The Binding of Merlin and His True Love

I never know...exactly what to say...I keep it tamped...way down...for you...I know...you're working on it...I am too...I know...you know I care...that little fire...there that warms...the flint's been struck...the kindling's caught...I sit back...the forest...there and wait...for you...

I know...you will decide...there's nothing...I can do...now it's up to you...someday...you will arrive...a dream...love realized...an answer...to a prayer...I know...that you are there...it really...can't be said...it cannot be denied...every word is true...I'm only loving you...and cannot...tell you why...something deep...inside of me...

Just wanted...you to know...the embers...that I hold...could set...the sky afire...this love...this love...it isn't of...this world...and yet we are...we are...and even if...we are confused...we know...that something...other than ourselves...this sorcery we share...has brought it forth...this love gone down...from ages past...has come at last...

And when...we're ready...it will take us...we will spin...and we will dance...and we will cry...and we will...know a joy...that cannot...be described...in simple human...terms except to say...I love you...I love you...I love you...in every...way there is...and we will kiss...and we will live...and we will die...

And we will change...to something greater...than one life...can ever be...and on that day...that changing...that is wrought...by loving's wound...will bind us...in the circle...of consent...two angels one...forever...this I wish...for you...that thou be happy...and when one...we fly at last...at last I pray...that whole...we have become...may never be undone...in any way...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Art: Merlin Painting Arthur's Shield, by Gustave Dore

"A Little Child Shall Lead Them"

I know that some might view my contributions to poetic prose as naive, others inflammatory, and a few might take my art choices as, seditiously sexual...you might conceive of me to be a 'flaming' gay liberal...or a spanking swapping bi sexual...I really wouldn't mind...or you might just...not care...at all...

The point would be missed in this...in all of the above...if not for curiosity and care and love...and one other thing...that we have lost, the Earth entire...innocence...can you feel it...the loss of that newborn awe...the vacuous draft of it's dark replacement...filling us, while lying to our hearts...

Do old men yearn...their body's worn...to younger men, their body's firm...the template...of a better day...do elder ladies rue their lot...pant within their romance novels...not for him, but she...oh my...are we the victims of our fear...to be the way we are...never reaching out...to try a better possibility...

Oh, must it all come down to this...this sameness every hour...this dream du jour, that is no dream...I mean...hey, there is a far far better way to be...to be as children...once again, or not to be at all...it seems...I choose to be...yet, not quite as...I mean, whoa! there cowboy...there's more...

Men could offer up...a world of love...instead of ash...a world of peace instead of death...where nothing is impossible...our children of a nature to explore...what lays before them...in the bounty of this world...instead of killing,every living thing...grasp the horny beast...lay down with him...to find there is no provocation...let nature...be our guide again...where Pan's sweet syrinx play...

As lion is with lamb, tis said...is my interpretation...can you find a fault...we must touch souls, we must fill hearts...with other than this stuff, of latter day invention...now...or innocence will pay the cost...and all to dearly, down with us...and all that man was ever meant to be...as all of nature turn to dust and flee...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Art: Tiresius being led by a boy playing Pan flute, by Rupert Bunny 1904

Plundering The Sun

In the forest...by the waterfall...an old gentleman stirs...his eyes again bright...as alive as...an eighteen year old's...birthday...recalling the years...those sated sun dappled...days of nakedness...with other boys...young men thundering...their loins laughing...happiest in morning light..apple orchard rows...of trees upright...and growing...right before his eyes...the old man...murmured something...

his faint hand...pass'd before the sky...another vision now...young ladies circl'ing...new breast's swir'ling...nippled fruit...the young men suckling...cool misted droplets...of the springs...of life...in that clear...splashe'd place...of waterfall...now cover all...loins sopped hairs...beaded by irradiant...tiny sun glints...off the flesh'd...and brilliant robes...of human children...

"Merlin...Oh...Merlin?"...came a sweet voice...his reverie askew...but holding..."Merlin?" "Yes dear." "The boys are quite gay."..."Yes...indeed they are...quite colorful." "Merlin...Nimue smiled...you are such...a poor old lie'r." "Yes I know...dear Nimue...but only to myself." "They are beautiful...dear Merlin...would you...have them all?' 

"But one would do...or two." "The young men?" Old Merlin blushed...the way a boy...would do..."You know me...too well...lovely Nimue."...again the old man...moved his hand...and murmured something...the vision...but the sun...and years remained...all other went away...as two endearing...elderly and wise...old gods...enlaced each other's hands...and walked along...giggl'ing and banter'n...far into the forest...of the dawn...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Art: Arcadia, by Thomas Eakins

The Cigar Box

By the time I get into the meat of this story, I will have changed at least one of the names...to protect the idiots...

