, beat down, like you...at my wits end, like you. Unlike you, I do not swim in the sea with sharks...I do not stand at a cliffs edge, daring the sky, to push me over...I do not text, while driving, or remove my mind from continual vigilance of my situation.

In the aftermath, I am depleted of hope, of faith in those commissioned to protect me, and angered, that this continues...as if planned, by all responsible parties. You know who you are.

I hope for this, that men and women, of goodwill...stay high, remain calm and watchful...that they give, that encouragement, that a good attitude brings...be high, for yourselves, and for your brothers, sisters, mates. In times of stress and tragedy, the strong remain above the drama, that drowns the rest in tears and anger. Look out for each other, and be kind to each other. Be prepared to lend a hand.

And, God...heal those remaining.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: Google

How Doth The Wind

If man is so keen, to curry his gardens...how doth the wind, keep the flowers...in the high places?


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016,  Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: topnature.xyz, Grindelwald Skies Blue Mountains

Wind Horse

The Wind Horse come, whisper of prayer...ten million flags a flying, blown by the breath, to a tattered rag, from the lungs of god in heaven. Hear his thundering hoof beats pound, saddled and set to leap, from off the stair, to the halls of air, on wings of a trillion strong. These angels, flame...their footlights, mark the hidden, pathway home...to Atlantis gold, a secret hold...where a priesthood hid the bone.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016,  Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit:  chronicleproject.com, Riding The Wind: The culture of Wind Horse

Elsewild

High lakes...cold waters...evergreen...meadows. To achieve these realms, where god, himself...her own, reside, among the unified creation...only one, need be...absent. There is no such beauty...elsewhere, to be found. In the chasms of a handsome face...yes. In the ethereal eyes and lines of a guileless, young woman...of course. In a child, and the mother of a child. In the wisdom of an ancient man. Though, most of all, in nature of the wilderness, where all must live, or die...according to a genesis. It is different than, the plans...that man designs. Do you suppose, that god...ever...comes down from his place, to the spoilage you have made here? Of course, he does. It saddens her. He wishes better for our kind. We stay away. We watch you crawl. We watch you walk. You climb, with your spirit in your gun...your fear. We smell it, and many of us die. We welcome you. You kill us. We watch you...from a distance, and you ask...why? All the creatures living, in the elsewild know. They watch you grow, and hope for you...to become civilized.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016,  Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: rebloggy.com, Forest Wolf

The Tall Whites

It is said, they come from a star...they say. It is said, they are thin, as a stick...tis said. It is stuck in the craw, of the thick...twas had, that, 'they never existed...anyway.' Well, that about covers it all. Except... what's that ou' yonder, in field...today; that wraith of chalk, of star blue'd eye...no hag, that long of limb, fast flee? Taller, far, than mortal men...would be. She keens her kind, her bird like beak, her dog like bark. She speaks her mind, to mine, thee shee...e'naught of tongue. She'd kill by look...to guard her young. She's not unknown o' friendship...though, right fool she'd be...to trust a man, and yet...who else has she, to stand, alone, out there...that way?

Hail pelt down. Rain drops. Dust howl. Wind scream. "Come know near we!" I hear her say, to heart of heart, as darkened day...consume itself. "You can use the barn. I mean no harm...to your bairn and thee." The wind runs on; nor glimpse of blinded light. Then. Suddenly! She's there! "Why fear you not, my kind?" "I do. I do, white one...fear. No fear of God, were ever more, I fear. Pray, do not strike me." "You have not, to fear...for poet, you are kind. I would take thee home with me. though, poet, you would never know return. A fey, strange thing, would be to thee, to live as thou were born to be...nor, ever death, upon thee...anymore. Would'st that, thou...then, worthy be, of severing here...whatever pain?" "It would, madame. It surely would, nor have I mind to counter thee."

All they found...a cow, in empty field...a calm, a burnt and circled square,,,the fragrance of the Jasmine flower...that's all. No note. No sign. No signature of right or wrong...just gone. Long gone from here, nor one remain to bury for the ground..


