The Turning 'Way

Thou seeth we, but do'th, nay. Thou cometh by we, ye only see thy self. Oh, so proud, so full of pride and boastful, hubris, on ye downhill tumble. Oh, we were thee. We were thee, so many times, so many foolish falls...down ages passed, awee. 

Are we? Though, it nay matter, thee...yay! Tell thee, anyway! Days, gone by, were called, White Salmon. That one, makes a smile...called Hesus, in Alba's isles, lailoken, Merlin, when the magic were upon Alth Clut, in Calidon and all Brithain...as well.  

We were bard, to Anwyn, played of that fair land, we hail from. Also, Taliesin,  pleck't, upon that self same harp, made the contraption, and, as all the rest, writ upon the heart. We knew the name of every herb and twig of syllable and star, of nature. We became...of anyone, or anything at all...through word alone, placed, 'just so'.

We are more than thou seeth, or canst see. We are 'that soul', thou art losing, of the race of men. There is, but 'one thread' left, of this thin book of days, hanging to the life, of he.Ye are leaving him, thou fools...and never know, nor ever knew, that thou hath done...this thing.

Amen!


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Taliesin, walks between the worlds of history and myth. The sixth century Welsh bard, called Taliesin, was synonymous with Merlin, Lailoken and other shaman figures of the fifth and sixth centuries. He lives in the soul of some poets.

I Can If I Want Too

Went out tonight, long after dark, after a friend stopped by, pointing out stars to me. Lit up the lantern, soft light of a kerosene lamp, course, the lamp oil used now, in lamps, is much more refined...than used to be. But, still has that fuel oil smell, I long remember. Brings back childhood memories.

I sat in my throne, of 'folding chair', with a brew of 'black as night' coffee, pulled the dark of heaven, round my shoulder's, Gods serene stars, above my crown. No King, was e'er regaled, in greater finery.

In the day, I was sad, that my family never called, but, at night...I came to realize, 'I'm here', abandoned, in the most wonderful way.
I got everything, I ever really wanted. Thought I did, anyway.

I'm free now. I can sit beneath the night sky, with no one to disdain...and my God to talk too. I can roll down the great highway, smoke, if I want too, chuck back 'a few', upchuck, if I do too many. I'm free to 'waste myself' away, in a half conscious bliss...if I want too.

It's not my style, but an option...better than 'apps', I can tell you.

Namaste


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: cosmic moon, google pic

m kjo

kpk

The Present

Good morning, everyone! Christmas day is here! Don't break a leg, getting to the tree, and after you pull the mask, off the old Lone Ranger, hope he's what you had in mind...to fiddle with. Non returnable.

Anyway, I'm looking for mine...a little shocking, what I got, a 'red hat' on my head, a mess of long white hair, an empty bag of 'nothing' left , and a cup of 'morning joe', for cheer.

I was wait'n for it all to arrive, but never expected, it was about...'coming to myself', thanking God, that I'm alive!

Merry Christmas!

Ho Ho, hack hack, gasp! :-)


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Christmas presents, google pic

Robe Of Midnight

Goodnight, my father in heaven. Thank you, for the starry crown, and the robe of midnight.

Amen!


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: starry night, google pic

The Lamp

There is darkness in the world, and 'it is night', but, what works best, in
darkness...is light, and so, this eve of Christmas, I lit a lamp and sat outside with it. I sipped coffee, and watched the stars...for any sign of Jesus Christ, or Santa Claus.

I admit, I am a child, deep inside. I still believe. To keep from growing sad, I hope. I found an old time Christmas show, on my, old days, radio...'A Christmas Carol', Scrooge, Marley, the ghosts...and all the rest.

The birds nest round me, in their warm black feathers. They chat about my lamp shining in the night. It makes them feel warmer, and I wish them well, as together...we wait, with faith, upon the morrow.

We are the better, for the spirit of our company. Goodnight, dear children...goodwill to all. Merry Christmas...tomorrow!

Sweet dreams, now.


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: oil lamp, google pic

The True Christmas

I cannot tell you, how much grander Christmas is, than 'Clausmas'. Oh, there's not as much...some manger straw, a little space, for each warm heart'd animal.

Stars up in the sky, cold glittering stones, for night light...wonder, that he'll ever come, the child that was the bravest one...who gave it all, asking nothing, loving everyone.

It isn't in the day, or in the tree, or in the boxes, bowed and stuffed...with momentary joy, and years of 'not'. It's in the heart, of every girl and boy, grown up or not, and that's 'the true Christmas'.

Happy Holy Day!


