Sunyata

Behold, am I now hollow? Awaken! Come...while I am good for nothing! you beggar's, set your self aside, your baggage down...and come, as alight you are.


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

Art: Devout Tibetan Buddhist pilgrims, travelling to the Holy mountain, in winter.

"Śūnyatā" (Sanskrit) is usually translated as "devoidness," "emptiness," "hollow, hollowness," "voidness." It is the noun form of the adjective śūnya or śhūnya, plus -tā: Source: Wikipedia

The Great Fortune of Lungta

The Wind Horse fly's on the wind of ages, message of the gods, cho zen...words torn from an ancient tongue, scattered on a breathing sky.

The horse thunders, over high mountains, fluttering toward the heavenly ones, prayer's borne on the bones of the Wind Horse, sole free with its flags snapping!

All wealth of goodness be, the gratitude of flying on serenity, aback ...the Wind Horse.


With love and best wishes...Karme Dendrub Senji


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

Art: Tibetan Buddhist prayer flags, blowing prayers into the wind, google pic

Nothing

There are those that shred the discovery of 'nothing'. It is whole cloth, not to be taken down and dashed on the stones of understanding. The richness of it, is that, 'nothing' is the ride...the journey on, the seeker seeks to find, and is a way point only, leaving nothing of itself...behind.


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

Art: Tibetan Buddhist monks, google pic

Some Certain Truth

In a land of lies, is it a wonder, only silence may be said, to hold...some certain truth?


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

Green Envy

The greenest of the graveyard's grass, is 'envy green', when nothing's left, but pushing in the ground...to rest.


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

The Wind, The River, And The Soul

When we are governed by nothing, save observation, we might move better than, we had control of all...save wind, the river and the soul, in their infinite knowing.


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

Whose Counting?

We think better, when we stop thinking. We err less, when we judge nothing. Words come, when they're not asked. When we're not there...the world goes on.


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

Scratching The Surface

How deep is the deep, you cannot comprehend, the massive there, you'll never understand, the dark uncharted place, you've never been, the heap of water born, to never see the light, the earth, beneath...to never know the sun, and yet, such fragile living creatures there, astir and happy, we will never touch, living lives apart...in their own spinning's spun, from world's unknown to us, we've nearly given up...how deep is your deep?


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

Art: stopsleepgo.com, Whale Shark and scuba diver

The Dead Endure

I Think, when we are empty, of all reason, all purpose, and all possibility...when we are still and silently ended to the yearnings of this world, then we begin to see, begin to hear, the symphony...the dead enjoy, and lay in peace...to listen.


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

Art: Best of The Grateful Dead,google pic

Grail of The Cupped Hand

I didn't stop to think, I'd end, enjoying this thing, this writing reservoir...far more than you. It always seemed, so toil filled, so labored, as I sweated on...till words assured me, I need never call on them, but they on me, and be they muse or God, or what you will...assured certainty, to pleasure, we may both enjoy.


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

Art: waterheart, pollytone1.com

The Larger Matter

It seems, the world has a mind of its own, a better mind than ours...sometimes.


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

The Edifice

A mans growth is like 'asparagus'. We spend years below the ground, blind, deaf, unknowing what we are. Finally, we sprout! We wonder, why the whole world 'knows', what's on our mind...but hasn't got a clue, what we're about?


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

Art: Asparagus plant sprouting, Pinterest

The Crushing Truth

Whether I know you or I don't...I don't really, do I! We sit here and read one another's lines. It's like a 'beer bottle' shoot. I pull the trigger on my mind, and just say what I think. Sometimes, I like what you say. Sometimes, I don't. Sometimes, I just see it another way.

I seldom, if ever, mean to hurt you...unless, you hurt me. Sometimes, I read a new person, or seems to be, and like and share you. Sometimes, not often, you share me. It's not enough to start a romance, a bromance or, a relationship of any kind, really.

Over time, familiarity breeds a fondness for seeing a name of a poet or poster, I like or 'kinda like'. I don't fall in love for anything, short of sex, these days. I don't fall for anything. I'm not the 'dumb shit' I was. I had more fun, and more 'love' and more sex...when I was young and dumb and full of...it! Remember those days? There was a surplus of 'it'. Damn...dumb!:-)

I visualize love. I believe in love. I don't think my mom and dad were in love. They were tolerant of one another, for most of 50 years. I'm tolerant. 'Tolerant' is kind of the new orange, orange equaling love.

I am not one, who believes, relationship, or any kind of true and lasting love, can start with dishonesty. If we start with that, we are nothing but a 'honey trap'. So, for me, it's a 'crap shoot'. I say what I think, usually based in experience, rather than, the academic, aka 'what sounds good'.

I don't come in with expectations, and because I don't...the over plus of any sum, with anyone, is humor...if you have one. From there, perhaps, a bit of fun may be born. It's a very 'iffy' thing, not sure of the season or humidity, or almanac of certainty.

