The Birth Place

A pall gather's o'er this place...deviltry's afoot. I feel they, circling, the wolves.They do plan their great feast. Their teeth are pointed. The truth is 'dull', unsharpened, in a long while!

I pray and reconnoiter in the gray mists...thy cloak of stars, pulled up about my head. I listen to the messages of angels, in black wings.What have you, darkness?

What have you 'light'? For ye fancy 'bright things'. Take this, to the father of us all...this 'shining word' I give you.

...and, they flew!


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: crows plotting, google pic

Straight Is The Ley

They would sit about their fires there, and think it up, and make it up...of worlds, outnumbering man. They would sing the songs of air, earth, fire, water, 'og mnemonic' on the knuckles of a hand.

They could 'rune' about, the circle or a twig, of any tree, or any stone at all, to know the nature of its kind. They might change into the heart of any creature, just by...'making up their mind'.

They marked the moments of the sun, the moon, alignaments of shadow and of lume. They kept the secret ways of 'seed', of 'pick'ling's and brew, inviting no man, but to taste the thing.

They healed by touch, or sound of song, and word, and found their way, by 'ley', from home to home. They were not to be equaled.

For, in those days, amid those forests deep, were men, enchanted as of gods...great 'magic's' wielded they, and wove...

from words of poetry!.


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: in the druid grove, pinterest

The Good Old Days

When you're a child, and you grow into your shoes, till you get a little wiser, and your mind begins to 'show' a little younger...you begin to appreciate at a whole nother level.

My Scottish/Welsh ancestors, settled in a lot of the hills and holler's...where I refer to them, 'lovingly', as 'hillbilly's'. They know things about those hills and holler's, hain't no man may know.

What I'm trying to say is, back yonder...many years, we 'rurals' knew a thing or two, and brought it with us, to this 'new land'. We brought a faith, from 'those good old days', and my dear dad used to sing about them.

There is more in their 'gospels' than you know, or than I truly realized...till recently. We may all, wish to thank...the country folk that hung onto their roots, and kept their secret council...never forgetting times gone by...

beyond the river, where they pray.

Amen!


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: go down to the river to pray, scene from Appalachia, google pic

In The Daruwood

Long ago, when 'Doctor's of poetry' ruled the bardic assembly's...there were 'rambunction's', bearing the weight of worlds...there, among the great Oaks of Calidon.

I think most of the meter counting, was performed ...far after the dust settled, and the blood soaked into the ground...for, in those days, 'poetry' was taken quite seriously!

It was spoken, as a language among the bards. It became the harlot of the nobles, but not in the great and mysterious forests of the Na Gailt heil(Gael). It wasn't a 'treat' to be dished up for 'the delighted'.

It was cosmic, and sonorous...and rattling of the foundations of time and space! It could bend dimensions and open 'dur ways'! It was a secret of 'the learned', and in those days 'the learned', were harnessed to a trust, has been forgot...in the hoary mythrical's of time.

Now, in this time, most of 'the tooth' of poetry, has been excised...and our modern, so called 'poets', are but 'dentured' supposer's of the true art, or 'art of truth', what have you.

Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Druid, google art

The Church Key

I got this 'bike', and now, I am meeting 'bikesters' from all over. It's like a 'church key' to another world! It opens doors. This one, I met today...he's a good person.

It's amazing, what happens to people when they let go of their 'security net', but they don't let go of their faith. Also, they have 'story's to tell' then. I have Gypsy stories and bike stories to tell, and...perhaps, best of all, I have 'people stories'.

They come in all sizes, these stories. Let the road take you. Don't fear to 'roll'. Get out there. God will look after you. The earth will look after you...if you look after her! Talk to your god inside. With respect, listen...quietly.

Namaste


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: fully loaded touring bike...this is nothing, you should see 'steve's', google pic...'smile'

Angels Are Real

You will be 'prepared', by angels. You will listen, but will really not. For 'a tenth' of you believes...the rest is 'gas emission'.

They are 'very' forceful, convincing...but they cannot 'make you' do anything. They can only tell you, train you...urge you toward a course. The rest is yours, on faith alone.

Angels are a danger, ranger. Buoys roll and rock, emergencies abound...near them! they need not the likes of us. We need them, and these 'messengers' come.

In your defense, I say...listen to each word, with deep respect, then think upon the thing...and act, in your own interest, but not a selfish one. They may come, another time...or not!

I am twenty years down wind, from 'another' such occasion...and I tell you, they have come here, at the 'quincunx' of my strange freedom. They lay, upon my back, the sword of heaven, saying: "Rise Sir Rise...if you can".

