Robbing Peter

Every time, I look around, there are western and European people, aiming to become involved in other peoples misery. A lot of that misery is created, by our involvements. Why do we become involved? Well, for the least part, we become 'piqued' by news reports, plea's of assistance by humanitarian agencies (aka government sub contractors). We send bucks, food, blankets. That satisfies 'our need', not theirs, because most of our 'good deeds' never arrive on site. 

Warlords, 'in it' with government agencies, see to that. They siphon all cash to themselves, and the rest ends up in some African shit hole. But, it's always the same, a plea for help, like a plea to save puppies or abused animals. All the good deeds do, is grease the skids of 'government's interest's in those regions. 

Those 'interests' move in, beguiling the under educated with promises of 'humanitarian assistance'. Next thing you know, there's a 'giant sucking sound', as Energy companies, Giant oil companies, Mining companies...begin drilling, scraping, and overtaking the sovereign interests of these needy countries. 

The governments promise 'infrastructure, dams, education, and independence from need, but all we ever see, are red dirt roads, women with dried up breasts, and starving children...pickups and army vehicle's full of brash young men, wielding automatic rifles and machete's...and nothing ever gets better in any of these places. 

Then, let these people care for themselves. Quit 'feeding the warlords', the bandits, the criminals, so that the west can suck its greedy gain, from out of the ground...of the suffering! Let the suffering 'tend to' these warlords, when they are tired enough of suffering. Get out of there. Leave them be. If they have resources, they are 'their' resources. 

Quit getting involved and mired in every one else's problems. In short...'mind your own business'! White Europeans, have always felt inspired to 'stick their nose in', that they 'know more' than those native peoples living in the regions. What does it do to the white European's...to the dreams of''Empire? It bites them in the ass, in countless small ways. 

It overloads their borders with immigrants and refugees, and interminable demands for help. It becomes impossible at some future point...to meet the demand, and ultimately takes more than it gives the greedy swine, whose true intent, 'to colonize the countries of others, wasn't humanitarian at all...but, an ever ravenous...search for wealth at any cost. 

It is still and always...a tale of 'balance', or the lack of it. You move commodities, or cause them to be moved, from their place...you create imbalance somewhere. There's a lot of that going around. Where ever you see a 'third world economy', you can bet a 'first world economy' is responsible for it, by some hook or crook! 

Is it 'guilt' that inspires humanitarianism? Well, of course it is...and it's paltry little improvement, to the ruined lives, made by those very same 'humanitarian entities'.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico

Sorcery And Faith

If any angel fell...to towers pointy spires of sorcery and faith, 'twould ache a spell...where sinful prelates courts, of flagstone wrath doth wait, so, n'er break the fall. If stone, there, doth not flatten thee...aspiration shall, for they would climb to God's divine...of their own will!


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico

Art:St Andrews Cathedral, UK

Be Thankful Always

Every line we write, for its truth, is revenged...by the powers. Tae feel the pain. Yea, ye know...but as twas said, it is the word, ye must deal wee now, and his time has come.

So, we may be his whipping boy...his tongue for a day or two, an hour even, mayhap, but a word...tae ye, that at least, we will nae be...pretend, a 'written over' rot or bumper sticker.

If that is nae fine, at least...it is plain. Ye must list to that, ye di' na wish tae listen tae. Be thankful, it is not a strap.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico

We Watch You Play

Many are suffering, the imperfections of your perfect lives. Every day, for most, is not a milk paint toast to life, in Santorini or the god's own voyage in the Med, nor a 'Venice flat' above a world class cafe...down a thousand year old alley.

But it is life, as 'really' lived...by most, and learn, we do of this, and stand afar, do we, to watch the stolen beauty and your lives of bliss. We wish you well. We watch you play. We watch you seine the arts of all the world, in your golden nets and drag them away.

The fine, lithe youth, you covet and you pay King's ransoms for, are never seen again...by the ordinary. But, the sand is running down...time to turn the clock, and the frowns of the world...upside right, for a 'sea change' comes, filling every bowl of gold, with brine, and kingdoms, that were buried in the sea...will rise, to dry in the sun.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Ordinary life in Cuba, google pic

Falls Paradise

Yes, nice...but don't get close, unless...you wish to grow the weeds of wrath. It's pretty to begin, the perfect plan...all crotch and curve and shadowed promises...of 'goodies', to be had, but years go by, and pretty soon , the pumpkin patch goes wild and crazy...sucks the living juice from everything! 

