That Is Our Tear

We are all gypsy's now, in this place...in this world. I watch them paint their wagons. I paint mine. Where shall we roll? The whole world rolling...round.

We paint and we sleep and we rise, and we scream the day away...until the moon sings her song, and we quiet down. Our children hide behind the horses...and love, in the ways we know, and we smile...for once, we ourselves did so.

It has been thus, forever, except for the ways we die...almost boringly, rolling over. We curse the flesh and claim the find, so viciously assay it's worth, yet never really settle, gaze upon the ice...then time to time, we drop the rock, to take another home.

Never ever, never ever are we else, but here...the rolling round of life and life again...upon our spinning stone, and yet...inside our self, a place inside our self...we never find. That is our tear. That is the dream we never can recall of home.


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: The New Gypsies, google pic

Vewy Scawy!

I bought a little bag of pumpkin miniatures. They are, maybe 4 inches across, poised atop tin cans and a sugar cube box,in this tiny trailer. They look forward to Halloween, for...like the minions, they strike poses, that seem...vewy scawey!

Have a happy Halloween, everybody!


Written by, Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, NewMexico

Art: miniature pumpkins, google pic

Many Buddah's

Here alone, I shine like wax. I polish myself...to the very bone, with only God to appreciate the light. It is a painful thing, and one would think, alone we are less...but we become stars on the ebon night to speak with all the other stars.

Namaste.


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Cosmic Buddha, google art.

The War To End Love

Hippies weren't all liberals. A bunch of hippies started out being 'straight' farm boys and girls. Maybe they lost a brother in the war. Maybe cows just didn't look good anymore. Maybe hippie girls looked better.

They 'turned'. What's this nation coming too? They smoked. They toke't the 'Jesus weed', was passed around...and began to wonder, thinking for themselves. That was a damn catastrophe, for death and war and the dogs of 'daily sacrifice'. Can't have that no more. No sir'ee!

Then the whole damn love affair turned south and got blamed...on those 'communist-ees'. Jane Fonda got crucified. They liked her better as 'Barbarella'. Remember the General that said, 'he could end the war'...but that sure as hell, wasn't policy...or about to be.

The hippies had to toil, sweat, then came the whores that blamed and beat the descent boys...that 'opened doors', and love, about to die...fell down stone dead. The girls hearts turned cold, as Jesus lost his hold on love...started rubbing up against each other.

The guys, 'just cold', denied the warmth of hearth, and living under bridges...like trolls around burn barrels. It didn't get no better. Men began to lose their balls as feminist witches...urged them to 'their softer side'. Hell doth propagate a lie, and the whole damn world turned sour, and in upon itself.

Now, the world is crying for 'a son of man', someone that has 'the real stuff' to come. It's hard to figure, hard as hell, and obvious Apocalypse must dawn...to knock the world down, to build it up again...and it's about to happen, and to think...it all started with 'a love generation'.

Let's pray, the circle bound, comes round again...in time, that love returns, a stronger kind...and never ends, my friends...or nurse goodnight, and suck its sad remains.

Namaste.


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Homeless men around a burn barrel, google pic

Any Hippies Here? Say Aye!

I know, where I live, in this RV park, there's a flock of hippies, but they wont cop to it. They don't fly the colors anymore. There's no beads or Roman sandals or free love or anything...and there's sure as hell no Jesus today. But, there's a bunch of guys in town with Jesus tattoo's, and rap sheets a mile long. They will let you know, pronto..."it's pronounced 'Hey! Zeus!' pendejo!" Ok, move along.

The trailers are 'straight' now. The collars are button down. It looks like HOA on wheels. But there's one guy 'flying colors', and that really eats their craw. That's me, and it isn't a gay parade, or a stoner up a tree...it's this Buddhist guy, "Whose he trying to be?" Trying to be free, to find a way, to be myself, to make a friend, to crack a joke...to fall in love with anyone that wants to fall in love, to resurrect a bygone day...to find Jesus looking back at me, without malice or hypocrisy written on his face.

