The Remains of Alt Clut

There is no alternative to History, and they who write it, but 'the guess'...and that, as accurate as may be, is silent in avowal...as confessional. Merlin, The Mage...existed. He lived at a time when the Valley of Alt Clut, lay stretched in it's dominion...east to west across the wild of northern Scotland. The Kingdom was ruled, with an iron fist by one Rodderich Howl and his sons, from the promontory castle known as Alt Clut...seat of the Kingdom. Today, we know it as Dumbarton Rock, and Castle...situate in the upper Clyde River, and the Valley of Alt Clut, is now 'The Strathclyde'. This poem hints at days...long past, where Merlin ran against Rodderich, and payed the ultimate price. It hints, as well...at a recompense, justified of fate...that no bad thing can practice and prosper...forever.
There are numerous tales of Merlin. He was here...he was there...he was this...he was that...but of the truth, or for a fact...no one may ever know...so, here is my condensed version of a likelihood...as likely as the next. This poem is published, in advance of a future novel...that will reveal more.

Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016   Deming, New Mexico






Back in the forest...

yes, and rather glad to be...

just having now returned...

upon a quest, and glad are we,

as having...necessarily...to say,

apart from present company...

sadly...sore...a bit lame,

but none the less...

to wrest the chair of poetry,

from out the hand of he,

who would have snuffed the very candle...

from the alter of...the Orat'ry.

Here then...amid the trees,

In languor at ease,

in this true home.

A bit of rest is all one need...

what more, an hour...an age...

so, mote it be,

to whom, is thus...evermore.

Dear friend's explore...

the gore remains, of that foul suit...

that seat, Alt Clut...

just there...

in river head on yonder promontory.

Tell us what ye find,

that history may say...

tell it not, that we may deal with the lot,

in our own way...

it matter little for the telling...

as has always been,

for truth be skewered

of a three fold death...

again and.again and again...

and yet... we live...don't we.

We live...yet now, must rest...

go...find us what ye can.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016   Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: Geograph.org.uk, Dumbarton Rock: The Portcullis Arch

Ancestor

My councilor,

is wonderful...

yet...not so kind,

to tell me

what I wish to hear...

oh no,

my councilor tells me

what I need to hear,

and damned if I don't like it.

None the less...

he persists in his advise,

always the one,

with the other in him.

He delights in my discomfort...

he continues to demand.

He calls me into question of myself.

He is a constant guide...

a light...

a blight upon my being,

and my certainty...

testing every balance I have won.

He is the breath of my world,

as I am the dust...

he is the father of my mystery.

I bear no weight against his might,

and yet...

from time to time I turn him,

as his voice of many waits...

silenced for a time,

and I argue...for my kind.

He returns...

his answer blunt,

or...chastened,

and as if...he even cares...

he cautions me with love...

adjure's me...

not to worry so.

 Allowing me,

where other's wont...

forgiving me...

his fatherly appreciation...

knowing no bound.

He is quite piqued by honesty's inverse.

He will not suffer long...

that son, who puts him on.

So, we commune...

commit to meditate,

alike...as one...almost,

and he and I...

a father and a son,

a soldier and a ghost,

touch one another's souls...

somewhere

in convoluted space and time...

his Wizardness...

I wisdomless,

bear witness of him...

and...I guess...of me, he does the same.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016   Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: Unknown, Humboldt Redwoods

This Easter morning

The poorest people arose,

this Easter morning...

in their millions,

to believe and wonder

on the savior of the world.

They needed no prompts...

no perks...

no paltry flag waving...

parades of the faithful.

They are everywhere...

they are his...

they are hidden.

The media did not recognize them,

for they did not recognize him.

In the secret hearts of a true believer,

is a child, waiting...

on that impossible thing,

full of love...

unconditional.

Through the ages,

they have waited...

they will wait

for ages to come, if needs be.

These are the candles of the world...

the true lights.

They are part of the light

of he who has so many names...

Jesus,Emanuel, Esu, Hesus, Ichtheus, Nine...

The Carpenter.

 He is everywhere...in them,

in their collective love and belief.

He is not far off.

He is here now.

This Easter morning, he is watching...

he is watching the sun rise too,

and he believes in them,

and...he believes in you...

Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016  Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: Unknown, Sunrise

The Desert's Spring

Here, all these tiny flowers,

lit on limber stems,

sprung up from ground,

in blue of sky and blue of eye...

of pink and white of wedding gown...

that 'handed down'...cream,,,

of lavender, and purple sage,

and all...so spare,

no gaudy showing of their spring,

as home made as a farm girls bonnet,

or a cowboy's jean...

upon this dance hall floor

of wind blown sand,

this golden plumb,

of plain spun mean...

right here, where we were led...

to perfect little stars,

of fives, of fours, of threes...

so, almost overlooked...

come out to greet us

with their secret math,

of petals and their frugal ways...

thus, are we met...

by heaven...so profound.

Oh, now...

among these cactus bristled wastes...

where dreams have died for some,

our dreams are born,

as all the life gathered, watches...

waiting on our kind...

to see, our worthiness...or no...

will we forsake this land or,

dwell, and pray our thanks

 of this new home?


