No more smiles, like I'm in church...my god, I gave that up, I thought...the phoney friends, the chairs, the air's...closest to the idols...the pressures of reply, when all you want to do, is choke...in quiet. Look where you are...midst of pride, of posers primping, selfies limping...pissing golden trickling's...shitting on the good.
Cities of them...pumping preening, bent to task, of taking down, our only world with them. Steroid bodied, tatted freaks, with defecated maps, revealing something something, scribbled on a line...'this soul consigned'...ink out.
All hail, faux fellows...hardly met, whose palms are full of false and frigid shake. 'Perhapth you'd like to thweat...we know a thauna.' Oh, for Christ's sake, old snake...I do not embrace, nor lick nor lay, to suck, like some egregious Adam...in an alley way. Let me leave the fallen fame...of this lie, for a better.
As, if all is gone, and nothing left, nor ever right...the least of thing's...I do not wish to go this way... without a sunrise of the sun, an evening, graced of moon, nor soft light lamp't, to show the way...nor Jasmine flower and Honeysuckle's grace, to save a bit of what, was taken. Pray thee good...of all that's bad, in my alonely way.
Twins, there are, that suckle sunshines warmth...bloom full, in luna's glow, and no one ever know...angel's trumpet, called, and devil's Flower. One, it save...the other kill, and as those, would contend, should know...they share one bed, appearing...nearly same. So, in this hour of shame and subterfuge, one infant...taken and replaced. The other, wish, but have no truth. No matter what one do...will out, save...simply let it play.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: anniesannuals.com, Datura
...this battleground of trees, whose majesty of limbs are twigs of poetry...the first word found...
Tuesday, May 31, 2016
Virgil's Tomb
You are all, Muses. You inspire me to write. You simply, reek of indifference, and self interest.You fire me off. I would miss that. If I could count the crosses, I've seen poets...here, hanging off...I'd count one. Most are doing well. It's fine up here...no complaint...view's to die for. Oh...Virgil sends his love.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Art:Virgil's Tomb, by Joseph Wright
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Art:Virgil's Tomb, by Joseph Wright
In The World
My lovely Rottweiler girl, knows, implicitly...when I ask her, where her 'guilty bone'...is. She makes faces...puts her face on the floor...her butt in the air...take me, she says...I'm guilty, I'm sure...but she's not...of anything. She has no money, to hide, to show, to yacht, to sip rich wines...to snog with god's, pretend...divine. She's just a little love...all the time, and she does more, with just a heart, than all the money, in the world...could buy.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: goboatingthailand.com
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: goboatingthailand.com
Some Dreams
I live not, my dream. Sometimes, I think...you are. I know you, as I know each day...each hour. You are no surprise, and that's what aggravates...that prescience of everything, yet you deny...as if...you weren't mine. You tend, to play, as if you care...yet, you haven't...one. In all your nights, with all your loves...you simply, do not complicate yourselves...with such...tedious things.
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: keridoolittlephotography.com
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: keridoolittlephotography.com
Monday, May 30, 2016
The Banshee
The Banshee, cry wretchedly...of justice. Their clogg-ed streams, of moss and peet...hold tears, that can never be counted. There is nay one, here...knows, their wailing is upon the moor...for something lost. The clean air...children born, untouched by harm...what moon and star cast down, can nay be cleaned, for never were, and is the end of us...here. If you know well, of which I speak...then ye be one, who should na tread upon the moor...the Banshee, fain...to drag ye wee sad balls to hell, for what ye done...
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Art: paranormal-news.ru, Banshee
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Art: paranormal-news.ru, Banshee
The Question
I am, well acquainted, with aloneness...the uniqueness, in a forest...where one never goes...the trans verbal silence, where hush is spirit...where springs, are fed to a poet. I walk beside the world...it is yours. It's windows, barred. Its doors, closed. Locked...tightly, from the inside. What you fear...is, God would visit? Prayer...a sacrament of mumbles...no one hears...stones stacked, toward the day...you would cast...at heaven? Your eyes upon the gods...your thieves in the house? All about you now, are groves...a path to every dream. I never see you, in them. What is this...this judgement, you have brought upon yourselves?
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: savetheredwoods.org, photo by Dave Baselt
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: savetheredwoods.org, photo by Dave Baselt
The Red Berries
Fear nothing, not the berries that are red...the lips are ripe, your own impulse...to wrong. That is...love longs...love comes...be there, when it does.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Art: Pierre Auguste Cot, Springtime
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Art: Pierre Auguste Cot, Springtime
Chi Of Quiet
If you fear, the violence of others...stop, your ears...then, watch everything they do...it is 'the voice', not the action, for, in retrospection...it was all, so slow...farewell.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: pinterest.com, Tai Chi Master
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: pinterest.com, Tai Chi Master
The Magician
Have you ever farted in a grocery isle...you fade back back back...you vanish, as if you were never there...presto!