Am I only wise, or brave as well, has become my 'grave' question...and the answer must be given, in my own tongue. Now is the time of decision...at the edge...that I must leap from.

Namaste


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: guardian angel praying, google pic

If I Had A Feather

Many, see me as a devil. Some, I am 'naught'. Some are right. Many are wrong...completely!

I have not the signature of that, that lies, nor the fame. I have, however...something deep inside, fine.

We are gold, within, or dross, nor measured by 'a pound', but weighed for 'truth', upon a scale of want...to pass. My soul unsold, is 'one'.

Namaste


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: feather of the goddess maat,weighed against the soul of 'the dead', google pic

All Others Will Be Toad

Hope you understand. I had nothing to do, I woke up this morning, was thinking bout you. I stared at the 'sunrise', I stared at a 'stick', all my attention went straight to my, 'my oh my'...I'm 'a little horney', hope you are too! Have a wonderful Day!

Namaste

Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: southwest 'horned lizard', google pic

Huddle Round

There are the pride filled and the humble, rich and 'middle'n so'. They pull through here, off the highway's of America. I see it in 'the way they roll'. These are not gypsy's. These are 'entertainment center's' on axles.

The poor, the lame and destitute, are farther down the road. They'll be here...presently. They come, but, all the spaces 'taken up', like the promised land of 'rapture'...for wasn't it said of the middle class, 'thou art chosen Snowbirds'? I don't think so!

It may come a little cold, but God will make a place, in this high snow...for 'his people'. Huddle round, huddle round, ye that love, comfort one the other, of your color, of your sweet propensity to be...no matter what survival say, or the 'punk' with money, in the next pew!

Sing your praises unto life, your 'lamp' to keep the dark away, and always, always love as ye do, and roll where ye will, for I am with you. I am with you, all the way...davilaji.

Namaste


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: my 'roll', 60 Traveleze

Denouement

I don't know 'why' people claim, they are gay, in any way, shape, or form. Must we be gay, to love someone of our same sex? Can't we be curious? Can't we be human, unjudged for wanting...to fill up the lonesome?

What is wrong with just 'being' and choosing and taking...what is given? What is wrong, with 'kissing' a man or a woman, with laying beside, with touching and feeling...perhaps, better than we ever felt we could, before?

Have we faith? Do we trust more, some fear of provocation? Have we 'grace', as children of a higher race of godly being? Are we condemned of this...this natural innocence of sensation? If we are, why are we here to 'love', it says?

Isn't it time, we put away, that thing we lie and hide in darkness? Where's 'the light' in this? Where's the gift of 'human being'? Or, is this no gift...we are huddled in the dark of another's making, shaking and denying 'what, at last, we are'?

Be square or be there, or be gay...if you want to be gay. Whatever! It doesn't have to be 'political'.

Namaste


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: same sex lovers, google pic

de·noue·ment
ˌdāno͞oˈmäN/Submit
noun
the final part of a play, movie, or narrative in which the strands of the plot are drawn together and matters are explained or resolved.
synonyms: finale, final scene, epilogue, coda, end, ending, finish, close; More
the climax of a chain of events, usually when something is decided or made clear.
"I waited by the eighteenth green to see the denouement"
synonyms: outcome, upshot, consequence, result, end; informalpayoff
"the debate had an unexpected denouement"

A Lions Pride

I gazed into a lions face, and saw a world teacher. Who still, recalls the saintly presence of, Sri Yukteswar? A proud defiant man, but not false...face of strength and honor.

He taught his ashram fellows well, their holy benefactor. Where ever may you find a one like this...these days? Do honored men still roam this earth, in deeds as well as words? I'm sure they do.

Do people only see the cheap facade's of once, great buildings that will stand a while? Do they glimpse of wisdom's bricks in raising up a man, and all the work it takes...and can they value an eternal one...such as, this father?

Namaste


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Sri Yukteswar, teacher of Paramahansa Yogananda, google pic

Nostalgia Grande

I know, the world is changing, evaporating right before my eye's. I called my 'used to be wife'. She still is, but we're not together anymore. I asked if everything's alright, said...I missed her, which I do. She said, "Yeah, me too".

I know, my journey's ahead, and when I go...there wont be too many trumpets or flower petals. There's really not much holding me back...when the one's I love have learned to get along without me...pack my bags, don't look back , hitch my ride...and 'me and Silver' roll.

Just angel lights ahead, and a great adventure...moving to 'another world'.

Namaste


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: my home, 1960 Traveleze, ready to roll!

What Did You Think?

We're 'allowed' to have fun...even in bliss. Om! We're allowed to have 'pun', even in heaven. Om! We're allowed to come late and to say what we think, till our asses turn red...and our turtles turn green. We're allowed to laugh 'like the devil,' in heaven. Just, don't invite him in!