I didn't buy the gay parade, or microwave or technology, or bring this crap to town...but straight here is a kind of cover only...a camouflage that vaporizes into pot smoke when the lights go down. I haven't been offered yet, not a single toke. I haven't been told where the best 'wild hot springs' went. They save that for themselves...scared to death, what's happening in this world. I don't blame them one bit.

Whoever they are, or pretend to be...I can sniff out a lover. I know that Jesus came to love us in those days, back in the 60's. He stayed for a while, smoked some dope and went away. Everyone had too much fun, while young men died in a stupid war far away. But, they died here too...trying to stop the damn thing, with weed and love and flowers. Jesus save, if any of us qualify.

Namaste.


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: 60's hippies, google pic

Adamant Stone

There is 'a way', a diamond way, the wise man said. I wasn't sleeping that day, and that day...I fell in love. I have a name, that, like a shoe...I must grow into, and that was his gift to me.

You may ascend, with no incline...'straight up' he said. 'It wont be easy. You are such a handsome man' he said, 'you should meet my daughter'. He smiled. Tears came into my eye. He took my face in his hands.

That day I found a brother, more conscious of his wisdom than I. Yet, this transmission of his certain grace, brought me alive...from the grave, and I wish he could know this. I left with a red string and a wonder in myself, from that day to this.

Namaste.


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: the-universe, google pic

Interface

Clouds passing, just as thoughts in ones mind, arising and descending...seeking harbor where they are not welcome. Yet, there is no banning, no command against their coming, save a simple gazing, grazing humbly serene...between two ends of nothing.

There in this, the balance of a space I am, though 'eye' only...watching. Nor 'self' of any kind occluding anything. No judgement, nor cause, nor court...no cost. No drama to degauss, only 'being there' perfectly still...invisibly aside of interest.

My way.

Namaste.


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

 Art: Galaxy Meditation, google pic

Of The Final Sum

Wind Horse fly's. He prays and waits his mission, those will ride upon his back...silver bells bridled passions champing, but the children are not here yet to be taken... He has come to colored flags of prayer, hitch'd to the wind...it is Wind Horse carries all those ones to heaven.

In this way, unto the heaven's means combine, prayer wheels spin, flags shriven by a paring wind scatt'ring...holy words to hear must go...unto that listening.

Lungta, soul ascending, steed of prayer, unto that merciful compassion...they that gather all away from harm at the summation.Till be done, that thing, the gath'ring of the everlasting kind.

Namaste.


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Solomon's Mine

This town, where I live, holds wealth untold of a certain kind, for all that's left of the blown away, come here to stay, as if, by some radar divine . Their compass points, and they roll their joints and kick the tires and pull away, moving south and west...for a cheap place to stay.

"Come as you are' is over the top of the big tent used to lure these souls, from where ever they were, cause the circus came to town from all around...and it just stayed. The richest people in town, are the folk with hardly a penny to their name.

If they ever leave or left, this place would be bereft, as a granite tombstone having...no company. They work where they can, the derelict ships, that once were young and now cry aging groans in arthritic harmony. They still laugh loud in the devil's face, for the misery of his comedy.

They asked me why I came...I didn't and don't have a well oiled answer. Perhaps, I came to die, cause this town is proof, that after you go, there's life below the ground...but nobody's rude enough, to give it away.

It's a secret place, where people wave and look you in the eye. They share a certain 'knowing', that life isn't always about having 'the fancy things'. I tell you, if I can gain their trust, I'll have a treasure in them, and I'll be the richest man...for the company of their simple time.



This poem is dedicated to the people of Deming, New Mexico...my neighbors, and the most amazing survivors of this worlds futile attempts to snuff out 'the joy of life'.

Namaste.


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

My 1960 Traveleze Trailer, which I live in...in Deming

Forget yourself to find yourself, and have a good trip.