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: hijinx.tv, Brooklyn Magicians
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: hijinx.tv, Brooklyn Magicians
How Resonant
Silent stinkers, are the worst...speak up and be heard.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016
Photo Credit: drgreene.com, Constipation
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016
Photo Credit: drgreene.com, Constipation
Knitting
I love to watch, little old ladies knitting...with a smile on their face. My mother said, they did that during the French Revolution...at the executions. I believe, she might have been there...
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Art: vam.ac.uk, A group of people knitting...museum no. 507.C.37.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Art: vam.ac.uk, A group of people knitting...museum no. 507.C.37.
Fear Of Flying
I, in trance...it is a blather'd trip. I hold my nut's, inslipid sips, from fear of flying on...as crazy world spins by.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: carpoolgoddess, fear of flying
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: carpoolgoddess, fear of flying
Evil Eye
If your eyes, alone...have slayed millions...tell not, another...to hold, their tongue, for which is worse...a mouth speaking truth, or an eye speaking evil?
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit:dhgate.com
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit:dhgate.com
High C
Those who must hide in the harbor of 'political correctness'...fart like a teakettle...high and thin.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming New Mexico
Photo Credit: pewresearch.org
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming New Mexico
Photo Credit: pewresearch.org
Sunday, May 29, 2016
Pinkly
We are paralyzed, in the eyes of beauty...we cannot find our tongue...we control not, our camouflage...we are helpless lizards, blushing...pinkly.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Too Much
We simply, talk too much, to love...we dare not, but we should...we should dance, a larger circle than we do...we would be happier...
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
The Fairy Frog
Spoken, in the voice of a guy named Hymie...for an, imagined, animation clip.
if I, were a fairy frog...and you, were a prince...I'd sit on my log, and croak...Id pine that you'd never be mine...because, well...you'd be the wrong gender, and I'd be...one confused ...............................? :-)
Did somebody get the wrong fairy tale? Would somebody get the right fairy tale?
Now...where were we? Oh. Yes... If you, were a fairy princess...and I, were a fairy frog...and, you came along, and kissed me...there, upon my log...............................? Ernie! What the hell is this? Is this straight?
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Art: pinterest.com, Frog Prince Illustration
if I, were a fairy frog...and you, were a prince...I'd sit on my log, and croak...Id pine that you'd never be mine...because, well...you'd be the wrong gender, and I'd be...one confused ...............................? :-)
Did somebody get the wrong fairy tale? Would somebody get the right fairy tale?
Now...where were we? Oh. Yes... If you, were a fairy princess...and I, were a fairy frog...and, you came along, and kissed me...there, upon my log...............................? Ernie! What the hell is this? Is this straight?
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Art: pinterest.com, Frog Prince Illustration
What Times Men Choose
The wise say, to speak , after the manner of the times...I will speak, after the manner, of ancient times...when men were civilized.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Art: Ancient Greece, artist currently unknown
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Art: Ancient Greece, artist currently unknown
Time Before Time To Be
Come. Walk with me...if you will...I have a little way to go. Oh, I don't know...several lifetimes, I guess. I know you. Esu. Yes. I've seen you before...
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: greg.org, The Making Of
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: greg.org, The Making Of
The Devotee
Sitting, in a park...a woman came to me...she said, "See him? He is in bliss." I said, "I, too...can sit upon a bench, eyes closed...smile upon my lips...if you need a fool...for, truth...requires no posturing."
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Art: what-buddha-said.net, blue flower buddha
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Art: what-buddha-said.net, blue flower buddha
Friday, May 27, 2016
The Gypsy's
The wagons, that I dream...will roll...the weed, I would, will wreath, as well...about the evening vision. Boys, with girls and boys, will whirl and dance...about the circle of the safety lanterns, as the world spin by, in ever faster wind's...of 'camera obscura'. Old men slap their hands as women reel, and weave their dances...to the rythms of a gypsy joy.
Tamborine, and bohdran, pound and jingle, bound to beat...of horses, tethered to their 'pasture round...Clydedale, Shire, Percheron...thundering, in braces, two by two...pull wagons laden...with the fruit, of a peculiar people.
From camp to camp we roam...harming none...minding our business...a road that's never done, a people with a dream of millions...simply going on, from freedom to freedom.
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Art: By Sir Alfred Munnings,Gypsy Caravan at Ringland Hills
Tamborine, and bohdran, pound and jingle, bound to beat...of horses, tethered to their 'pasture round...Clydedale, Shire, Percheron...thundering, in braces, two by two...pull wagons laden...with the fruit, of a peculiar people.
From camp to camp we roam...harming none...minding our business...a road that's never done, a people with a dream of millions...simply going on, from freedom to freedom.