Namaste


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

A Red Hat

My father wore 'a red hat. I wear 'a red hat' in honor of my earthly father. They look at me, as if I were the devil. I am not the devil and neither was my father. My father was a good man, who cared for the earth and loved the flowers and the trees. He loved to walk in nature and he never took more from it, than he needed.

My father 'walked in balance' with the earth. They look only at my image, and they say in their heart...these terrible things, for that is 'their' father. They will neither read what I write, nor listen to my words. They will tread the earth down...if allowed. There is coming a time upon 'Turtle Island' when a 'true white brother' will arrive, and this will change.

Namaste


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: mushroom mother and children, google art

Eloi Lama Sabachthani

Jesus is 'the word' of God. Is that not so? He is the son of The Father. The Father and the son are 'one'...are they not? Can ye say nay, with any certainty? Then 'why' was your face grey today, as ye looked away...all?

It was nay a ghost ye saw. Ye were, all of thee, around the 'bloody cross'...watching the end come on, the only care...that it was not 'of ye'! Ye got away, well...lucky thee!

But, now...this world falls to he, who arose on that third day, who knows...thy crooked heart, and how 'fatal' thou are ...to the good of any! Thus, be sure...it will not be as before. Nay, not near!

Namaste


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Christ's crucifixion, google art

The White Knight

I do not speak without a heart or 'a mission'. I am not alone. Behind me, are the oceans gathered in an angel's wings. You may be cruel to me, for I am 'one flag'. You may say to yourself..."He is weak!" But, you are wrong, and 'measure' unwisely.

The horns you hear are not of goats, but, of heaven on high...the bells ringing, this worlds 'nell'. You should lay yourself upon the ground, beseeching dust to swallow thee...or crawl away neath yonder stone.

My flag is 'white', of the purity of God, if cross, to be upon it...it will be of my own blood. I am 'one', but I am strong. This is no surrender!...of angels tears, none fell that day, and he walked away, home.

They only gazed...in awe, at the son.

Namaste


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: a blazing sun, google pic, Alamy

Billy Bob

Good morning, brothers and sisters, cousins and uncles...:-) and an extra big howdy to old 'Billy Bob'! If it hadn't been fer you'ns...none of us would be here., 'the way we are'.

Namaste


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Scene from 'Deliverance', google pic

It's All One

What's 'one', more or less? Well, one is what we'll be, when our 'popularity'...and all the rest, have faded from the scene, when all the phony friends, and real...have melted down into one bar of 'golden ass' singularity. When we have stared 'the thing' we feared the most, the beastly, dreaded 'I Am dead'...in the eye'...and it turns and says: "You are!"

Now, I'm that close, but from what I hear...he's not so bad, and he'll let us wear his robe, cause we ain't got 'but squat' on! It's not that he is one of us. 'He is', and we are his, and he's got us by...'the short hair'. That's that...next thing you know...is a whole lot more, than 'not much'. You're 'staring from your god in heaven, as if...you were always there.

Namaste


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art:Cosmic I Am, expansion of bliss, google art

Feathered Tribes

My winged tribes of whisp'ring birds, to whom I speak...I read your tweets, 'ten/four'. I find your little 'love notes' left upon my wheels, my windows, and I hear your peals...of cosmic laughter.

Know not to whom I speak, nor thee...of whom you tweet...I listen to your play, my children of the sky. I pray, the flags reach out, their words upon the wind, an everlasting...invitation. Your dear song, was never lost on me.

All is needed, now quite simply empty, save your presence near, a love ungiven, by a world...fills me. It is respite in itself. I hear your gypsies wheels near...arrival from an other world.

Namaste


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: fire bird, native american, google art

That You Would Turn Away

You know, the truth is...I love people. I don't know why, because , in all my life, they have never done 'shit' for me. Wait...they have! They have cast me out, put me down, shut me up, ignored what I say and avoided me....apart from a remarkable few.

Maybe a friend of mine is right, where he says: 'loneliness makes you love more'. Maybe that's why...I could almost die of loneliness, and I love 'everybody'!

I try to reach out, to help, to lift, to encourage, to forgive. I try humor, guilt, anger, foolishness. I've even put out my hat to beg...all to no avail. Most just turn their back, and don't even whisper...like I don't exist. Who knows, maybe they can't see me.

I've thought of that, quite seriously. I love people, and perhaps it does me more good, and they...nothing at all. It's hard to believe. It's hard to believe, that God would create such love for you...that you would turn away.

Namaste


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: turning their back, the economist