It was somewhere out on the rolling waves of The Gulf of Tonkin, due east of Viet Nam...1968.
Bradonson, Brandt and I, and another guy...oh, yeah...Danny...never forget Danny boy; we were all crammed into the Radar Tech room, a hot hot little box of Deck grey walls and hot wires...with nothing to do but shoot shit and fidget.


we had run out of ideas to entertain ourselves...but little did I know, Danny was busy fixing that. It had been just days ago, when we geniuses figured a sure fired  way to get into deep shit, with the local constabulary, that was the Master At Arms, the on board Fire Brigade, and, any number of officers who may have been wandering the vicinity.

A few days earlier, all of us guys had pooled some hard earned 'script' to purchase a hot cake griddle, figuring, as geniuses do, that this would exempt us from having to stand in the chow line for breakfast.  Yum yum! We mixed up the ingredients, plugged 'er in, plunked down the batter in dollar shape sizes...bingo!..breakfast served.

We were just about to congratulate ourselves, when...What The Hell! Someone was banging the door down.  We had it locked tight and a cabinet pulled in front of it...after all, we were, somewhat, suspect in a criminal enterprise, what with cooking illegal dollar cakes.  We heard our division officers voice...cursing...vehemently. I had never heard him curse before.

"Open up in there...you guys open the hell up!" We knew we were toast. We pulled the cabinet away from the door, releasing the latch, and the door flew open. All I could see was blue haze..."What the hell are you guys up to...3 decks are shrouded in blue smoke, and it smells just like BREAKFAST!" We all fessed up...what could we do...we had to give up our lovely hot cake griddle.

We felt chagrin, not so much for doing wrong, but for pissing off an officer and true gentleman, who never ever treated us in any way other than a comrade in arms and a real friend...rare between swabby's and officers. But you get over things...he didn't press charges...he just said "mum's the word, boys." and left.

But the South China Sea, in those latitudes, work their ways...to charm the innocent and prick the naive. And what beats all is, it involved more blue smoke. I forget what Danny's excuse was for the celebration, but there we were, all sitting in a circle, and he passes out cigars...everybody was talking;I hadn't been handed one yet.

The head tech, Bradonson, already had lit up...blue smoke filled the room...everybody's got 'goofy' grins on their faces...but we hadn't been smoking any of that...Danny say's "Grab one Buddy!" There was the cigar box resting on his lap, I opens the lid, reaches inside...grabs...Dick! He had stuffed himself through a hole in the side of the box.

They were all falling down laughing...it was a funny moment...in a tragic war, and comic relief was desperately needed...some times we relieved it.  I will never forget those guys...my bud's, compadres, pals and fellow crewmen in that year of 1968. We did our part...we did it fairly well...we didn't lose the ship, and we never ever lost our sense of humor.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Photo: Vintage Sailors, by Credit Unknown

My Fifteenth Year

It was the lovely summer of my fifteenth year; my pal Paul, same age as I, had ridden out on a sortie, early in the morning, up into the foothills, on dirt roads and paved, with our time worn bicycles. We were fully in search of a 'nudist colony', we had heard tell of in the area...it could have been anywhere, inside a thousand square miles...we didn't care...it was the summer of our fifteenth year.

That afternoon, back home, he and I shared lunch at my  place, and well famished we were. Paul's dad was a bible thumper, his mom, a bible thumper's follower...so Paul had to 'fear the Lord' quite often. After he rushed off home, I got out my little 'Fox Doodlebug' motor scooter, kissed mom a peck, said hi to dad and split...for up the road somewhere.

I played around with the Randall boy or one of my other mates...we climbed a great tree, for the 'look see'...two hundred foot in the air...Jesus...I made it clear to the top, had pitch and scratches all over me coming back down. That little scooter and I had 'history' together, it's chain, more often off than on, my hands, more often greasy, a real boy boy thing.

But I got er going, and back home we rolled and blared...for the muffler was quite noisy. We ripped along at thirty, top speed, 'cept down a hill, and I ducked my  head to make me 'aerodynamic' as 'Doodlebug' and I shot down that hill. I just caught site of a shadowed beast, with a load of logs, a logging truck...came round me...like we was standing still.

But that wasn't the piece...a boy forgets a logging truck...it was that big metal part, sticking straight out in the traffic lane...there to hold the load...had kicked it's cotter key and fell...but god protected me 'aerodynamically' that day, and then, it passed and disappeared from view...but never memory.

I was a mile from home...already forgot my luck, my grace, my god, in a cloud of foolish boy, as I saw our driveway coming into sight...there it was...that monster Fir, sentinel of our front yard...with that enormous root, just...stickin' out there like a ramp...what was I thinking...absolutely nothing as me and old Doodle took that ramp, and straight up that tree...