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Art: By Sir Alfred Munnings,Gypsy Caravan at Ringland Hills
The Song Bird
Money comes to money, debt to debt, dreams to dreamers, that you've not imagined yet...love to lovers...queens to kings...knights to knighthoods, quire boys, to bishop pricks...seek not to cross the barriers, to gain. It might not be, as you have held...it ought. Hold your hearts intent, toward the world...as if it were, a treasure, for a bird...a seed of all you are within, that it may take...and taste, and if it like...may come again, to alight with you...and sing.
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: totonto.wbu.com, Canada Jay
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: totonto.wbu.com, Canada Jay
The Wise Man
Can we talk? Must I sound like , a wise man...to be one? Must I couch every truth, in the veil of 'political correction'...so, turn it to a lie? Is this what I must do...to salvage you? I will...no, I wont.
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: wiseman, by stopppitwiseman
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: wiseman, by stopppitwiseman
Thursday, May 26, 2016
The Nighthawk
This evening, running the dogs at dusk...a burst of brown...ground level...tight turns, rapier tipped wings...white striped wing bars, of some strange heavenly country...common nighthawk...dogs exploded, in a gruff...the chase was on...division in the ranks...which way to go...damn bird was everywhere...dogs panting...gave up, in a drool...eyes slightly wild, and happy..."Come on boy...come on girl. Let's go in and get a goody...old bird, beat you fair."
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: Jerry Oldenettel, Common Nighthawk
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: Jerry Oldenettel, Common Nighthawk
Beep Beep
Another couple of entries arrived, today...in black...arrayed with rusted wings, and missiles...from the 'Sagebrush Surprise', that is New Mexico. These are, evasively dubbed, 'Tarantula Hawks'...but they are wasps. They are big...they are black...they are here, and they look 'military'. I pay them, the greatest respect. They are the State insect. They should be the State bird. They are said to carry the second, most painful sting...in the world, but are non-lethal, and tolerant...unless threatened. The pair, came to water, at my livestock water station. They decidedly enjoyed, the Buddhist atmosphere. I shivered, on a hot day. They payed me no attention...dobbing in the mud, their seven millimeter stinger sheathed...I step, wisely round. The only thing, will eat them, is the State bird...Roadrunner...no harm. This could only mean one thing. Tarantula's are coming. Ode to joy.
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: flickr.com, Tarantula Hawk Wasp
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: flickr.com, Tarantula Hawk Wasp
The Rye Field
When, your quaint and ancient dwellings, overturned...your wry, condemned, lies mildewed in the field...inflame your torch, and burn the blasted thing...rather than yield.
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Art: Wheat Field With Cypresses, 1889, Vincent Van Gogh
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Art: Wheat Field With Cypresses, 1889, Vincent Van Gogh
To Tend Another
Give your truth, for it is salve, to remedy ailment...and bitter. Give nothing, beneath truth...for, it is worthless and will not heal...but fester. Love is not popular, but difficult...if real. It is the ministering, of all herbs...of wisdom., with great care, to tend another.
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: gardeningknowhow.com, herb garden
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: gardeningknowhow.com, herb garden
Kneading Bread
People are like bread, I have found...you must pound them, or they will not rise. Bake them...hold them gently...smell their goodness, but first...pound them.
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: delallo.com
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: delallo.com
The Mirror
Mirrors are always noisy, taking you in confidence...to say, 'you're not a spring chick anymore', and it hurts...I'll comb my hair the other way...oh, that's no good, and you go away with a little less confidence, a little less certainty.Mirrors are not our friends...unless, of course, you wish the pain of honesty...for mirrors seldom lie. If you value wisdom over vanity...what you will see, of your reflection, is the changing of a year...from green to grey, to barren..waiting waiting waiting, for that new you, and you lay there...moldering of lovers...sleeping in the box with you, dreaming...dreaming and forgetting. The box anew...bowed, bright, child of the morning...returning from somewhere, a happy loving parent...greeting you...needing you. Green of spring...hope everywhere, a child crawls across the floor, to touch that shiny thing...'there's someone funny, in the mirror, mommy'. 'That's you, honey'. Life giggles, and goes on...
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: richardwiseman.wordpress.com
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: richardwiseman.wordpress.com
Wednesday, May 25, 2016
Hearts Are Wiser
The times bring forth, the people who are needed. I have met many good people here, as much as I froth and rage...poets, artists, travelers...and wise men and women. Some of you save your words...your opinions. Some of you can't keep your powder dry. In truth...it takes all kinds of people to create, the mosaic...that is mankind. I know, that among you...are the ones who will come forth...to do what must be done...for it is coming, time. Will love conquer all, or hate...or will all the forces, pulling us and pushing from all sides...at one point...rest, in perfect equilibrium? I have doubt, my wrath and flail, were enough...and yet...I still have faith in people, and your deep hearts. Hearts are wiser in their feeling, than the mind. Show mercy, where you can...endure...consider...adapt...reprieve...forgive, that you, as well...may be.