Then, husbandman...what you gonna do? What you gonna do, when the garden, there, starts work'n you and eating you alive? Best stand off...appreciate the art of things, take yourself in hand, young man. Desire is all that most things are, illusions and illicitness combined. Don't let the vines wrap round to pull you down to falls paradise. 

Nothings free. Nothings given, really...in this place, but pain and hard times, jealousy's and rivalries and slavery's of ownership...no one can work in this, for love, itself...will pack its tools and leave, long before the garden chokes to death...where the only thing left is your headstone. Just look, but don't touch...in this pretty place. You buy the thing, you'll pay the price. Heads up, tip to the wise!


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Gaia, fine art portrait, marta bevacqua

Sleeping At The Father's Feet

There are the green valleys, of the dream, tree covered hillsides of country's soft with sun...shadowless encampments of each flowers space, placed in the meadows...perfectly. One all seeing eye, in every sleeper sees, and is amazed, for days or years...or centuries of fair impartiality's.

Who can know, enchanted to such objectivity, such timeless life as he? We visitors don't know, nor guess, but gaze away; as if our lives were God's...in his eternity, and yet, in dream we jest; we prank and play and love...believing we are there, that thus, attention is not all the same; for there is that, that passes not in judgement...for it can't; and then...there's this that can.

So, are we then, participant or chained, a slave to art, in stone; for seeing in the round...a master piece, not all, but that presented us; by he who made the thing, or are we but a fool; stark raving blessed, to be at all; to run the breadth of God's own house...as if we were his own errant children? He watches us, another kind of sight, beyond content, I feel, to be at every point...a lord and father, and he loves us all...I think.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: detail of marble feet, by French Carpeaux (a young boy sleeps at the fathers feet)

The Way It Is

There is a war, now, between husbands and wives, between father's and their children. There are contentious games played out in every home, between people and leaders of government. Merkel and Trump, are no different than an old married couple, bound to see things two different ways.

It can either go to 'screeching' and name calling or, to 'insolent silence' and hurt feelings. Either way, it is a partnership breaking down, because, at the midst of it...is a lying and contentious spirit. Until one admits, that this is so, the other will be guilty of anger...but not of contention.

Often times, partnership tests the bond and truth of love and fellowship. It tests the bond, weakened by bull headedness, obdurate wrong mindedness, and goals, that are secretive and 'side taking'. It is so, in my relationship, and there is no room to turn this thing around.

I love, but I cannot abide in contention...so I hold my piece, for I am not allowed opinion? Would that suit anyone? I don't think so. Thus, I reason against a lying spirit and a contentious one...and I stand my ground. In this battle, family have already taken sides.

The loser's will be my children, myself, my wife, our dogs...the happiness I know could exist...a splitting of sheets, of assets, of opinions, all because one must stand for a 'right' thing, while others work, viciously...for a 'wrong' thing.

It reduces us to tears and bitterness. It's simply, more nights in the doghouse. When a family can only 'glue' part of itself together, by side taking, circling the wagons...and performing a clandestine pogrom, on the one 'standing', it is time to groan in solitude and sadness, and live on the porch...with a flashlight, a warm jacket and a prayer.

I am a soldier, in a spiritual war. It is a subtle thing, and mean...and my family and my love for them...are at stake. They have been compromised, by unwise choice and blindness. So, I soldier on, winning a battle here and a foot of ground there...but, there are no fellow troops, and no one to ask advice or agreement of.

I know, beyond doubt...there are millions of you out there, trapped in this very same cage of damnation...asking god, and begging a family, to see reason...and express 'unconditional' love. I ask no sympathy, and expect no mercy.

It is simply, 'the way it is'. This world has chosen the wrong path, and I would take it too...for the sake of my family. But, the contention here, would not allow that grace, for it seeks something else...entirely. It seeks absolute subjugation, victory at any cost...and I cannot pay it. I will move against it, in any way I spiritually can...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: destitute man, google pic

Houston...We Have A Problem!

Houston...we have a problem! It's name is 'Pack Ratius Ass Holius' and it flaunts its ability to harbor in the Paddle cactus and Cholla, outside our home, here in Deming, New Mexico. It sticks its tongue out, wags its butt and makes inappropriate hand and finger signs...in our general direction. It sneaks beneath our house, and at night, it chews the foundation, wiring, and what's left of our nerves! 

We poisoned them out last spring. But, they're back, and bigger. It now sounds like Gremlins or demons from hell. It is nerve wracking, to say the least. They are as big as Chinchilla's, and fast and sneaky. They eat the wiring out from under vehicles, build nests in the engines, and remind me of a sadistic comedy, I watched...several times, about a mouse, a house, a ball of string. The mouse won. Everybody else lost. 