Till gravity made the fool of me...and down we fell. Dad heard the sound, came running out, and mom. I couldn't breath...every bit of air knocked out of me...dad stood over me and smiled..."Son" he said, "You are a damned fool!" Not the first time I'd heard that truth...nor the last...neither was that old Foxie and me's last ride...it was the summer of my fifteenth year...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Photo: by unknown credit

The Persian Carpet

Few years ago, a young couple I was 'hanging' with gave me this bag of pot, about an ounce or two...I smoked on it for 4 days. It was that real good sort...mellow...clean...no surprises...the old lady next door to my apartment was always getting in my shit(parlance of the street)so, about the second day, I tell myself..."well, you live in a free country...self", so I got naked as a newborn, a sight to behold in those days, and went on the back porch and smoked and danced and sang and screamed...

and I had this old persian carpet...a really nice one, passed down to me by my family. In one corner of the carpet was this little golden flying saucer woven into the rug with sheep wool and camel hair, and who knows what...dog shit?...all the neighbors were 'peeking' from their apartment windows to see the naked 'freak' sitting on the magic persian carpet(it was sure as shit magic to me by then)and I had a stick, and I would tap the carpet...for hours, going "ick...ick...ick", for 'up' in camel...to try to get that carpet to fly. 

I would roll a joint, and another and do art in a journal I had...just sitting there...hours and hours...kinda like a few acid trips I took or Peyote trips.My friend Angie would roll out to the porch in her electric wheel chair...she was so beautiful and intelligent(oh, how I miss that one), and she would just give me this 'wise' look, like she knew I was a total fool, but it was ok with her...that's why we were friends, and we loved each other. 

then, the young couple, the ones that gave me the pot stopped by, and they had their guitars, and they were so cute together, kind of like a couple of 'rangy' gypsies, and they wanted to sing with me and talk with me, and they were kind of high too...and we started singing, and I tell you, it was like we could see into each others souls...and I saw the words to a song for us...stretched out before my vision, just like the 'Star Wars' movie scroll at the first of the movie...that was the fourth day. 

Then, Judith stopped by, a Sai Baba devotee, really super sweet, loving and somewhat pretentious...that needed to be fixed...I knew it for a long time, so the night before, a tiny baby O'possum had gotten into our apartment, and I caught it up and put it in a box, with some water. Judith was talking with Angie, and I laid my guitar down, momentarily, to go see Judith...

"Bright blessings to you" she said..."right" was my reply..."Hey Judith...wanna see my little friend?" I reached into the box, grabbed the little furry dude by the scruff, and lifted him into the daylight..."See!" I said, and right then, the O'possum let out this long spitting hissing sound, and Judith just started screaming and screaming these 'little girl screams', her bliss and her aplomb and demeanor had fled the scene...entirely. 

That was very funny...and that was sort of the party crasher...I realized I was naked, my pals buzzed off and Judith recollected her sweet pretentious self...but it was great while it lasted...oh and I loved every one of those people, and still do, in my heart...even the old bag next door, who was so damned unforgettable...

Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Art: Artist currently unknown

The Other Half

These words...

to you...

I give...

that you...

may know...

another life...

I loved you...

just as now...

and nothing ever...

changed but death...

and nothing...

ever will...

you are the one...

upon this world...

I searched for...

all my days...

if matters not...

engender...

but my love...

upon this...

spinning wheel...

we come apace...

we go apace...

to rest...

though never...

cease the toil...

of soul...

to seek itself...

it's other half...

cross time...

and space...

though eyes be...

sightless seeming...

lover's always...

see and know...

that wound upon...

the other half...

that waits to...

be made whole...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Art: To The Morning Sun, by Henry Scott Tuke 1903

Amor Est Vita (Love Is Life)

You are leaking...

love like blood...

the angel sigh'd...

wisdom would...

declare alarm of life...

were life blood...

only life...

anon yet life...

alone sustained...

of sanguinum...

will nay support...

the love...

that never end...

if one would live...

and truly live...

that long...

eternity...

then needs not...

have forsaken that...

that is not stained...

that sweet true love...

of every living thing...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Art: Angel Flight, by Leonid Aframov

We Love Because

why do we love...

we love because...

we love...

we love...

because we feel...

we love inside of us...

and know...

this feeling...

is a thing...

that must be shared...

to make it whole...

to make us whole...

but do we share...

no hardly ever...

do we share...

for far too precious...

is this source...

this never ending...

river of amour...

though if in truth...

a never ending flow...

why is that place...

within our soul...

called love...

contained so jealously...

there is enough...

for all...

none need be lonely...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Art: Erato, Muse of Poetry, by Sir Edward John Poynter 1870

The Loved One

What can I say...

you are my life...

unknowing...