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
In The Aftermath
Do you remember? Hatred and war, must cease...honor those who died in all wars...not just soldiers...everyone.
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: snopes.com, kneeling Clydesdales, Budweiser Tribute
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: snopes.com, kneeling Clydesdales, Budweiser Tribute
Road Sign
I am a roadside distraction extinction encryption erection...a road sign, you watch catch fire, and decay. If you cared, you could never wake up to the clock, with the cock...pounding time, like a lover, against your gut. You're too dumb'd down, by your drug, of the day.
If you think, I'm the schmuck, whose gonna pick up...the crap you left...you're wrong...you read me people? If you're waiting for a savior...get up off the couch...and be one.
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: auspuhservis.rs
Photo Credit: auspuhservis.rs
Tuesday, May 24, 2016
Where's The Pub!
Men want war, even if it's 'tug of war'. They can't resist...ground gained, ground lost...and, let's not forget women...I forget my train of thought, when the 'screeching' begins, but they can really ratchet up a crisis event...that's when you know...what you got in 'the bag' is gonna tear your ass off. That's what I come away with, in most of the political posts. Oh, yeah...some are 'button down', and civil...even informed, but most are just...brawls, blood and beer...and fear. The first thing to go, in that case...is 'calm consideration'. Fuck calm consideration! Is that how it is? I think...yes. If it wasn't so apocalyptic, I would laugh...but, it would be unfair, because...I know you, all, are so sincere. It happens every four to eight years, but this is different. Can you feel it? Do you think one sides arguments are less concerning, than the other? We are in trouble here. What have we been dragged into? It's like a 'mosh pit, from top to bottom. The rhetoric, the lies, the dirty tricks...are that hot. It might as well be monkeys in the jungle. Have we lost all semblance of...civilization? Can we step back? Do we have the power, to perceive...what is happening here? This is not a game. This is our lives, our families, our friends, our dreams...in the hands of liar's and scum, who would say...anything, to get what they want, and take us on a little ride...from which, we may never return. See...it's not our party, no matter which side we're on. It's their party. As you may have noted...we are forced to a choice between two evils...not one evil and one good...not one thing, making sense. None of it makes sense. It's 'the new math'. One and one make...fuzzy logic...'move along...there's nothing to see here'. Well, the hell there isn't...and we better see it soon, or we are going to lose our ass, as well as our balls. How can I say this? Is this what you want, people? As long as your little mugs of suds, keep sliding your way, and your inebriation adequately, blanks the facts of life...you'll just keep on keeping on? Ok. But let me remind you...the 'American way of life', has not been, the American way,,,for several years now. That brings me to this single point. If you had the armor of God...would you know how to put it on? This is not something they show you, on a jet plane, or in a school classroom any more. What the hell is 'The Armor of God'? It's integrity, intention, straightness. I don't mean, as opposed to being gay or any of the new persuasions. I mean, as concerning honesty, consideration of others, transparency in the face of opaqueness. Are you a judge of the living and the dead, or are you a protector of the innocent, the intimidated, and the naive? Are you worth a shit, or are you a piece of shit? If you're worth a shit...get in your armor, and get ready. It's coming down!
You can blame the candidates, or realize...they are caught up in this too. They are dupes, and fools...taking money, from invisible alliances, across the world. There's where you should focus. Who are the hidden freaks, throwing giant money at the campaigns...both sides? Try to skip the racism, the mistrust, and just focus. Who are they...really? Follow the money...reveal the interests involved in keeping and manipulating, the status quo. Who the hell are these 'campaign managers'...really, and what do they whisper in the ears of candidates? Who are their 'handlers'? It's up to you people. I said my piece, and they just might take a piece of me, for saying it. But, by God...it's a free country, or...it's supposed to be...long live Calidonia.
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: kyberia.sk
You can blame the candidates, or realize...they are caught up in this too. They are dupes, and fools...taking money, from invisible alliances, across the world. There's where you should focus. Who are the hidden freaks, throwing giant money at the campaigns...both sides? Try to skip the racism, the mistrust, and just focus. Who are they...really? Follow the money...reveal the interests involved in keeping and manipulating, the status quo. Who the hell are these 'campaign managers'...really, and what do they whisper in the ears of candidates? Who are their 'handlers'? It's up to you people. I said my piece, and they just might take a piece of me, for saying it. But, by God...it's a free country, or...it's supposed to be...long live Calidonia.
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: kyberia.sk
Monday, May 23, 2016
Mexican Air Conditioner
I learned to ride, the draft of truckers...to git, where I got to go. I learned that a man, in need , can stand forever, beside the road...if he don't look like a hooker...I learned, you give a man a second chance...he'll poke you in the other eye, then ram it up your ass...so the fact, I'm nice...is just...some personality flaw, I guess. Don't get me wrong...I'm still, the loving one inside, unchanging...knowing, words are very cheaply said, where love has just, become...a blow job, on a hot ride..