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico

Photo credit: Vladimir Dinets

The Dust Devil

Here, where we live...

you can shoot,

a bullet into the wind.

It will spit it right back at you.

For, the wind will come...

it will press us to the east,

bowing us down...

as if, in prayer to Zia,

the Zuni sun.

Who then, are we master of...

not even of ourselves,

for the potters wheel spins

and we are perfected of the dust devil.

The little flower's know...

the cactus...

clinging for it's life,

with rooted toe...

nor drop to wet the tongue,

nor spit...to spit upon the ground.

For all our words,

the desert simply say's...

"quiet child...quiet down".

We must give to that great wisdom,

that is Father...

in the swiftness

of his rushing forth.

We must low ourselves

toward the sand...

even though...

he has not said a word...

we know.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016  Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: Land & Sky, Dancing dust devil

Dear God

Dear God...

will you find me...

I am a poet,

buried beneath  mountains,

buried beneath heaps,

of trivia,

of  non-essential,

un-original,

crap.

Even though,

the heart tries,

 the mind conceives,

this beauty and this garbage

fall on me...

muting words...

killing  prayer,

drowning hope,

givings sent forth,

sorrows buried

silently somewhere...

beneath this mountain here...

God help me...

God...

are you there?

What wave come next,

 what burial of apocalypse...

to wash away the poets words...

to lay them in the everlasting muck...

of mediocrity...

to blend them into poverty,

as if they never were?

God, I am down here...

screaming in the waste,

of scavengers who want,

no poets anymore.

Will you come save me...

am I written in the book,

or is that buried too,

among the many, here...

forgot?


Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016

Photo Credit: Laura Watkinson, 10,000 ton stinking heap of garbage

The Newbee

Don't worry,

I wasn't born yesterday.

I am handed off to devil's...

and I watch them carefully.

I bait them, and I tease them...

and, they come to me...

as fishes do...

to fishermen...

against their will...

their better judgement...

they...

perambulate...

the only tricks they know...

around, around...

to slowly show...

they bare no interest, in me...

really?

Yet, perhaps...

a little bite,

before we go.

The wolf,

the rider, and the pack...

a deck so stacked,

that even loser's scent...

their odd impossibility.

Their pride against the fool,

to win by slight,

of any means...

to bind, too blind, to be aware...

their arrogance to danger there...

the snag...

of he who has his meat...

and they...

have nothing but the air.


Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016

Art: The Wolf Turned Shepherd, artist unknown

Lest We Forget

It isn't we

who save ourselves

from we...

it isn't I

who save myself from I...

we do not win

because we rank

among the great...

it isn't I

who opened me a door...

I cannot shout

unto the sky

to make it bow...

I am a child of god,

you see...

and he watches out for me...

I am only in this world,

because...

he suffer's me to be,

and when I pray...

and he has honored

what I say...

I bow low...

for I know...

he watches me...

he always watches me,

lest I forget...

who my true father be...


Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016
Deming, New Mexico

The Flying Honeypots of Death

Out of desert skies,

clear blue,

come cometary tails,

bright stones of hollow death,

on missions high,

as white as angels,

bearing salts of sand...

upon us drop...

these bombs,

from Satan's soup kitchen...

brews of curdled alchemy,

of every kind...

of heavy metals,

semen seed...

viral blood of demon kind,

atomic number 5...

as all hell,

hallowed,

by the government...

is sanctified...

and we are left to question...

why...

for god sake...

why,

yet every uniformed

protector

of our land deny,

those broad

and obvious

chemtrails in the sky...

the media ignore

as doctors play a spade,

and call it nothing more

than...valley fever.

Is this to be our score...

our song of epitaph,

as we succumb to dust,

that honey pots of devils deal us daily...

and nightly,

sowing every subtle

current in the air...

to measure when

the final sleep will come?

I think...yes.



Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016

Photo credit: currently unknown

Old Jealous God

Old Jealous God

Spent the whole day, off and on, trying to get on...finally got on. The wind and the wall of karma,where I am now, have no mercy...they blow and they blow you; and they hunt you down to blow you down, but friends will be made, and lover's will be had...and a handful of thanks for a mouthful of prayer...even when we hurt, we can love so many out there...we can give what we haven't got today, but were given so much, some other year and saved it away...in some hidden spot...that old devil knew not, and his spite couldn't stop, so, he mustered...to spit in our eye...for the little we got, but he couldn't take love away...cause, it was armored...better than he thought, in other ways, in other words, by needs among the many...and that's where I went, and that's where I was...sharing it out...sharing it out, to the hunger line, of that old jealous god who never give naught, but wind and dust and bite...for fair, that's all they got ...to comfort them out there. 

Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016

Deming, New Mexico

Returning Away

To tell you the truth...I love you, lot, more than you love me back, but you made me straight...walking from you...shaking the dust from my feet and the insults from my ears. My eyes are cast away, as though, they are not my own for the things I have seen...and even though, you fed me gall...I am not bitter...worse...I care for you all, though, you salt of the earth have lost your savor...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016

Deming, New Mexico

The Spirit Room

I witnessed the dead eyed ghosts

of old Jerome,

cue up their sticks

to send the eight ball home...

they'd play with themselves

on the green,

those cold and hungry ghosts...