I suppose...

you are the whole...

the loved...

the yelping wanting...

cry to love...

need to love...

to be loved...

all the other...

parts engaged...

married gagged...

tied up tied down...

debt wired...

like a time bomb...

set to blow...

vow'd promise'd...

memory'd to...

work place friends...

to photographs...

it never ends...

the one ring evidence...

our derri'ere stamped...

MINE...

not so prime...

that's all fine...

the grind reality...

the story...

there's a better one...

that goes...

the French...

are civilized...

they have their loves...

their lover's...

clandestine...

smile'd understandings...

without words...

no one wants...

to muck it up...

no one wants...

to hurt or harm...

another one...

destroy a house...

a spouse...

bring family down...

yet we hurt...

love is all...

we need...

are never sure...

if there's a place...

for something true...

for you and me...

in me and you...

or ever know...

somehow...

please...

show me...

if you yearn...

for this thing too...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Art: Cupid and Psyche, Louvre Museum Paris

Just Love Them

People I meet...

on the street...

in a store...

a gas station...

across the nation...

around the world...

I hear the same thing...

fed up...

giving up...

on one another...

letting down...

letting go...

just too hard...

can't do it anymore...

sullen faces...

dirty gazes...

rudeness rules...

like someone dropped...

the sand of hatred...

from the sky...

people rather die...

than try to...

give a little love...

give a little love a try...


anymore...

stop...

stop...

stop...

close those pretty eyes...

forgive...

forgive...

forgive...

open up that place...

where love once lived...

invite it back inside...

room to let...

and hold it's hand...

this time...

and kiss...

kiss it's sweet...

sweet face... 

you are the grace...

of your desire...

to set the world...

afire with love...

begins with us...

not our neighbor...

then go out...

mingle smile shine...

and be amazed...

the attraction...

that you are...

so loving...

and so beautiful...

and truly...

truly brave...

touch...

really touch...

someone gently...

show you care...

not falsely...

begin to heal...

the hurt of billions...

just love them...

love them...

like the little child...

you were...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Art: By Khalil Gibran

Amity

I just don't want...

to go mad...

to burn...

my bitter memory...

with gall...

and wash it away...

in a urine stream...

of alcohol...

I could...

oh I surely could...

but then...

to what end...

as countless poets...

have before...

that's not...

my favored door...

of  self pity...

I would rather love...

than grind...

glee than growl...

all the time...

I have, away...

with some skinny bones...

in a bed...

with no amity...

let me love...

let me yearn...

let me learn...

to not rebuke...

myself...

for offering...

and offer love again...

for I was born...

to love...

and only hate...

condemns the thing...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Art: Half Length Study of A Boy, by Henry Scott Tuke 1858-1929

Sorcerer

I walk away...

into the night...

to my left...

and slightly behind...

is my death...

we slip silently...

away and away...

across the starlit land...

this gentle guide...

my nagual...

my sorcery and I...

hand in hand...

out there...

in that world...

of sights unseen...

by ordinary men...

there is the old Yaqui...

Don Juan Matus...

is greeting me...

you ready son...

I nod...

believe I am...

then come...

he smiles...

we walk...

across Sonora's...

silent sand...

on our way home...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Dedicated to a dear friend...the kind you rarely meet...who will understand this thing...if not now...someday...

Art: Carlos Castaneda, by wenbergniklozan

Tinkering

You know...

what I don't get...

we spend billions...

trillions to get out there...

we dream...

we fly...

we die...

into the workings...

of the big clock...

in the sky...

we never get a note...

or clue...

that anybodies there...

so many suffering...

down here...

yet we forsake...

those worlds alive...

every sage...

guru...

and teacher screams...

is in you...

and all...

you have to do...

to go...

is close your eyes...

what is science...

really up to...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Image: credit to imgLOP

Sonoran Night

I guess you might call this 'feeling out loud'...it is what I sense and what is in my heart tonight...and I share it with  you...B.C.




A night so rare...

a night of talking wind...

of floral breeze...

from who knows where...

across the desert of Sonora...

straight to me...

my nose knows...

as my mothers nose knew...

ten thousand miles away...

a million years ago...

or more...

the moon...

a crescent quarter...

in the western darkness...

scudding sails of clouds...

across her luminary smile...

ground swirrels...

ground squirrels...

messengers of tiny stone dust...

leaves papers dancing...

to a tune perhaps...

Don Juan himself...

is quietly whistling...

smiling under stars...

the Yaqui sorcerer...

and I think...

upon a friend... 

god handed me...

so very far away...

and yet so near...

a friend I hope will stay...

for something's in the air...

and mystery...

and family...

a small green mantis...

near the back porch door...

prays so too...

for a rose that will survive...

two dogs all clean...

and washed today...

now dried...

from shaking on the rug...

and love...

sweet love I'm thinking of...

entirely...

Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Photo: Milky Way In Sonoran Desert, by Bob Wick

The Witches Consternation

Merlin oh Merlin...

all that age ago...

about the waters...

of Alt Clut...

the environs...

the vicinities...

you stood...

on those damp leaves...

among those oaks...

and those cold stones...

the bones of your ancestry...

president of seer's sough...

how you sent...

those witches there...

instead of Hell...

to presbytery...

to seek the kharist...

of cludee...

the esus...

the witches bent...

and writhed and scry'd...

before the council elder'd Ollav...

Ollam, Bard...

and gathered statesmen...

of all Dryw'dry...

who witnessed there of thee...

oh sacred drui seer...

this concatenation...

this event...

the chain...

of which...

would end old feuds...

forever...

making way the new...

and that...

this was foreseen...

and all the witches saw...

though few agreed...

for on that day...

a subtle war ensued...

and all...

the host of heaven...

look'd down...

hush't...

shy few of two millennia...

you stand anow thou...

father'd of a knock dew'r...

gaurdian of all...

the creatures...

of this great world...

with you nay...

not witches they...

their pow'rs align'd...

their spells malign...

against all men...

now Dryw'dry...

they hope to fail...

will coronate it's King...

and when the spirit...

of shee fay feel...

thy mantle ready...

sough'n begin...

then lay the twigs...

upon the ground...

of oG kam...

bring that was...

to life...

to be again...

raise cone...

thine naked feet...

stand still...

upon the stratagem...

cast down...

now Pray!...

as thou hath never...

prayed before...

thy wand remain...

unbroken...

or will disappear...

thou fanciful dominion...

poof!...

thy will be done...

Dear God...

as tis in heaven...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Art: Merlin the Wizard, artist presently unknown

The Winding Sheet

With deepest regard toward the great Navajo and Hopi and Tewa people, and all Native Americans everywhere, I humbly pray that you may forgive a stupid white boy's prayer for rain, and may The Great Spirit accept my straight words...




It was autumn of 83, very early autumn, and it was good to get out of Jerome.  Damn that place and it's damned ghosts and government secrets...had that old red Javelin running like a top...strangely...for 50 bucks, that's what you pay for a car with no pink slip and a whole bunch of trouble...but I wasn't asking...I was going...and all the ghosts of old Jerome, were going "good riddance kid, get the fuck gone!" Man, that suited me to a tee. 

I remember, I had my red on, red car, red hoodless parka, red running shoes...don't know why I was 'red man'...just was. I drove on down the old dirt road, kind of a gently rolling road, past picnic tables along the river...snuck up on one guy, I was going so fast, and so quietly, neither one of us realized the other was there...he just saw red...and I just saw him flogg'n it for all it was worth, naked on the table top. By the time he was grabbing at his shorts, I was clean outa there. Passed through Cottonwood and into Oak Creek Canyon and famous Sedona of the red fucking rocks, where you're welcome...if you're rich, and damned if you're not. I got into their pants plenty of times too, and they didn't like it neither. Another place with secrets, money secrets, white secrets...you could  smell it in the slick red rocks, and you could feel it coming from vibrations in the ground...goodbye Sedona...assholes.

Next stop...Flagstaff, Arizona, home to the San Francisco Peaks, sacred to the Navajo and Hopi people...more white guys...goodbye Flagstaff...assholes. I was heading due east into the darkness now and the v-8 under the hood kept a constant purr humming like a big kitty cat. Winslow, Arizona...home of the big meteor crater, a lot of dying drunk native Americans, my people, and not many white people...except me...Hi Winslow! I stopped for dinner and gas, danced with myself and drove on into the night and stars of the high desert.

I know that I got out somewhere there, way  up on the res (reservation) that's where the white government shitcans all the indians and all the indians shit can the white man cause, sure as shit they are 'off the grid', as is said, way out there, living like they always did, in hogans and round houses and isolated by miles and miles...identified to each other as 'the people by the red Ford rusting' or 'the goat people of the blue corral hogan', or 'the river bend people with two dogs humping'...I made a solemn prayer...to the Great Spirit, and in my youthful arrogance I prayed for something to help the native American people on the whole reservation...RAIN...fuck oh dear...

So, I slept some where, woke up, grit in my eyes, hand down my pants, stiff and sore, pun intended...oh god I do love mattresses and do so dislike sleeping under the steering wheel of a car. I lit up a cig, a non filtered Pall Mall or Camel brand, symbolic significance to camels that nobody but me probably gets...pursuit of the shekinah...and smoked deeply on that cool high desert morning...nothing flies in the sky on the res without elegance of spirit...and I watched for that elegance...It might have been Tuba city, deep in the western  edge of the res, that I stopped at next, having breakfast...nobody bothered...felt free...forgiven...driven toward a mystery...I split and my Javelin horse carried me...farther east, always east...Canyon de Chelley, there about mid day, parked up beside the canyon rim overlooking Spider Rock that stood needle tall, like a great sandstone dick of nature, and at its base, a kiva(house carved from living rock)ancient Anasazi, 'the enemy', yet, no one knows why...