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: Stephanie Mcniel, The Hitchhiker
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: Stephanie Mcniel, The Hitchhiker
Sunday, May 22, 2016
"We'll Just Keep Beeping You"
A brilliant movie, filled our silver screen tonight...'Trumbo'. by name. A flock of great actors, Bryan Cranston, Helen Mirren, Diane Lane, John Goodman, and many many other stellar performances. If any movie ever blew the lid off a poison vile of 'witch hunting'...this one surely did. Why, it reminded me, more than anything, of the 'black listing' performed, with such enthusiasm on social websites, where 'lock step' is the methodism of ignorance. If you can't beat them, just ignore them...they'll go away. But as the movie made plain...it didn't work in Hollywood or the not so, hallowed halls of Congress, and in the long run...it wont work on Internet, where the first amendment is, supposedly, assured, but I assure you...it is not. I hope we might kindly listen to one another, in a civilized fashion. It isn't really difficult. I have stepped out of my shadow...step out of yours...come forth Lazarus, and lose the shades. Whatever is said on Internet...stays on Internet. You know that. I'm not ashamed. I use no false persona, no cryptic moniker, to tell my truths. So, why the whiteout, or blackout of all comment? The truth hurts? I know it does...I've felt the sting enough. I am here to commune-icate, not communist-icate, or fascist-assturbate, or pontificate, and certainly, not to occult-ivate, any of the high brow senselesstivities. Let the festivities begin...let a new guy in. Christ! My foot is killing me, wedged in your door. Open sesami. Hey! This is poetry...poets cant hear me? Yoohooooooo, anyone there? Oh, is this just faux poe? Guess you're on the throne...er...phone...that's ok. I'll just wait here.
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: postcrescent,com, flip phone
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: postcrescent,com, flip phone
I realized something today, something, a wise man said, that I may have, snigger'd at, like a fool. Until you know a thing...you can't, truthfully, tell it, but once you do...you can. I can report, that I'm catching up to the curve. I'm not there yet, but I'm not far off. Stand by...
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
The Fairy Child
My mother, called me a 'little shite', but...she could never pinch me off. I told her, there was nothing to forgive, for a sin she never...admittedly did. She let me run in wild woods. She watched me skate on very thin ice...I watched her dirty laundry fly, and disappear, one day...as it leap't from a cliff. She got on her knees every night to pray...she said...for me, and every night...I prayed for her, but I was a little boy. I didn't know, the shape of a nose...would cause a political rift, in time and space; or...that I would be flung, from a love, supposed...to another place.
We are things, that we'd not chose. We find them hard...if we're never told. The day we do, our lips are sealed...by the doom o' the frozen eye. I loved her, and I do,and shall...now, she has passed and gone along, and there's no one , will tell it true...whatever wasn't said. It's all a fey, and fairy hid, the fairies left, with nothing said, to who knows where...they go? Will I, then, pay the 'ferryman' a coin...when dead, if coin was kept, and never given to? One can only hope free lines, fain read, of poetry will do.
If I, a secret were...while, she a secret kept, were held a ransom...for a time, unspecified...I wept to know, and as the years passed by...no single whisper ever said...a secret kept...so well. Oh...I have aged...a tiredness now, as gossamer as ghosts, walking on their grave, and all I truly wish to do is lay me down to rest.
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico.
Art: hqwallbase.pw, Midsummer Night
We are things, that we'd not chose. We find them hard...if we're never told. The day we do, our lips are sealed...by the doom o' the frozen eye. I loved her, and I do,and shall...now, she has passed and gone along, and there's no one , will tell it true...whatever wasn't said. It's all a fey, and fairy hid, the fairies left, with nothing said, to who knows where...they go? Will I, then, pay the 'ferryman' a coin...when dead, if coin was kept, and never given to? One can only hope free lines, fain read, of poetry will do.
If I, a secret were...while, she a secret kept, were held a ransom...for a time, unspecified...I wept to know, and as the years passed by...no single whisper ever said...a secret kept...so well. Oh...I have aged...a tiredness now, as gossamer as ghosts, walking on their grave, and all I truly wish to do is lay me down to rest.
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico.