It's one of those things. It's evil, invasive...but cute. I mean, really cute. Cute as the devil. We are not rodent savvy and this is our weakness, and they know it! We have a couple of cats, but they're indoor cats. I am considering getting some feral cats. They would have a buffet here. I am not for cruelty or killing things, but these pack rats are, literally, bringing our house down. 

We have tried mouse traps, poison mouse bait, smoke, gas, disco music...and nothing works! I think we should have been informed, when we purchased the property,,,there might be a little 'mouse-a-tosis' going on here! That's just a day in the desert, though. 

I love the desert. Men were not made to live in houses...anyway! We are supposed to be wrapped in a saddle blanket, by a campfire, with a steaming cup of week old coffee, smoking a Marlboro! I get that. My wife doesn't! I don't get her! But, if you move out to the land of sagebrush, sand, and 'Cool Water', you better have an iron plate on your ass, or the desert will be gnawing on it...that's for sure!


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Pack rat in a Paddle cactus, google pic

Just Ask A Mortician

They may count me down to 'dead', when they think I'm done. They may put me in a box, to seal my fate. They may comment, time to time...how natural I look, as if the years have done no harm.

They may deduce, my hair keeps growing, from the marrow in my bone, without ever really caring...there's no barber here. But my nails, oh, the nails.Where ever can we hide this 'fact finding'? 'little parings' on the silken floor, "as if, he lays there...'biting'."

 Marginal error, to a science saying..."Isn't ought, but death in death. He didn't bring a book along", and they laugh! "Ha ha ha ha..................ha? Then, they may move me from a dreadful ditch, to coffee can, or pickle jar, or study every bone, on down to sweet phalange, sucking each...in turn.

Intern? Is safe to say, there's life goes on in death, somehow, even in a 'cold room'. Just ask a mortician. Finally, they'll tire, and they'll toss me in the fire, maybe...burning down to ash, that collarbone, on which was etched...'a Druid prophesy'.

Though, prophesy or no, there is a long long way to go, after this body, where I may watch you from the ceiling, or mayhap...the floor, beneath which you hid me, and I may chuckle, time or two...to watch your paltry balls swing too or fro. It's not as if, we cannot laugh. In death, we're free at last...to laugh, forever more!


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: NDE life after death, google pic

Pacheco

I sit, alight, at night...between the stars, and wander mid the many mansions, counting sheep, goats, oxen in the pastured sky's, naming each, from year to year of lights trav'ling.

All of this, created he...from nothing, and he giveth me his gown, as a father passes down his claim, to a dear son. I understand, so much, now...I did not when I was young.

I hold the robe, and wrap it round, for it's growing cold...the midnight blue with dusted gold, of all the heaven. As the bright flames cackle, crackle of the fire glows, beneath the, still, leaf barren branches of the china berry trees...

I watch the cool moons move, her subtle changing. bringing on her golden child, a lost soul...looking for its stone, seeking its 'pacheco', its addiction...but it wasn't me.

As those lights drove away, the beast subsided barking, and her great head lay against my knee...we wondered, what would yet, come...from the moon waning.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Moon art, Pinterest

pacheco, informally means 'a stoner', or someone seeking drugs...

The Pathfinder

The wolf will not reproach you, nor mend your fence. He will stand in the moon's ever changing light, and howl her sad complaint.

They will lead you to your deepest self, and knowing thou, the overcoming bond...of moons malign reflection.

With wolf at thy side, take path to forest deep, and there, benign...the fear ye always had, and know, that now...that wolf and thee are one, to every trail in forest called, no fear feel thou, on any path...at all.

Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: wolf pack howling art, google pic

That Made It All

If you can sing, the way a spring bird does, if you can wish the world awake and new...if you can weave a tiny home betwixt the cactus thorn, and snuggle it with down, if you can give a life, unto an egg, and keep it safe within a nest...then, you are that, that made it all, and set it in its place...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: bird nest in cholla cactus, google pic

Redoing

Poetry's not always for the reading, but the changing, in itself...the living breathing of a being, that created us. Poetry's not always in the making, but undoing of the weave went wrong...redoing. Skilled words. Skilled letters of a doctorate divine, self taught...from the first.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: alishamcostanzo.wordpress.com, shapeshifter

Omens Little Surprise

I saw a 'leafless' desert China Berry tree, today, verdant with leaves...black leaves. I didn't take it for a sign, but I should have. One should never live in two worlds. Choose one. My world would have told me. Suddenly, the whole top of the tree rose off...and flew away. Omens little surprise, contention of blackbirds...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: commons.wikimedia.org, flock of birds