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016,  Deming, New Mexico

Art: tall whites.jpg, Google pic

Wolf Hunter

Wolf spirit, in the dark of night, from behind a scene...tall as a horse, a great grey thing. We ran, like children...through nightmare land, hand in maw of slavering grin, We counting teeth, like bone white candles, set in jaw...our furry friend, melting in our skull.

As we said. The scene. There was a man, more dangerous far, we thought, who was our friend, but fear now...not; for there was the beast...in all. We awoke, with the stone cold gripe of an 'usher stone', about our heart, as we heard his name...spoke in her sleep...on the tongue of our mate.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016,  Deming, New Mexico

Art: Great Grey Wolf Sif, by LittleWalkinDisaster-deviantart.com

Roosty

From time to time, I mention 'the farm', our little project...or lack, thereof, our pilgrim's progress. Out here, in the sage brush, now ocean'd with verde, the green of the desert people, I watch the gathering's of things. I set out pans of water, one low, one high. Low, is for the squirrels, bunnies, mice...anything athirst. The high, is for the birds, and they come...slowly cycling every color, throughout the year. We are currently at plover brown, quail rust, and bluest azure...on kohl black butterfly's wings. The desert willow's gown of sweet orchid flowers, in pink and white...are going going, almost gone. The flower of the cactus, too is leaving us...with all its fruit behind, that we may taste of it. The wild, has come close...you might say, 'encroaching' upon us. But we do not feel this way, for we welcome every creature, and...they know, of no harm here...nor do they aim to harm us. I cast seed to left, to right, upon the sand, for them...and they come, and lay in the little shade...they may find. Lizards come to sip the nectar of the well, the wild rabbits, desert squirrels. All, find here, a sanctuary. The duck, that was ill, is now completely well. The hatch of bunnies in our bathroom grew, now half size, and moved to great outdoors. The hens are happy...now full grown...cooing that happy, 'egg laying' song, they do...and 'roosty', the rooster...the only one, doesn't 'coc a doodle doo'...yet, but he sure is a pain in the ass. His latest adventure...sitting on the gate...'threatens to jump'. I put my chest to the gate. He puffs, and puts his chest against mine, 'mano e pojo'. He say's "Hey! Gringo!" I poke his little belley. He falls off the gate, into the pen. Later...he comes to me, to ride my shoe...to peck at my pants leg...our favorite game.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016,  Deming, New Mexico

Art: Friedrich Johann Voltz, Pesquisa

The Companion

Can you imagine, wind, can touch you...kiss you, in the tenderest way, like, none you've ever known...a lover playing in your hair? When she comes to you, to speak...she doesn't, but she lets you listen...in a special way? This communion, tween two beings...present, in the air? Is it Earth? Is this her...loving you, caressing you? Is this moon...some distant stone, as cold as she's known to be? Is this God, in some blessed way, showing you? Is this some rare, unknown...some element...twas not conceived in mind of mortal men? What is this love that comes to me...that walks with me, that sits with me, and all I have to do, is know...she's always there? She's always there...with me.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016,  Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: artisttonigrote.blogspot.com, Green Light Spirit

Peripheral

Whiteness of a mind...blankness of a page, thoughtless for a time...being one with...things. Standing on a line...staring at the sky...geodesic eye...measuring with rods...all that ever was...Geb. Shu. Nuit. 


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016,  Deming, New Mexico

"brevity is the soul of wit", Shakespeare.

Photo Credit: Milky Way Over Devil's Tower, by David Lane

Truth and Consequences

Would you rather have boredom and regret, or truth and consequences...leading, inevitably, to something better?


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico

About A Movie

A few of you know me...I am "that annoying sand", mentioned, in a beautiful movie...I just finished watching; that, annoying sand, that irritates the bivalve of a mollusk, causing it to produce...a pearl.