Art: hqwallbase.pw, Midsummer Night
Conversation With A Young Man
"We, as an informed voting populace", does not exist. People have less education now than ever. They are a rabble. They speak and chew and vote viscerally, without any sense of decorum, or wisdom. Therefore, you must not be speaking to 'we the people', which leads me to wonder, who you are attempting to 'smarm'. Because people vote their drama, and emotion...the powers make a show, a circus for the people, while they control the masses and the vote, via a series of, so complex, vectors...no one, but a pit boss, or a pit viper, could untangle the Gordeon Knot. Elections are rigged. Don't you get it? That's why, we are all, feeling...left behind. We have been. I think you are a fine young man, bright and idealistic. I'm not sure you have had your first fall yet. I hope you believe in something besides politics, and the insulation of money. I suggest 'Siddhartha', by Herman Hesse. We die out here...we grow ill, and old. We are pitted and scored, and lonely. You may not be familiar with any of these things. Worst of all, is our disappointment, in the failure of the wise and highly placed, to perform, any lasting deed of help, that isn't 'talk'.
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: truedemocracyparty.net, voting machine
Parable Of The Last Word
An anger's not a trifle, the money changers found...great swelling words, are not a balm, to souls...upon a cross, were bound. If my words harm, or my sword cuts...there are two sides to every coin. If you were there, when common good was handed out, while parables were copied down, and didn't help...you know...perfectly well. If a man has hard words, and you deny, that they be spoken...knowing why, that he is justified...stand down, that they be spoken. Listen well. This world on brink of Hell, is token of a truth...you so deny.
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Art: Boris Olshansky, Jesus and the money changers
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Art: Boris Olshansky, Jesus and the money changers
In Fact
I would rather fight along side men with heart, than sup with passive assholes, having no opinion, and I would rather shoot the bastard giving me orders, than follow them. Otherwise, I'm a complete coward.
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Saturday, May 21, 2016
A little Child
There is no clearer option, than to live our lives out...as we wear our shoes out. Our father will give us a new life and a new mother to go with it...just as we would receive a new pair of shoes. It would make no sense, otherwise. Why would a loving God and Goddess create us, breath life into us, and fill us with every conceivable learning experience...only to waste us, for nothing...at the end? If we come round and round, as I believe we do, and we are born again...all that travel wears our soul down too. It is understandable. The divine are not a perfect piece...they are holy...their nimbus is tilted...it's a hell of a ride. Just hang on...hang on to the end, is all I ask. And what do we leave...our sorry old bags, luggage we should have given, to someone in need, long ago? Let it go...we will find it again. Our bright new bodies...our same old loves, in something new...you'll recognize the eyes. Try not to worry...as I always do. Lets go see, beyond a book, without a guide, without a damn thing, but our little child inside...to take us home.
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Art: youtube.com, artist currently unknown
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Art: youtube.com, artist currently unknown
Friday, May 20, 2016
Surprise
I must thank you all. You have inspired me, uplifted me...demeaned me, and more...demeaned yourselves, that I might grow, in castigating, your errors...and I had little clue, that you, were off the bus, for central castings. You have tested me, arrested me, and given ample rope to hang myself...yet, I knew...something was amiss. It was...that silence, in the halls of Hell, leading up, those steps; and for my birthday cry, no candle, cake or gift...were needed. What I needed was to sob, for every hour of life, in this long work...and sleeps of years. It just came...in rivers, from an ever flowing fount...while off the side, your 'roast' awaited, planned, to have me at my least. I heard, your shuffling hearts, suppressed and giddy glees...you need not whisper, in my presence...kindly be yourself. The ninth gate has opened. I will try to be kinder. I will try not to judge. I will try...to knock, before I enter on these sacred lies, for I had crashed your party...and apologize. Forgive such heavy handed manners, as have been displayed...such crushing failure to read, the cues, and needs of your dances. I bow to your patience...please.
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
My wife asked..."What happened to you?" I am just tired.
Photo Credit: Climax the ninth gate, youtube.com
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
My wife asked..."What happened to you?" I am just tired.
Photo Credit: Climax the ninth gate, youtube.com
Someone Asked
Atom? Had'm, and he lived in a park with Even. She called it a park. He called it 'a garden'.
Death? A many splendor'd lie, and fabrication. Parts of us die all the time.
Aliens? Paul.
Sex? Magic.
Intellect? Carl Sagan, Einstein, Oppenheimer-'I am become...something, and you all will become...nothing'.
The meaning of life? To become conscious in a living lesson, to a life of parable and realization.
Faraway galaxies? They are nearer than you think, in fact...thinking doubles the distance to anything.
The lies I've told? When I was ten, I and my mates were made to attend a baptist tent camp, and told to confess our sins...ten years old...I am twelve now.
My flaws? I have a crack, as do we all.
My favorite scents? Common sense and straw.
My childhood? Is ongoing.
What keeps me up at night? Gas and grief, for my beautiful world.
My insecurity and fears? That you may guess.
Tres Tacos
I looked into your eyes, and saw...the sweetest heart, I've ever known...one radiant smile, you handed me, and you were gone...one glimpse...one gift, of promissory note; a signal sent...to vessels, passing in the night, and yet...if wise, I know; this dream's stillborn, by right...but let us see...for God, alone, lays lovers side by side.