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: manger in bethlehem, google pic

Sixty Seven Inches

I watched little old ladies, old guys, with 'hoses up their noses', young couple's, kids, dragging home boxes of 'HDTV's', with the same look in their eyes, my dad had in his, 'after a moose kill', to see us through the winter! Really! The big box stores are a 'slaughter house', of bargains galore...more and more and MORE! Stuff it in your car! 67 phuk'n inches!

Much joy!

Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: large screen tv, google pic

Eyes And Fire

I, the 'eye' of me, hovers over this high mystical lake. The eye slowly pulses, blue rays of beautiful light. The lake is frozen. About the lake, the countryside is white, glittering under deep starlight.

Trackless, breathless, over ages, rest between these mountain sides, in this high valley. A resonant sound, at the edge of human hearing, whispers angels songs, answering a mountain wind...travelling.

Now, we listen, in a deeper sense, to silence speaking, from unspeakable heights. Somewhere, in this night, a light of spirit beckons...golden thing, fellow being, molten, dripping, precious golden heat...ineffable, incredible.

As this tableau plays out, no mortal witness be, save we, who ever are, however what, having in this sky, our source...from high heaven, Earth, herself, thrumming to a vibrant love, holding to her breast, our coming.

At this timeless time, we are, unknowing of the why, yet sharing all things, ice and fire...merging in this mountain aerie...having here, but once, our purpose...truly, giving all we are.

namaste


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New mexico

Art: high mountain lake, google pic

Aw, Shucks!

What's new with me? Well, we're getting down 'to it', now. The cavalry has arrived! Someone had 'the balls'! God bless them! Spinning in the wind, is fine, if you're 'a kite', but, it gets a little old, in reality. 

It may not save my ass, but, perhaps 'punctuate' my remaining time...however much, I have. Never under estimate the power, of a single friend. For all I know, I have more...but, it's been kept a great secret, from me! 

One thing, I know, 'for sure', it's ALL, as cock eyed as 'the vote'! This lying world, is just amazingly obscure. There's neither heads nor tails, to be made of it! But, it can make you chase your own, around and round, the town! 

The best devils, live here, and they sit like 'crowned philosopher's', common 'household salt' of the earth. Every word comes out their mouth, we've heard, so many times before, 'it sounds, the truth'! 

Rural farmer's, bull! These guy's will grab you by the chimes and suck you, till you're just a dried up raisin...with no reason to exist, at all! But, it just had to 'stop', someplace...and that someplace, is here, this Merry Christmas! 

Oh, by the way, I purchased a loaf of Mennonite 'banana nut bread', for my holiday. We gonna munch it, in the privacy, of our loneliness. It will be ok! 


Written by, Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

The Glass Door

I ran into a misanthrope, damn near 'busted my ass' on the glass door!


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

The Adventure

The foregoing post, is no glib soporific, to induce coma, from reality. Jesus and God the father, are one. The A.M.A. is not my savior! They 'lost my case'. A team of doctors, lost my case?

Thus, I swallowed lumps in my throat, a tumor in my belly, and go on. Oh, they finally called, to set up chemo and radiation. Cancellation! Why? Loss of trust! What would oncology do, if they lost my life? "Oh, so sorry...these things happen."

Think of it, after 'the cure', I would 'be in the toilet', literally! Let's see what God can do? I believe, God can do better. I hope to 'believe', as well as he can heal. If I can, and he decides, I need a miracle...I will give it all to him, when he wishes me to...and will journey, in the spring, on a great adventure!

I would rather edify God, than shoddy medicine, any day, and I would rather 'tell our story', that other's believe...along the way. I hope, you'll wish us well.

Namaste


Written by, Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: marijuana, google

look'n for me pot o' gold

We Are What We Are

You struggle for words, and write 'sweet nothing's'. But, I...I have swallowed a 'lexicon of grief', to find it bitter deep inside. You spray, and gargle, flossing all your pretty teeth. I vomit in the basin, all that I have learned of life. You turn away, to hide this ugly thing. I empty out my guts and cry...to a world lying. You have saved yourself, for another day...denying.

Namaste

Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: the apocalypse of saint john, the evangelist, by jan massijs

It's A Beautiful Day In The Neighborhood

See there? I've already upset the 'day planner'. As a poet, I consider it my sacred duty, to upset the status quo, to overturn the outhouse...watch it rolling down the hill. Because, it 'stinks' out there, and all the perfume in the world, and all the fake flowers and scenic pictures...are not going to change that. Painting over a grievous wound, will not prevent a civilization...dying.


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: graffiti removal guy, google pic

Cheese On A Bagel

You know, If we spread on 'the superficial', like cheese on a bagel...we accomplish little, or nothing. Oh, it looks good and it sounds good, and it makes one popular. But, the wound is deeper and you know it, so to ignore it....makes one a damned hypocrite, too!


