Just Knowing

When I talk, and they argue...the existentialist's, the scientist's, the religionist's...I realize, they are not listening to each other, nor are they talking to me. It is not a guided conversation, nor a civilized one. I realize, they are not convinced of their own conviction...thus, they argue to gain numbers, in agreement. I am not a number, and I am none of the above. Those of us with faith,,,with real faith, in 'something' are uniquely singular. We are pilgrims, who listen to the world, to the wind, to the silence of the sage, and in so doing...we receive our good news. We reckon, no church, built by man, to be as sacred as the out of doors, where the breath of god may pass, may be felt, upon the skin, heard in the eave's of a humble home. We listen to the voice of god with the attuned ears of nature, and we know, and we learn...from within and without, the structure of Divine plan. We thank our unknown god, with all our heart, and we rely, solely on his blessing...for our solace is separate and alone. Our neighbors are few...visitations few, and yet...we praise the many hours in our lives where we have known, and been known...by our maker, and this is my creed, where ever he may lead, on this miraculous adventure.


Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016   Deming, New Mexico

Art: gnosisandknowledge.wordpress.com, An Act of Gnosis

Belief Is Not Religion

It really isn't religion to believe. Children, know nothing of religion...and yet...they believe, with all their heart. They are not confined to the rigid structure of church, and word, and preacher. Children create...from nothing, and the something, they create, out of sticks and stones, and mud puddle mud...is not science, but magic only a child can see. Science cannot measure this, nor edify, by inches and grams...what just happened, in the goo of play...but it was fun, and it was good. They believe, and we? Why, we believe, in our

children. We wait upon them, and watch them, and worry for them, and...they show us things, and tell us things, that make us wonder. Science is dead and cold, and articulate. Science seeks our children...their unfathomable hope, and belief...are of interest to science. Our children are our breathing flesh...protect them, and wonder of them. There is more, than meets the eye...to belief.


Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016,   Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: boredpanda, Children around the world.

We Belong Together

It is thought,

in minds of men,

unwise to life or death...

that all is light,

or all is dark...

whose darkness quale's

in the lie...

whose light is ever light,

forever bright...

no, never mind,

that light and dark,

concernedly combine,

whose wings enfold...

co-equal...angels.

He and she,

with graceful symmetry,

design'd,

as gifted skater's,

bracing one another up.

I say, we are angels...

to these forces, were we born,

and if our balance is contempt to thee,

then see,

as thou would'st see,

dividing us in twain,

instead of one.

We are the daylight

and the darkness...

yet, we have not known,

for we are blinded in our sight,

that ego's eye,

may live apart.

We must endure

the stillness of our flight,

forgiving that,

we really are...

a lantern in the night...

supremely formed,

to sail again...

as birds of heaven.

So, go...dear angels.

Go, as  god said, in a book...

nobody read...really.

Remember who you are.

Remember, how we watched.

These eggs now hatch...

these children in their wars,

their birthing dreams,

that will not realize.

Yet, peace will be,

that many in their death

might slumber,

to awaken at the tone,

of yet, another dream,

as if...none of it had been,

It will be done...

behest of God, the Father.


Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016,   Deming, New Mexico

Photo: Credit to Pinterest.com, Yin Yang

To Silent, Howling

Oh...I heard them

'howling' tonight.

Can't you hear them,

'the children of the darkness'?

Listen to them howl...

ripping...

shredding forgiveness,

stomping the grapes of mercy...

in spite of all good sense...

tearing and burning

the flags of sensitivity...

can you hear them?

listen to them rage,

not as humans,

but as animals...

seeking whom,

they may devour.

It was all written

a fore time,

in the pages of the god,

whose 'word' were forsaken,

and whose love...

were cast down.

It were not a privy thing...

for every eye hath seen,

and every heart hath known,

the evil from the good,

 

and now ye shall be judged...

for ye hath judged thyself,

and may eternity rest ye

from the light,

my dear unruly children

of the night,

and may ye sleep

in dreams

that will not harm,

'mong killer's

that are of thy kind...

sweet dreams my young...

sweet dreams,

forever more,

and on.

Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016,   Deming, New Mexico

Art: Werewolf, by Rick Baker

Pistachio

Shriek! Stop! Shall we try love again, as it was meant to be...from the beginning? Well, you've got to see some things, if it's going to be...you've got to see, 'forever' isn't messing around, or 'hanging' downtown, at some bar, doing this weekly, this one night thing, or sitting at home with a spouse...wishing you were. Forever is forever, man...can you dig? You really want to buy the farm, or just fondle the eggs? Which is it...takes a lot of work, to mate...or date, or masturbate, might be much better, than to settle down,,,we're none of us alike...the times, they've changed...they didn't wait for us...they didn't ask, 'which side we're on'.  Perchance, we've changed...I know I have. Not Gay, just kind of  curious, I guess...to sweet sad 'dangling participle's'. I want to know there's love. I want to know...there's more than loneliness, to know my love wont 'shiv' me with her only ness, if I try to reach out...to others, because that's love, and trust is trusted too and through, with one or more, or millions that you really trust, or say you love and do...they just wont all fit in the shower with you...maybe waterfalls would be better, or gardens with warm rain fall, where clothes are just...no more, no more divides, no more to hide no more to own to ourselves, like some greedy little nut case with her secret stash of Pistachio ice cream...No! I wont share...I wont! It's mine...my precious Pistachio. But first, we have to talk...we have to try, we have to really want to love, not just to own our part...we have to share, and that's a really big stumbling block here...really really big...it's a really big show we've got for you tonight...can we talk?


Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016,   Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: Avocadosfrommexico.com

Drop Dead

Women want 'sincere', forever, helpers, winners, stayers...they yelp about it...they howl, they disembowel, emasculate, intimidate. Women are lier's.. They don't know what they want...they want what they want...they'll take it rare, and now! And, men accomodate. I think it's all ridiculous...activity of a sub-species...lieing, and whining, and preening, while buying...they'll promise you anything, and you know damn well how to play the game...you play it, and slay it, and say...it was someone else's thing...all a simple misunderstanding. And then, as if to jest, you dress the pig, in a snow white gown, with lipstick on,,,and scream, if the groom goes west...oops, there went the best man...you are so pissed! Look at what you spent on your giant ego dream, but you scheme, you schemer's scheme, like race car drivers, in your sleek machine always trying to surpass some other dame. So, say what you want, about stayers and leavers, tomorrow you will be where the movers and shaker's are doing their thing, and while you press the flesh of some 'sugar daddy', you'll be humping the leg of  a handsome bad boy, but you don't really need him anyway. And so it goes around and round...you got the gold...he got the shaft, you be complaining, while shaking your ass, how a guy never stays, but he comes and flees, while you're all about 'genteel', wearing the cheese...for the camera's...please. Don't sell me that shit again. I don't want to be your honey do...drop dead.


Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016,   Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: Playbuzz.com, Stepford Wives

The Odd Little Nook

I could never 'smarm' my way into a woman's love nest, by daring to purchase a piece of her, with an alcoholic liquid. What could she expect? What could I expect? How can a lover begin this way? Is this love? What can one bring to the table, besides sausage? It doesn't seem fair. It doesn't seem adequate, to the driving force of love. What one can offer, out of a cocktail glass, is not an aperitife, and hors d'oeuvries are bigger than what's offered over a bar...aren't they? It's such a cold and calculated plan, on both sides of such reciprocation. No. I could not go through with it, and this created deeper loneliness, and deeper drunkenness. Taverns. What does one expect at a tavern? I came to expect the bar to turn on end, near midnight, as all the ass holes slide toward me. The ugliest girl in the bar becomes 'possible', but not beautiful, and my intentions are not pure. I hate myself, and love my hand better. I cannot offer this falsehood to another human. I will take it outside. People go to bars, and to taverns, I cannot. They are the loneliest places on Earth. They are hopeless, smell of urine, and vomit, and worse...of cheap perfume. It is a place where agony meets audacity, to have sex on a table. It might as well be a butcher shop. I sit on a park bench, under a tree...at an overlook, at the moon, and I wish, and yearn, but I am not feeling that 'cold sweat' feeling of fear and guilt. Now, I am just lonely, and within that crystal...clear...bell of alone ness, I often talk to god. I may not be the worlds greatest or most endowed lover, but when, I love...it is fully and without reserve, for a moment or forever. My kind are not found in bars, not that we are better than. The bulges in my pockets are feelings, not flesh...although, I would, the feelings of another's, yearn,,,so greatly to the flesh, it ends up there. In the hangover, the aftermath, the mess of the 'love hunt, I often hear people speak as if, no matter what they try...for love's sake...for fuck's sake, it just doesn't meet the mark, and why did they try? I say, I may be an idealist of love, and so may we...all we park bench sitters...lonely as the moon, we talk to our gods, or our fates or muses and we wait, and quietly cry our tears, but we love anyway...we love in our way. We find our loves in books...in paintings...in places...odd little nooks, nobody thought to look, and we hope, and we wait, and we pray...

Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016,   Deming, New Mexico

Art: Credit to dafenoilpaintings.com, artist unknown

If You Try

A smile is a joy to behold...it uplifts the suffering. If you weary of being nice, and you neither, care...then quit. The suffering will continue to suffer. It is not on you to heal the world, but it helps...if you try.

Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016   Deming, New Mexico

Art: Mona Lisa, by Leonardo Da Vinci

The Latin's

I finished the manuscript for a novel today...months in the making...a novel about time and space and romance...about gypsies, and grail's and angels...about injustice, and justified retribution...about love and magic and difference, and...about grace, and redemption. There are issues in everyone's life...issues that made them what they are...that bring them to where they are...in life. We are what we see and dream,,,what we experience first hand. We are what we are, and what was done to us. We are fully a mystery, as deep as any well, and as strange as any revealed truth. In my life are things, I cannot begin to reveal as 'true'. thus...I would prefer to initiate my reader's into the 'possibilities' we all are, and we know we are...from the tree of our ancestry, to the genome of our DNA sequences. We are unique...we are strange. 'Peculiar' would not be too fine a point, to put on what we are. Really, no one knows us, but ourselves.

This is my first novel. I hope you will read it, when it is published. I am currently seeking a publisher, probably in the science fantasy or supernatural fantasy genre's. See if you can deduce my experience, through the character's in my novel. We are what we eat...we are what we write...is this not so? 'There is more to the telling, than meets the eye'...it is said. If one can ever believe, in anything...perhaps, start with...'nothing but the truth'. No telling what you may turn over.  Happy hunting.

The working title for the manuscript is 'The Latins'. It is currently fixed at 50,000 words. I will attempt to condense the basic idea of my tale into a short synopsis, or outline, and publish this either at my blog for poetry, or on Google plus, for your enjoyment. I will not publish on Amazon, nor self publish, in an anthology. I am not really that greatly interested in publishing 'a selfie'.

'The Latins', does not refer to a general race of people, but rather, to an ancient family...bearing that name.

Any resemblance to people, living...is strictly coincidental.

Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016   Deming, New Mexico

The Funny Farm

It rained last night...a gusher, here in the desert...cloudburst's 'packin', as they say...wind, frigid temps and rain...what a desert prays for. It's the only thing that will 

even make a cactus come out of itself. Got the kids up, 5:30 AM, 6:30 AM Daylight Saving Time...I don't know who it saves, and neither does any one else.


 Breakfast, scrambled with spam on tortilla, this morning...just for a change...maybe go back to 'spam on scrambled tomorrow, you know...scramble the words for a little breakfast delight. The kids don't care. They look like a couple little zombies at the table anyway. They stay up too late. It's not, as if, we haven't told them a thousand times..."Go to bed...you got school tomorrow". It's especially problematical on Monday's..."Get The F**k UP!" We hear a couple of 'thumps' from the bedroom area, signifying...dad's last resort 'crudeness' still works it's charm, and the farm day begins for us.

 Thank God we don't have heavier animals...yet! We are new to farming. It's what we always wanted. Now we got it. Shit! Who invented alarm clocks? WHO invented roosters, the teenage ones, most notoriously...who still have to clear their throat, to find their cock..er, voice...you understand? If you are a farmer...I bet you do. We got it easy. Dairy farmers are up at 3 A.M. What they are doing with a cow in a barn at 3 A.M., I have no idea, but...'cowpoke' comes to mind.

 I check everybody...counting chickens, rabbits, ducks...all fur and feather accounted for...suns still not up. Dogs pee'd, pooped and 'treated'. They loves their treats...they love's to sniff the birds...oh, if they could just get in there to the farm version of 'meals on wheels'. I call them in...I start the truck, warm it up...cook breakfast, say 'grace'...count the clock...their mother is getting them into 'matching socks...teeth washed, showers...when needed, usually needed...and off we go, for the school bus stop.

 Five minutes, and they're on the bus, and a hearty hi oh Silver...away! The sun is just crack'n the 'gunsight' feature on Florida Mountain. I drive back to the farm, wife meets me with the mail I forgot to mail...I return to mail it.

 Ten minutes later, I am in the livestock enclosure. I look in on the Ducks...here is 'Wattle' on his back, tail aimed at the sun, you know...doing his 'morning worship'...I didn't know ducks did that. He's still doing it, when I reach in the cage to check the water. I think there's something, the matter. I lift 'wattle' over...he has a shit hemorrhage...almost. He was just obeying his morning constitutional...until I effed it up. Live and learn.

 I open the doors on the cages...ducks, chickens...everybody out! The 'pecking order'  begins...chickens in ducks faces, ducks in chickens faces...swiping each others food and water...understandings ironed out..."Just share" I urge..."Be Buddhist's", I reiterate..."Peace!" All little black eyes look up at me...the ducks hit the pond...in 10 seconds, it's a shithole...reminding me of many California beaches, or house parties, after the snacks are gone.

Took all the wet tarps off the cages...sun now well up...everybody happy...I come in, write this, with a cup of hot coffee...happy...ahhh, and this is our little 'funny farm', just an hour in the life of it.