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: Little Lovers, by Pratikr
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: Little Lovers, by Pratikr
Thursday, May 19, 2016
Self Wonder
Once, the harpies wings have ceased
and, all their buzzard kills,
have moved to live elsewhere...
to other lives,
fulfilled of what they missed...here,
to your carping vanities...
there will be silence,
unlike, any you have heard;
sweet gods of face...
stilled...ever, of your own great beauty...
held...awed...incarcerated...of your self wonder.
So, these sky's will not be,
but other sky's will clear...
for not having you there.
Because, there is a day for things,
a night, for rudeness and sublime indifference...
you came, and were allowed...a time.
There is no more.
A world deserves to sleep and take her rest...
without such gods, as gaily watch her die.
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Art: Velasquez, The Rokeby Venus 1649-51
and, all their buzzard kills,
have moved to live elsewhere...
to other lives,
fulfilled of what they missed...here,
to your carping vanities...
there will be silence,
unlike, any you have heard;
sweet gods of face...
stilled...ever, of your own great beauty...
held...awed...incarcerated...of your self wonder.
So, these sky's will not be,
but other sky's will clear...
for not having you there.
Because, there is a day for things,
a night, for rudeness and sublime indifference...
you came, and were allowed...a time.
There is no more.
A world deserves to sleep and take her rest...
without such gods, as gaily watch her die.
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Art: Velasquez, The Rokeby Venus 1649-51
Pulling Weeds
Not a wasted word...no; not a wasted word, of thou, though...we are well and truly purged of thee. We plug our daily plod. We shirk the skive'n weed. We pull the daily need, exhausted of our want, to faint, upon our bed...sweated; one couple...hand and moi...
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Tuesday, May 17, 2016
Just Breath
Like all successful story tellers, the Shaman, weaving the incredible...moves his hands, and modulates his voice...to the rapt wonder, of the tribe, about the fire. I figure, you are less than 'rapt', over this storyteller. None the less...the following...
Consciousness is a diaphragm, breathing in and out. Central vision, is as 'zero point' as it gets. It has very much to do with 'little'.
Time is simply, a sort of 'training wheels' conceptualization, to hold us up, until we realize...we are least, not most. In that alone, are we situate at the center, reduced to the 'nothing' we truly are. Our capability is as great as our comprehension, and science could help with that, philosophy too, all of the disciplines of education, and religion...but like all bullies, they want, each, to control the issue. What none of them get, is that soon...it wont matter. Energy is free, and so is knowledge. Visionary understanding is not a fluke. It is a synthesis, as well as a nexus, and it is 'coming on'...available to all, at a satori near you. Don't worry...when? Just breath.
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: blackwingx.org, HARP 21st Century WMD
Consciousness is a diaphragm, breathing in and out. Central vision, is as 'zero point' as it gets. It has very much to do with 'little'.
Time is simply, a sort of 'training wheels' conceptualization, to hold us up, until we realize...we are least, not most. In that alone, are we situate at the center, reduced to the 'nothing' we truly are. Our capability is as great as our comprehension, and science could help with that, philosophy too, all of the disciplines of education, and religion...but like all bullies, they want, each, to control the issue. What none of them get, is that soon...it wont matter. Energy is free, and so is knowledge. Visionary understanding is not a fluke. It is a synthesis, as well as a nexus, and it is 'coming on'...available to all, at a satori near you. Don't worry...when? Just breath.
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: blackwingx.org, HARP 21st Century WMD
Philanthropy
Love on every lip, though, rarely, act of charity...for saying love, is cheap, while, making love is costly...
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Art: by Kathryn Fincher, Pinterest
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Art: by Kathryn Fincher, Pinterest
The Signals
In a little room, I play...where all familiar things agree, and all the walls are flour paste...to post my country gospel. Surrounded by these friends of mine...from out the echo of their age, I listen to my Marty Robbins, and my Merle Haggard, and my dear friend, Ray Price, on drifting signals, come'n in...from old El Paso. These ghosts from all across the purple sage, sometimes, back me up...suggesting I might...sit in, if I'd like...to pick a 'thang', or two with them...fade in...fade out, we play...until, I folds and puts my mind away, in that guitar case, where the bent book of my mind, and the dry earth...give me rest.
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: biography .com, Merle Haggard-Country Legend
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: biography .com, Merle Haggard-Country Legend
What Will Be
Pray, I have not stolen light of any, for...I dance with those I love, and if, I step upon your dark...forgive, pray now,...such anxious heart...
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Sunday, May 15, 2016
The Visitor
Be, humility, your carpet,
if you are so high...
instead of petals strewn at your heel...
be the wisdom that the children need to know...
if you truly are so royal...
for every man and woman here hath come,
to see if God, divine or not, hath sent,
a being worthy of the candles lit...
if you be God, or Goddesses,
or princess, be, or prince,
yet are to good to bend,
so, be just...one more hypocrite.