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: cheese on a bagel, google pic

Sinner

We are all around you, a forest of truth in word and deed...and you are lost here. This is not your place. You shun such dappled light! You run, forsaking every fact! You fall upon the rutted ground...afraid, you might 'become', as we are, mud upon your hands, blood upon your hands...forever and ever, known. But, what you cannot glean, it seems...you are forgiven, here!

Hallelujah!


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: a forest, google pic

Good Grief

There is no grief, like good grief, is there? You have heard the expression, before...where one, before God, and all the world, deny the facts of life. So, what they have, a mouthful of, they may not say...and utter, 'good grief', rather!

Namaste


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: boy learning 'facts of life', norman rockwell

But, Aside From That

I realize, they don't want to listen. They want to change the subject. To them, I am a bitter reminder of their disaffectation. But, I go on, and appear...because, I am. I'm here, and they cannot make that 'not happen'. We don't need to be ugly, about a thing...but we very much, need to look at it, and our duty...as a poet, given a gift...is not to gloss over it!

We are given the word.

Namaste


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: bardic poet, google art

The Taster

All of these good things, were saved up, like cookies, mama cooked. She baked 'me', you know. Daddy had a part in that, too. I don't know, why...you look all 'puckered up', like you bit a bitter? Yes, I do! It's the end of the world, you think, and all the tins of all the sins are opened now. You've tasted more than a few...you greedy little gut! But, you would 'never' own up! So 'bon apetite'!

Namaste


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: holiday cookies, google pic

One More Pinocchio

There are many, put on uniforms, soldier uniforms, church uniforms...they hope that 'makes them real'. Then, there's those that toss off, all tradition...going 'keep it real', or 'keep'n it real', and they sell a lot of tee shirts, but they're not real either. Why has no one asked...'what makes us real?' 'Who made us real?' Until we do, and listen for the answer...'we're just one more Pinocchio'.

Namaste


Written by, Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: pinocchio, google art

The Mass

A requiem for friends lost, bitten by the hard words...buried in their own pride, covered by its own cost...down, but not forgot. Never, ever forgot.

Namaste


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: high mass, google pic

The Pack

The wolves, harried round, the sheep. The sheep pushed back...an unexpected thing. They lay, in licking wounds, 'the pack' betrayed, by mere misjudgment. Times have changed. Oh, times 'have' changed, and change again...coming!

Amen!


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: wolf pack, google pic

Howl! Howl!

Howl, howl! Now, hear the coven's of the moon howl! Tit's up, witches got the law...make 'lobo's' of us all! Time, you understand, a man has rights, as well!


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: super moon, google pic

A Daddy's Lament

You listened to the devil, now the devil gonna take you away. Your daddy round 'a burn barrel'...mama's, quickly slipp'n away. You, all three, be'n advised upon your 'mental health'. Daddy gets call's, says, 'you haven't been to school in days'. Mama says, 'It's all ok'.

You listened to the devil, now, the devil gonna take you away!

Amen!


...these are not the lyrics to a rock song. These are the words, to a daddy's lament.


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

The Other War

You hear story's about war, the hero's in them, about families split apart, sons and daughters lost. Well, I'm losing mine. It's not a bloody war, you can shoot a bullet at. It's a spiritual one, wins by lying. I'm out here, losing. No air cover, no infantry support. No support, from anyone. All I got, defending in this war...is my love for them.

Amen!


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

There Beside You

Never forget, the closer to your god, you become...the nearer to the devil you are. It may be your next door neighbor, a teacher, a mental health councilor...a pediatrician. It may be that old geezer , salt of the earth...that squeezes your hand like a vise! Or, it may be...the whole damned lot together.

Don't be a fool. Don't laugh it off. Don't be naive. Put on the armor. Buckle it up! Get ready to rumble! Love them all, but don't give up your soul. There is wickedness now, everywhere! Stand ready. Don't be unaware, and don't back down! Best, take this seriously!

Amen!


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: city crowd, google pic

It Takes A Village

You are too old and blind to see me, but the devil can see me, through your eyes. I don't blame you. You go on and grow. But, I'm very wary of 'that' with you.

There are bus loads of you, train loads, cattle cars of souls...all bristling with his orders. It isn't, 'I run into one'...anymore. The 'exceptions', when I don't. I sit here, two finger typing...quite a crowd.

All of them 'bristling', staring, 'Village of the damned'! I'm friendly enough. It's their town, their world. He looks out the eyes of every one!

Worst I can do, is 'just be here'...and I am!

Amen!


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: children of the damned, the movie, google pic