I stood there...I stayed there, most of the day and prayed my silly prayer, my silly prayer, that would be answered in a most amazing way. By late afternoon, I had driven on...east, always  east, near the New Mexico border, perhaps beyond...one loses their self out there...sky and earth become one...borders evaporate into one and there, the sky, a brilliant blue and deepening, of late afternoon, a little lake, along the highway, a little lake I shall not name, just now, and too a tiny chapel, named, oddly 'Something of The Something Lake'...I knew I was home, at least for this time.

And there, to the lakes south end, around a sort of bend a roadside park...in which I parked...and began to gather firewood to start in a fire pit. Night came on, stars came up, like stage lights to God's own theater...I had rice and honey and fried trout in a fry pan, a sacred meal on a sacred night, and took my fill, and let the ambient flame cast shadows on the car...I rolled my sleeping bag atop the hood, still warm, from the day, and lay back...all well with the world...

I felt that first drop...then drops and stir of breeze, then wind, then furious activity surrounding me, all lights and klaxon horns and bells and colors flying round and round and in between and up the trees and rain and lash, pursuing me...I ran, with bag in hand and dived into the back seat of the Javelin...it rocked it rocked like baby in a cradle, tree top broken, rattled me and sang to sleep...by the playful manitou of Navajo land...I knew not...morning came...langurous, deliciously alive'ly wakened, ready for anything...I thought...I got out, walked about the park...clear morn, nothing to define some storm the night. No limb, no trashcan overturned, no frying pan, no pine cone or needles on the ground, as if, twas swept by some clean broom...hunger sent me on.

A trading post somewhere there along that borderland, south now, I traveled, in a great circle. The Javelin guttered some, a backward growl of pipes, whose timeing off, were still gentle...opened the door, stepped out, somewhat overshadowed, I gazed up, and there, the winding sheet of God, and for the first time...I was scared, in awe of some awesome power...stretched above me there...It was a cloud, I guess, all bruised in reds and dark blues and purples...and old yellow...it crackled...as I tiptoed to the trading post...there stood a tall stately Navajo woman, wearing jeans and Turquoise and silver..."gonna rain maybe" I said in a small voice..."I hope so" she uttered..."I don't think so" I said, under my breath..."Take care"...I left.

A quick and penitent run to the car...dove in, engine up, purrr. the first lightening strike...hit the hood...then more, and more and fiercest rain and lashing wind...let off the brake, began a roll, more lightning strikes, all red...get that...all red upon the Javelin's hood, and on I went...25 miles an hour...towing this monster ship of storm...from the sky above, like a great sand worm of Dune, only this of sky and cloud and rain...and rain and rain...it did so rain...I never ever saw it rain so...and hail, that all the cattle lowed, there beside the road and the standing water stood above the axle, yet we rolled, my horse and I.

An old indian man in an old pickup rolled ahead of me...he rolled and he was my little company, for 30 miles, or 50, or a hundred...I don't know...I prayed to God we wouldn't be incinerated. A bend ahead, a gentle turning, a fork, I took the right. he took the left, and towed that damn thing out of there..."Oh...God forgive", I cried..."Thank you", and watched it drift away, a mile wide, five miles long, that rung out rag of prayer, I should have never prayed.

They had the Grader's and Bulldozer's out in Kayenta...all the indian cities got rain, and all the little towns...buckets, brigades...deluges of the stuff...to answer one little man...and teach me a great lesson there...for there are still places, in this world where prayer...heart felt... is still answered...but be careful...what you pray for...

Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

A tale of my exuberant youth

Art: Ray Roberts Navajo Land-Loom Painting

Science

Science is not a religion...

and is not to be accepted...

on faith..

it is not to be accepted...

on erudition...

but on empirical evidence...

a lot of musty old men...

in line for tenure...

will not lend one whit new...

to science...

science should listen to poet's...

and quit puffing up itself...

science should follow children...

and leave off vanity...

it would be farther ahead...

to have accepted loss...

than to have denied error...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Art: Old Spell, by Inkt hinker (M.S)

True Love

Some...

love in such a way...

they know not how...

yet it  is...

and this can happen...

to anyone...

with anyone...

at any moment...

and we deny...

or avoid the issue...

and we go unloved...

love should not be covered...

for it is too beautiful...

to cover or disguise...

if you love...

be naked about it...

share it...

show it...

but be wise...

the judges disdain...

true love...