When God gives me a shiny new fuselage, or heavily and expensively, repairs this old carcass...I may be 'caught out' of humility, bragging, raking, flirting...my way around, but I hope, I've learned enough, next life...'to leave alone' that stuff, perhaps to settle at some hermitage, retreat, or beach side bus...a fairly 'well stoned' hippy of the age.

I've learned a thing or two, writing with you, to you, of you...and of me. Mostly, baby bird wings, hardly fluttering the nest...dealing with my own little mess, in a very tall tree! So, if you find, I have 'insulted' you, and you thought, I might, at least be honor bound, I am bound to no one...save God Almighty.

More than likely, I didn't see your name, when I commented so egotistically, or I might have 'toned it down'. If I never knew you and amassed the same 'faux pas'...I might apologize. But, If your honesty is wise, I wont have to.

Take it on the chin, as have I...all my life, and you will be a 'made man' or woman, as the case may be. Just be honest if you really want love. Why, I may even fall in love with you! Aren't you the lucky one! Meet you at the waterfall, in my undone dee's! :-)

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

Art: Clyde's car crusher, google pic

Main Stream Media

The rabble have a cause, and it is hate. Take thought then, well before you join their lot...and stand aside. Give shelter to the weary, water to the thirsty. You cannot save the multitude, but help a few. It is enough, for any one to do...


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

Art: Newstarget.com, google art

Scratch

Good even, Salem's lot, within your boxes nailed shut...you rage, the setting of the sun, nor, ever ever face...the day, betwixt the darkened path you chose, and everything, that's right...you lay, tormented every night in all the pain you dream'pt...would happen to the light...


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

Art: from 'Salem's Lot', 1979

Author's note: Watch out who you crawl in bed with.My, she has beady little eye's...drugs?

Sacred Springs

I hope, you will not drink the poison, from the water troughs of hate, that you will stand afar off, praying for the dew, that it may touch your lips, as blessedly as trickling's from mountain springs, to quench your thirst...and salve your need.


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

Art: celticmystery.co.uk, Entrance to Rivendell

Ramifications

The thing about the dark is, it's not your dick in your hand...and, even if that's ok by you, it may advocate the loss of a lot of revenue, for bulb companies...ramifications!


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

Art: Castle ram, google art

Simple Wisdom

Give me the brass of an oil lamp, the gold of a candle flame, and I will be rich as any king...who has ever borne a crown...


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

Art: Brass Anchor Lamps, Pinterest

Lights Out

We have not, the proportions of a 'golden age', nor any lasting thing to carry down through time, for we hath given up the lamp to light our path, and wisdom, to the hollow night.


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

The Victory Lap

Until our brass be polished, our roots lay buried the same...nor one stone, lifted or letter changed, of the ego's stubborn name. If life to life, we come around, to take the same slow ride, what have we won if we never learned...a thing?


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

Art: Racin'Today, google art

The Sum Of It

All , we have denied, of nature, to subdue her, we must bear upon our neck...for, to be free of all the mother gave us, we must carry on a stick...the ponderous sum of knowledge we've won, and its sack of dead weight!


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

Art: Hobo Stock vector, google

In Light of Reason

While you were all, 'all knowing'...God brought a gift to a simple child...that all of science, had it 'known', had cued around the block to find. It was but breath, but breath divine.

Three filament'd pods come floating on the ocean breeze, right to him there, performed a little geometric bow and orbital exhibit.

All of science failed the sight, but one dear physicist for one split second, dropped her isotope and jaw, for light of the face of that old boy...glowed relevance.

They'd never know, some slight of hand...of magic quite invisible, played geometric aire's, then disappeared...like little ships, in a perfectly ordered row.

One of those small details, most never notice...especially in the light of reason...

It's ok. We don't have to understand...everything!


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

Art: google art

To Become Empty

The tune is not coined by the piper, but the empty mind, where the clear true notes fly free of any fetter, where an absence of all guile is better...than a claim upon design...for more of what we are is known, by something we cannot explain, nor ever hope to comprehend...than ever were writ down on paper; by we little men...


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

Art: Detail from Etrurian pottery, of a youth riding a dolphin and playing a flute

How Will We Know God?

I have put forth wonders, preposterous, as they may sound, and was asked..."Have you then, the answers?" I replied, "Even if I had...have you the question?" If we know not, what to ask, how will we know...to receive? If we know not, to pray...how will we know God?


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

Grind Me Down

Take care, dear grist, to grind me down...if it please, real smooth and slow. Make me sharp, as a pencil lead. Make me hard, but gentle and true...as that classic song, you hear in your head...and always whistle too.


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

Slick Answers

It is not a religion, to ask, in terms of God...but a child's wonder at that, which is before him on the path. It is ok to question that you meet, without the 'well rolled' answers of predecessors.


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

The Pots In The Kitchen

Whenever people are'deeply' disturbed, I have noted, they turn from the scene, and sing...in a high falsetto, "I don't hearrr you! I don't seeee you!! I don't liveeee hereee!!! I don't knowww you!!!!", as if you are, suddenly...queer! They bang all the pots in the kitchen, as loud as they can...