Buddha's Peace to you.


Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016   Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: Bruce Clyde, Buddha's Peace

Buddha's Peace

Prayer flags flutter round the garden space, of 'Buddha's Peace', this sacred place...our chosen name, was given to. Our chickens cluck...our funny duck's...'Stanley' struts, while 'Wattle' watches every thing we do. Our pleasant farm is hatching out in springtime charm. Cluck cluck cluck...puck puck puck...quack quack quack..such healing power, in all the blessed lives we've gathered here, a larger family now...than once we were, and happier by far...ten bunnies born, this dawn...to one of three, and more to come...all hairless, pink...in blind and tiny rapture...squealing for their mother's milk...bedded in their mothers silken fur. I hope they live...I pray that love will kindly tend to them, as garden gates are built, and all is strung with chicken wire. The raptor's soar, the buzzard's wait...a tasty meal, beyond the gate...the rattler slither's in the sand...ratt'lin, as he always has...as 'Buddha's Peace', made more secure, invites the desert in...to us.

Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016   Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: Ubi Soft Forums, Prayer Flags

One Night In The Barrel

Batten down the hatches,

Bonney Dick.

There's gonna be a howl.

Aye, Gnarly Farley...

oi be the eye,

what fore saw...

with but one eye, mind ye.

As far off as as ye saw, Bonney Dick...

what'd ye see?

Oh, Gnarly Farley...

sure's ye want to know...

would ye want to know...

fer really?

Aye, I would

truly want to know...

me own, Bonney Dick.

Then climb's ye in the barrel with me...

this very night, Gnarly Farley...

for bones be in,

and arrrgh...

for gargl'n the grog, a'bed...

the Captain sold us to the crew,

to shag us in 'the head'.

 Aye?

 Arrrgh!

Really?

Ye can peer about

through this here hole.

Some feller's finger's in the hole!

That ain't no finger, Gnarly Farley...

batten down, and blow...


Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016   Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: pre-code.com, Captain Applejack...the horny pirate 1931

I Will Take Flowers

You must know the ways of flowers,

to recognize their kind.

Like people, they are mysterious and varied.

Unlike people...they reveal themselves.

There are the Blazing stars here,

they only come out in the afternoon.

I'm not sure he or she will ever come out.

There are the tiny ground hugging kind

with myriad red tipped petals...

could pass for clover blossom,

 yet...they are not.

 They bunch up like bundlers

 from a tv ad,

 and may only be found...

tightly clustered

at the side of our house

in a four inch space...and no other.

The blue stars...

close by one another but not mated...

individual in their sameness...

lovely in their candor.

There are the ones I call 'old fashioned',

pretty in an early American sense...

a hundred white petaled midgets on each stem,

communal, the color of homemade vanilla ice cream.

These are some of the surprises in our yard.

Of people, I know little, if anything.

They deceive...they lie...

they pretend to be what they are not.

 I cannot define them,

 because I can never know the real them...

animals...

people are not animals...

people are god's

who ornately fabricate

to hide themselves...

who never come out

from behind what they truly are.

I will take flowers over god's any day.

I will take animals...

whose serious and funny

and childlike faces contain depths,

unlike that I have ever found in god's...

I will take flowers.


Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016...Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: Unknown, Desert wildflowers

The Muses

You goad me to my words...

the broken poet...

you...ye...yeah...

don't turn round to see

whom I am speaking too...

ye muses, all...

all of you conduct my spirit

to its light or darkness...

I press each word and fold it...

so tightly,

in this heart of thorns,

as you laugh...

so wildly...

abandoned of any care on earth...

the countless little hurts,

you have collected,

as the produce of your work...

here...

on this petting zoo of traps,

where you, our master's,

put on all your acts...

to wallow in our pain...

to suffer us, our shame...

for your entertainment...

one day it rains...

next day it shines,

we are bored...

let us have a day...so torn,

of their misery...

we can feel again...

we god's...

we...created them...

why not, pull their chains?


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016  Deming, New Mexico

Art: Apollo and The Muses, by John Singer Sargent

Catastrophic Darkness

What shall we drink

in the dark of the dry sand,

 in our burned out world?

How shall we count

the collateral numbers,

of the dead...

after the arguments cease?

Who shall we impress,

by our piercings,

our body desecration's...

who will clean up our remains,

in the stinging smoke...

at the end of days?

Does it really matter...

this conjecture...

that we live,

that we are mad...

that we will end?

Is there any recourse,

but to press along...

to spit our broken teeth

upon the land...

to stumble round the limbs

detached upon the ground?

For, this is war...

the pretty sight

you worshipped and adored...

in every home...

in every married bed,

in every contention and revenge...

you shouted

that you wanted it to end...

well, now it has.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016 Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: Phys.org, Catastrophic Darkness