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: caylor-solutions,com
if you are so high...
instead of petals strewn at your heel...
be the wisdom that the children need to know...
if you truly are so royal...
for every man and woman here hath come,
to see if God, divine or not, hath sent,
a being worthy of the candles lit...
if you be God, or Goddesses,
or princess, be, or prince,
yet are to good to bend,
so, be just...one more hypocrite.
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: caylor-solutions,com
A Further Saying
If you criticize, criticism...and it is true,...then, you are a hypocrite. If you turn blind eye to it, yet you see...you are a liar.
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
A Saying
The most obvious arrogance,
is that, which contrives to tolerance...
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
is that, which contrives to tolerance...
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
The Smoker
Someone this morning, was going on about, 'smokers', and how...if you smoke...you wont get, blah blah blah.
Eight, maybe nine years ago, I quit smoking, because my little boy, came up to my table on the patio and said, "Quit to live, daddy". I quit that day, for two reasons...one, for my children, so I'd live to be with them until they grow up, and two...for my health, certainly, not for my satisfaction.
My father, smoked like a stack...he drank...he cursed...he laughed, and he loved. Men respected him, and he fought a few that didn't. Women loved him. He was the wisest man I ever knew. His teeth were yellow, and shattered, and few...his smile could light up a room...he could play piano, like a maestro, after three drinks, and everyone would gather. Little girls would dance on his shoes. He would fart and smile...in mixed company, just to draw fire, and, whether he needed it or not...he would bathe once a year.
So, you see...you fools, and your little cuts...your 'political corectness', and your revolution to make men 'cunts'...you cast men out, you block their truth's and they wont get your little 'hugs'...so what?
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: designtrend.com
Eight, maybe nine years ago, I quit smoking, because my little boy, came up to my table on the patio and said, "Quit to live, daddy". I quit that day, for two reasons...one, for my children, so I'd live to be with them until they grow up, and two...for my health, certainly, not for my satisfaction.
My father, smoked like a stack...he drank...he cursed...he laughed, and he loved. Men respected him, and he fought a few that didn't. Women loved him. He was the wisest man I ever knew. His teeth were yellow, and shattered, and few...his smile could light up a room...he could play piano, like a maestro, after three drinks, and everyone would gather. Little girls would dance on his shoes. He would fart and smile...in mixed company, just to draw fire, and, whether he needed it or not...he would bathe once a year.
So, you see...you fools, and your little cuts...your 'political corectness', and your revolution to make men 'cunts'...you cast men out, you block their truth's and they wont get your little 'hugs'...so what?
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: designtrend.com
Easy Rider
It is easier to ride a horse, than a woman...is it not? A horse will buck you off. A woman will too...then, she'll stomp you in the dust, take all your stuff, and leave you with a limp...
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: wisegeek.com
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: wisegeek.com
Saturday, May 14, 2016
Manifesting Destiny
When cleverness and cute have shut, claimant of the storm to come, still balls of steel clang against the standing of so few...remaining straight; neither flag be found. This land, that once, was populace'd, by buffalo; the savages that brought them low...lay down their, stolen destiny. The ashes of their silent cities, reaped...their harvest come. In interim, all blood was dust, and red as rust...now blown away and gone; where ghosts alone, in spirit...carry forth, while earth return...to peace.
In epilogue: All argument, all detriment...the guilty, with the innocent, were taken...for the few, who would not get along; would have nothing here...of God's creation. Where, all the one's who led and lied, forsook their faith, their oath, and sole remaining...sold.
And yet...seed waiting in the sand, hath faith in heaven's tide, and life will come, and death will not be given it's grim laugh. Children of all kind, will love...will play their time upon the grass...all will be raised...all will be raised...at last.
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: Steven Schimmrich, herd of Buffalo grazing peacefully
In epilogue: All argument, all detriment...the guilty, with the innocent, were taken...for the few, who would not get along; would have nothing here...of God's creation. Where, all the one's who led and lied, forsook their faith, their oath, and sole remaining...sold.
And yet...seed waiting in the sand, hath faith in heaven's tide, and life will come, and death will not be given it's grim laugh. Children of all kind, will love...will play their time upon the grass...all will be raised...all will be raised...at last.
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: Steven Schimmrich, herd of Buffalo grazing peacefully
A Musing
When I charge into the wind, and that's the muse...I make a thing happen. Problem is, it usually sucks, more than it blows...
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
Friday, May 13, 2016
The Small Voice Within
You hear, now boy? Don't get you, no where near, politics...they are crazy, corrupted and damned. Their wings are twisted, they'll claw and beak you...anyway they can. If you keep them, just set water out...throw scratch...stand back, they'll shit on everything...if they ever lay an egg,...it's broke,you'll find, and your nest...that they did it in...
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico
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