It isn't a time of reason. I wouldn't bet on a thing!


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

As If Time Will Stop

There is no concern, more resounding than silence, where the schemer knows, he has been caught, but in the act; like a rabbit...he will freeze, as if time will stop, where, if he never makes a move...it may go unnoticed...


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

Give Us Barabbas

It's a lot like a parent in a room, who does nothing, while a child tears the plywood from the walls. The child is challenging. If the parent allows this, the child will escalate the behavior. In the present sense, the children of the world, are tearing it apart.

The children 'think' they are in charge. Perhaps, the most powerful country on the globe, is currently strutting a 'teen' mentality. Now, it's mad, because, it didn't get its way. It whines! It screams!! It demands!!!

It couldn't recite the Constitutional amendments, of the Bill of Rights...but it demands them. It doesn't 'care', to protect Freedom of Speech, as if it were a sacred responsibility, because...in a land that has exchanged its God for a cheap science, and a lying press...the sacred is no longer available.

A man steps up, to change the status quo...a good man, a President. He is crucified by the populace, the press, and his own party. They would rather, Barabbas! Barabbas! Barabbas!

It will not change, until the Father returns...and then, the world will draw quiet, for it knows. It has always known, yet it has gone off to 'other' gods, and worshiped idols.


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

Art: Give us Barabbas, from The Bible and Its Story Taught by 1000 Picture Lessons, 1910

Barabbas /bəˈræbəs/ or Jesus Barabbas (a Hellenization of the Aramaic bar abba בר אבא, literally "son of the father" or "Jesus, son of the Father" respectively) is a figure mentioned in the accounts of the Passion of Christ, in which he is an insurrectionary whom Pontius Pilate freed at the Passover feast in Jerusalem, ...Source: Wikipedia

The House Rules

It doesn't matter, what other's say of you or think of you. You have to live in your skin. You're the only one, that really knows. It can be an uncomfortable familiarity...or, it can be a friend. All the same, it's yours...


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

It Follows

The strong lead. The weak follow. The lost, question...The vain answer.


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

To Play

The cat plays. The cat sleeps. It rises up, to find 'its mouse', as much as meat!


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

Ka Ching!

We try to 'own' each other too much. We are, actually, more like a slot machine, until we find the right fit. Just don't fret 'you will', because, you will! Till then, keep slipping 'tokens' in, and don't begrudge the act...a little love, for a little while. Just don't mistake 'what it is', and don't expect to ever own a piece...and enjoy being free, until you find 'the real deely'!


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

Backside of The Moon

Not to sound crass, but there are about 8 billion butt holes out there, and if you focus solely on that, to the exclusion of all else...you may never see the limbs of the tree, the leaves or the flowers of life. Try not to aim, so far down, you only see the backside of things, or you may become the backside of things. Aim higher and try to forgive better. It's been a bad day, for everybody!


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

Be Wolf

Be one with the wolf. Be the one with the wolf. Be fearless of the pathfinder, for the fearful rue nature, and ruin nature...in their riot to remain, behind the battened door...they would end every last thing!


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

Flick Flick Flicker

Luckily, I get little from 'likes', but I get poetry from frustration. When I feel unread, ignored...I become, 'as the dead', with great power to express; as they do over there. Lights flick flick flicker, chairs stack themselves...my kids wash the dishes, and everything's better!


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

Weekends Off

Does the devil take the weekends off? I've wondered that many times before...perhaps basking, in the glory of the morning, in a white fluffy terry cloth towel?

You know, nothing seems to happen, on a weekend...nothing national or global, that is. It seems to 'pause' for two days off, then 'pick up' Monday morning...as the whole world goes to hell!


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

If Only

If one stray thought, that isn't yours, comes by...ignore it for the ones that are. By the end of the day, if you can write 'one line of poetry', that isn't borrowed, blue, or pirated...you've done well!


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

I Get More From Rubbing Richard

I know, that there are pterodactyl's in Oregon, that there are sons of Esau, scaring hell out of campers in the woods and National Parks, of most of the world.

I know that there are craft, hidden in the clouds and men who can change, from a clown to a dick...in one instant.

I know all these things, but I do not know, what 'The News' means, or why the news lies! It just makes no sense, that I can believe in!


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

Useful As Fart Repellant

If we say nothing, of any account, we've a following. If we say something, indeed, we get nothing in return. We get dust in the eyes, thorns in the tires, or a silent warning...never to be meaningful again!


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

The Missing Words

They hide, in deep forest's of great limbs and twigging's, of crotching's and dangling's of vine grafts and mingling's, where clumping's of berry's as white as the moon shines, are caught in sage sheets, where a sharp golden sickle sythes.

These words conjoin the earth with the air, the fire to water, that draw down the quire, spelling the prayer, that sing of the spirit...as quaffed with the glain from a cup of the dewr.

When they are done 'dewing', they dream as a child. They walk with the lord of all life in the wild, on paths of a garden that no man may find...save, he hold the key to the oaken shield, and know the signs of the secret things.


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

Art: The Emerald Forest, by arwensgrace