The movie, is called...'Rock the Kasbah', and stars Bill Murray, Kate Hudson, and Bruce Willis, an Afghan taxi driver, a Pashtun girl, and her father...along with the music of 'Cat Stevens'. If you see one movie, this year, that just might tilt the balance toward the center...see this. It not only, is brilliant. It is important.

God be with us all...

Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016,  Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit:t0.gstatic.com, Rock the Kasbah

Hollywood And Vine

Follow your star...don't worry about mine...hollywood and vine.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: youtube.com,

Only Made Of Dust

We are all fantasy's and dreams...revealing ourselves. There isn't one real thing, in any one, but what you might believe you are. It is...how can I say? Dust. So, play. Play nice. Play rough. Play...with others, with yourself. Make it up. It's not the truth. It's not a lie. It's only 'make believe', if anything. It is, as vaporous as air, as bubbles blown to pop, and disappear...for, you are...and this may come as some surprise...and may not be, lest you believe...you are. We are only made of dust.

Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016,  Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: angelabchrysler.com, The Magic System-internal seidr

Child Of White Sands

There is a hot wind, blowing off the desert, who's whispering's are not lost. Cross hiss of withering sands, it pushes truth, on parched and desiccated lips...toward us. Surely, as the sayings of a wise man. Cometh...cometh it. Kindly. Neither meant to harm. "Forgive all these, Transcend beyond", it says.

This was that,  that subtly...came; remaining momentarily, a river...lingering, then passing on, to hidden stream...diminished none, where spirit...is not seen. I am wiser, by the listening...than speaking, where the welcome lets a man...that come, as gifts and teachers...from a promised land.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016,  Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: newmexico,org, White Sands National Monument

The Stop Light

Truths, are often revealed, in the strangest, and most ironic fashion. You could waste your whole life chasing...what? Then, suddenly...you know, it wasn't real and, it wasn't necessary.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016,  Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: Google

Raisins

One thing, that must be understood...is this. I am not in this world, to demean the weak, to take up division, and use it to bludgeon, those I fear. I search, like many...for the kind, the gentle, the loving creatures of this world. I am not here to hurt the lovers, or to judge them...and if I catch you, masked degenerate, buttheads hurting, any one of them...I will dissuade you, from your mission. I am not gay. I am curious, sexual, and concerned. My balls, are the size of raisins, but I would match them against any, who cause harm...oh, titanium ones.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016,  Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: homeremediesforlife,com

I Am The Wooden Door

You bud. You see. Your wings are wet...in chrysalis. Epistle's, you come to understand. You strain, at first...your fondness for a rhyme, embarrassingly fails...and then, you write again...but this time well. You realize, not everything, was meant to dance...unto your clever line. You edit, these contrarians...out. Though, best of all, you find...at last, that all combine...in riot of a wild kind, and you, a poet...quite, outside the ken, and court...of any man. 

This flower, you've become...no longer bud, no longer favored, of Chevalier...nor powdered, as the Courtesan. Inamorato. No...if ever were. For now, you find the field, dale...and forest, home...it's raw, good earth, it's carnal smell, of sinful fun...it's taint, of truth, has made you...what you are. Your Bud has bloomed...so now, you may do Robin Wild, or mad good Merlin, of The Calidon, and bless you new man. Bless you, by the star...you stand upon.

For, wild wild weed and thorn, of letters fled, to hedged places...rushing, with the waters of the streams and springs of poetry. These, limbed, and stemmed and branched...towers  sentinal, of all the trees, that ever were...and all the forests, in this world...their groves, magnificent. Every herb is here, and sage, among'st them all to stir the balms of help, and you...good man...you know them, every whit, for 'once upon a time'...and many times,you were before.

One good lad, a youngster, free...of  age, with gifts, whose majesty be recognized...shall find thee well, and learn of thee...the wind, the shell, the fire, the stone, and there, above them all...the stars, about thy whited head, and he will draw you to the sign you've made...upon the ground, that quincunx...where thou lay, and he...your mage, be made.

Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016,  Deming, New Mexico

Art: russianfineart.com, Druid Wizard (I am the wooden door)

Corner Pocket

I'm not a big man, but I'll be a bigger man...if, I'm not in the pocket of other people...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016,  Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: wordpress.com

Three To Kill Ya's

It takes three Tequila's, to turn a repressed gentleman...into, a philosopher...four, to shut him up.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016,  Deming,New Mexico

Photo Credit: elcubogourmet.es

How Are They To Know?

A little liaison, goes a long way, toward...ameliorating wisdom.




Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016,  Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: youtube.com, Brenda Lee

If you don't know what I mean..."wise men never fall in love", from... 'Fools Rush In', By Brenda Lee

Hidden Things

Fear not, the naked creation. Diminish, not...its parts. Rather, wonder, at the hidden heart...compelled to stunt, its creator...

Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico

Art: Morning Splendor, By Henry Scott Tuke

Experience

Men, who are humbled...have faced either, power...conscience, or beauty. Men, who are not, know not...much.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016,  Deming, New Mexico

Art: newnownext.com,artist currently unknown

Signs Appeared

On, The Morning Of Magicians...all, the sage, and honored elders of the world convened, raising up their hands to sky, and bowing...low, unto the east, and sun's rise. The great one, of almighty-ness, arose. His eye open...gazed, at these...his golden, molten pierce, of tenderness...upon them. 

They called his ancient name, in no tongue known. He answered them, in thunder...and in lightening. They fell upon their face, to the awesome, and the terrible grace...of Almighty's presence, among them. Earth shook herself...and groaned.

For these, accordingly, were given power...as might please himself, these watchers, to the needs of all beneath. They knew his name, his gentleness...his rage. A little bit, of he...creator, given them, and in those days, they respected...this thing. They knew, the world was formed of this...long long before...they ever were; long before them.

Then, as years went by, millennia...eon...men and creatures changed, forgotten he, who peered upon them. They no longer went to honor him, or bow before his grace. He slept. He slept, and did not wish to harm them. He slept and dreamed...disturbing dreams, of desecration, and...of death...of his creation.

Startled, he awakened. Signs appeared...in heaven, and upon the earth...consternation of men, as many asked...among the wise...'what has happened?' It is time to, once again...convene, to bow unto the east, to recognize...that, we have forgotten, and if it please, creator, please...forgive creation...with your kindly gaze.

Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016,  Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: stateschronicle.com

The Grey Ship

It has hovered here, for days...like a grey tongue, licking stamps, hissing, and spitting...but doing little. A bit of rain, a cup, a bowl...but nothing for the thirsty earth...a ship aground, her bottom shoaled on the sky of heaven. Her sails are billow'n clouds...ripped, and soiled. Yesterday, they flew, fully...white, and bright, rose gold...where the sun, caught them. Now, her toil shows...her mood, to less hope, bound...her strength, the might of few...wallow'n in tides, outside safe harbor. Like a ghost, of ships, before...her grayness shrouds, as age endows with sadness, tears, that will not come...her wreck lays...unmanned, afar, off shore. The night, may blow her out...a candle in the storm...snuffed, and, thereby, morning...gone.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016,  Deming, New Mexico

Art: Caspar David Friedrich, Shipwreck By Moonlight

It Is Now June

Where we live, in the southwest desert area, of Las Cruces, New Mexico, and El Paso, Texas...the windy season, is supposed to end after March. It is now, June. Where we live, the summer monsoon's, are supposed to start in July and August. It is now, June. Every day...it is a strange mix, of vapor trails, gaseous, amorphous clouds, and chemical odors coming off the desert. Every day, we do our work, as particles, unknown and un-admitted, descend upon us, and our neighbors. If these things, are a harbinger, of our future...we just might have to move, underground. All around our farm, in the open areas...in the sagebrush, the chaparral  and grease wood...Jack rabbits, and Cottontail...Roadrunners and Rattlers, all ask the same question...What is happening, to the seasons, the cycles...we are used to? They sniff the air. They stare, at the sky, as we do, and they wonder. Do we still have time?


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016,  Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: disclose.tv, Tackling the Chemtrail Conspiracy