I love you...

Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Art: Young Man Nude Reclining by a Lake, by Ludwig Von Hoffman

Ten Thousand Weasels

Ten thousand weasels in the walls...performing stunts and somersaults...avoiding notice every night, yet leaving little tire tracks...in ever growing numbers...they come and chew...they come to spy...they leave these little racing stripes...as dogs will do on clean white carpets...

Who are these weasels in the walls...or hidden...in the ceiling space...who leave no clue or nom de plume...and never never never ever...leave a comment...I do not know, nor can I tell...they enter in...they come and go...perhaps they find my little poems...tastey...

I wonder...don't I... maybe not...one never know's...nor groan nor grunt...they sneak on little tippy toes...as silent as a mouse...perhaps they are...or maybe squirrel's searching...on the internet...to get my nuts...why worry of such doubts...

Ten thousand weasels in the walls...looking...lurking...peeking...breeding as they read my things...and like's appear...and shares appear...like stockings stuffed by Christmas elves, with Santa...in his polyester leotards...ten thousand weasels in the walls...to thee I bow...

Thank you little weasels...I left some cookies out...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Weasel, by British Mammals 1896

An Angel

The other angel spoke to this angel...angel...why art thou set on descent into this world...I love this world...said the angel...but, you  are loved of heaven...and pure, of an incorruptable spirit...if only thou wilt stay, as thou wert made...heavenly...

This world is fallen...and may not now be saved...excepting this...and what is that angel...it is that...that men have, that make them men...and what is that angel...a heart...but, what need have we for heart's...we are eternal...it is not what we are...that they need...it is what they are...that we need...

The angel gazed at this angel...you are foolish angel...yet so wise...why say you thus...we are a cool and distant race...feeling is denied to us...we go not down to dust...nor, tarry by the way...inviting fury...it is fury of the judge...that make them men...that give them heart...to overcome all things...

But, they are sad and short...and are we not sad...angel...have we not  the curse of life...forever bright...and conscious...just so, angel...it is that...that you have said...that briefness that is...so sought...that thing...that simple men still have...where love is so impossible...except for sacrifice...

Sacrifice of what...dear angel...sacrifice of self...and that is why you go...dear angel...down to die...to give your wings away...to feel such mortal sorrow...why, dear angel...why...to hold them...each and everyone...within my arms...to love them all...to know that love...that is impossible...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Art: An Angel, by Sir Edward Burne- Jones 1878

Petalwise

You are another moon shaped face...azurined sky...oh Petalwise...you have the wisdom of the knowing...there, embedded in your hidden eyes...I know your wings are weary now...that chrysal'n entombment spent...changing...you are a friend...but keep some things...a secret e'en from friend...

And I, enow...nor shall I pry...the privacy of butterfly...oh Petalwise...tis well enough...and trust will glean...the winged bond we share...and I will wait...on distant day...and you...will spread...the tale of flight you witnessed here...cerulean brother...

There is a world...another world..so secret...even angel dare not say...not here nor now...but lost so very far away...and there...where you might fly...should you desire...am I bound also...from this keep...where even prayer can never free...

You are another moon shaped face...azurined sky...dear Petalwise...you have the nature of the knowing...there, embedded in your open eyes...and I know...for I too hold a moon shaped face...and I too...entombed...had broken from that place...and flew...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Art: Forest of Dreams, by presently unknown artist

The Majesty

The majesty of mountains...is they're there...unlike friends who seldom are... if ever...friends would be majestic more often... if friends they were, I mean...and that is the axiom to which...mountains cling...that strong...that solid...that majestic...have you ever yearned for that...that kind of friend...

I have and do...and continue to pursue...such a diminishing phantasm...there to the east...at the vanishing point...always ahead, that great light...that is you...and though the road is long and I am weary...you are walking my way...and some day we will meet...it is kismet...and this journey is to be our debt...

From the days of cold...I come, drowned of ice...to have melted into tears...whose dominion...now...is heat, across such barren waste...nor would one spit...to quench the thirst, yet...watch my progress...as a jackal to the prey...that's just the way it is...and as another day goes down...I pray...a finish to this thing...at last...

It has been...a long road...a story to have taken every turn...it has been eloquent and sad and lonely, yet...a soul upon his journey...passed this way...as all should know...for they...alas...will trod this highway too...someday...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Art: Fallout New Vegas, artist presently unknown

Plotting and Twiddling

Spurious T. Plotting let the answering machine pick up this call too, and the one before that, and the one before that...the office light was dim, 25 watt; just like his brain at the moment.  Blue smoke, from a vapor inhaler, the neo cigarette, drifted and curled toward the ceiling. These vapor cigs sucked so bad...he hated them.