"six ball, corner pocket"

"I heard that"

"six ball corner pocket"

"I heard that"

"six ball corner pok..."

"Hell, man...will you just get on?",

go the ghosts of old Jerome,

as they play with their balls...

till the Spirit Room shuts em down.

Then, they climb to their own

dead bed's above the bar.

Weekend's best,

when all the college cuties

come to town...

to get themselves

a fondle from the men around...

the rowdy bar,

alive once more,

the smoke and piss upon the floor...

as all the drunkards tanking up on more,

watch the moves of the smooth old dudes

at the Spirit Room bar.

The girls with their skin tight jeans,

the boots, the cowgirl buckles on...

climb off  of daddy's  horse,

to mount the old ghosts waiting...

at the Spirit Room bar.

Those dead black eye's,

with an ember inside...

deep down, and the girls go,

and they fall for an hour or so...

or, maybe till morning,

in love with a ghost,


from...the Spirit Room bar...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016

Photo Credit: Saija Echtorian Photography, Spirit Room, Jerome Arizona

Where A Man Find's Himself

I live just south of Deming, New Mexico on a little farm with a wife and two kids, two dogs, and a cat that no longer 'mouses'. It's a poor community of suffering refugees from the needles and nettles of life. If it doesn't sting or bite you here, it will poke you. You may dig your post hole here, or dig your grave, and the wind will come and fill the hole with tumbleweed...then, keep you alive to laugh at you with dust. I've never seen a bigger bunch of pricks...Cholla, Paddle cactus, mesquite...Embrace any living thing here at your risk...then, thank God you were chosen to take the risk, for there is something else among these prickly rows of Gods garden. There is a silence, loud as star shout...whispering...whispering...a beauty beyond description, in every stone and stillness. The mountains speak and give their secret shapes to you...the sigil's of their lost ways. Fata Morgana shimmers in the sunrise light of Luna County, as mountains shift and move to dances with enchantment of mirage. The children...ah, the children's loving faces here...the gap toothed smiles and waves of old farmers...the boots and latigo of living legend, where the ghosts of cowboys, long since passed, still walk along. I live here, and I love it here...although...I am just a 'newbee'.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016

Photo Credit: WBM Enterprises. Organ Mountains, New Mexico

The Foretelling

I know what is afoot

I know what is

beneath it all

I know what is about

so pray thee...

peace...

so...softly walk

I pray thee...walk...

as if there were

but air beneath thee...

care, and bow

and pray some more...

thy head...be worthy

as a call...I tell thee

has gone forth

few yet have heard...

far fewer still reply

for ears be deaf

while eyes stare blind...

split tongues

on fire spew forth

lies uttered that

should never

have been said

so...now that hearts

reek vacancy

while knell

the cannon blast of bells...

foretelling gloom...

peel forth...

wail...

your cry's may all be heard

the sum averted...

attire in black

in deference to knowledge

hasn't happened yet...

but will.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016

Photo Credit: David Wall, of Whitby Abbey (circa 1220) Britain

The Witch of St. Cloud

At the apse end of time

all things altered...

fitly framed to form the lie

the eastern gate...

where shadow wall

eclips'd the rising light...

it fell, and fell was it...

upon the ground

as slithering as any snake...

it mote not be

 for just a wink...

eternity's blink...

perhap the sun might die

but no...

that happened once

and now was not to be...

thus, scampering melting

fretted on its way...

as fast as it could.

Nice ploy...

the avoidance

pooling in it's place...

gasping once again

from the son's face

sinking in ignominy...

hopeless in the sand

cardinals of fear

and doubt

following... 

obscurity...

the pope itself

faltering...

it's wick cut down...

blown out

and that old ghost

were gone...

no more...

her hand of slight...

her pool of dark light

replaced by Glory

all her black dresses

ripp'd away...

her red crowns

rolling in the sand...

her secrets known

as every wart

she kept in hand

 hideously controll'd...

and all was out

for now

and evermore...

the witch is dead.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016

The Tether

I have begun to write again


 and it becomes me...

it rests my soul

and don't you know...

it distresses many?

Why, suppose, that be?

 For I have pulled

 my tether once again,

 and now...am free.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016

Photo Credit: Aerostat Blimp. Deming, New Mexico

Things

If things are all we are

 and all we have

 if space is all neglected

 from around

 the ground

 the sky cannot be found

within our head

if we have left the building

vacant of it's youth

no one to want

to live there anymore

while sainted sons

and daughters speak

as if we

were not there

our memories are packed

our boxes shipped

why need we stick around

why needs remain

at all anywhere

yet still

our meat remain

to cast a shadow

in the space

our last container

poised to journey home

our tether plucked

one final time

by God alone

and we are done

and simply not there

in that final frame

would that be better

as it were

I will not fill

this space again

nor cast a doubt

for now the world

is clean of me

and I of it

and even I

am not


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016
Photo credit: artist presently unknown