Things were definitely looking up for Spurious; that's if your chair had flopped over backward, or you were considering a blow for a guy that wouldn't give you a second thought, otherwise. He was hoping against knocks at the door; there was nothing left to repossess. It was all gone, but the rug and the phone...and the flickering lamp light...rrrrrrrrrrrrrring...oh shit! The phone grinned at him like a dildo with teeth..."hello?", he said; meekly and questionably.

"Is this Mr. Plotting, Mr. Spurious T. Plotting?" "Uh, yeah...".  "And you are a 'ghost' for hire, writer, I understand?" "Ghostwriter, yeah...I do that too?" "I have a story for you, well...for me, but of course...you would be the writer." "Then, you're talking, a commission, a job." "More than a job Mr. Spurious." "Plotting...Plotting!" "Oh, yes, of course...Mr. Plotting." "It would pay handsomely...someday." Plotting slammed down the phone; stareing at it like it was diseased.

He heard a scuffling noise at the door and saw an envelope being slid through the crack at the bottom. It hadn't occured to him to hear what else the guy had to say, on the phone. It was one of those stress test moments that always fly on the wings of the real American eagle, otherwise known as 'the bird'. He walked over to the package, as he watched a shadow pass by the other side of the door.

He picked it up...rather heavy, and it felt like...no, not a bomb...he didn't know anybody had that much interest in him. No, this felt like...oh my god! It was money, a shit wad of it. He finished tearing open the envelope, pouring the contents on the floor...It was new money in packets, thousands...had to be thousands...and a note..."Mr. Spurious...you should answer your phone more often...please meet me tonight at Gregory's Restaurant...8 sharp...I'll find you...T.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Idea for a rough draft of a project, requiring two writers

In Memory of Mary Lou

Along the rabbit trail...beneath the black spruce...Amanita muscaria...brown Morel...and red topped lichen...all...clung to the green mosses...like a faery's robe or a tall lord...of the Danaan shee...and the boy crawled...a fey boy...of slight and mystical temperament...of a need to be unseen...

He crawled there...knees wet...hands cool...eyes blue...hair as bright as white gold...deep into...this secret place...where he sat...himself among...a little grove of trees...and there...before his half believing gaze...a grave embedded...in the space...so real...in that late afternoon...

The boy knelt down...as if to pray...and reached to touch...cold grey marble...smooth as mother's arm...and clean as if...a new broom...had done the thing...no foot had trod...this sacred space...nor any mark...of man...save him...a fair fey child...of another ken...

his finger traced so lightly...long an epitaph that read..."In Memory of Mary Lou"...and there...upon that stone...upon that grave...of cool dark awe...he spied...a little Collie dog...in effigy...of porcelain...now...why...he never knew...but crawled away that eve...in twilight...of another sense...

The child never knew...nor to this day...the man...whatever grew that vision...and he tried and tried...again and once again...though...yet...that truth eluded him...and haunted all his days...for...in that forest...is a grave...as sure and beautiful...and kept...as any tomb...where ever any wept...yet...what it means...a myst'ry  unknown...forever...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Photo: of natural forest cross, credit not presently known

The Hammer

I read an article this morning, about a future 'space station/garage' with lots of robotics to do the jobs...I just had to write this..
_________________________________________________________________________________


My dad was a framer carpenter...an old fashioned man...and a real good man...who hustled to get jobs with just his hammer...he knew how to start at the base...with a square foundation...measure twice...cut once...he used to say...and he built a reputation...no shoddy work...if you build it wrong...you tear it down...and start over...

And then...came the nail gun...and dipshit's shooting themselves...through the hand...firing away at birds...and dogs...or nailing their dick's to a two by four...then some slick prick endowed...with too much money...came up with a plan...to build like an assembly line...it wasn't a new idea, just a new technology...the nail gun...6 gun of robotry...

Out there...in the deserts or hills...or reclaimed ocean sand...there started...this hum of a new industry...and about a dozen guys...with nail guns...could build 400 houses...in a year...they didn't need dad...or his hammer anymore...and the lines got longer...and men out of jobs...staggered the economy...now the houses sit...rotting away...too expensive to buy...

As the genius that thought that up...does some more darpa...craps out some more robotry...and husbands and wives sit home...twiddling...with nothing  to do...but lot's of fancy ass machines to suck away their soul...or any other dirt...or refuse...laying on the floor...no...there's nothing more to do...these days...a robot does  it for you...

So...what's the end of this...all this ease of life...turned uselessness...this cacophony of transformation...of humanity...all tatooed up...all spiked...all wearing death's head teeshirt's...and black...alway's alway's black...is something being said here...oh don't do that...the robot does it ten times faster...better...oh dad...where's that hammer...frown...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Credit: EPA Photo/EFE/Columbia Tristar/ Robert Zucker