Apology Ology Ology

Science, the sciences...anthro-apologists, socio-apologists, archeo-apology, geology, zoology, paleontology...ology, ology, ology They find it. They tag it. They hide it. Until they have squeezed every last iota of value, from discovery.

Then, when they are quite certain of their 'cover story', they hold an exhibit...after say, 50 to 70 years, and they tell you what science 'believes' it's all about, about everything.They withhold much, repress more and spin the findings, faster than a top in a hock shop.

They've stolen so much, from so many countries. They suck it from the ground...'sideways', just like oil company pipelines and bishops on a chess board. Nothing is straight, or comes out straight, for as 'Indiana' showed us all...'it's not who it belongs to, but who gets it first!'

Well, I believe things too, and if I find it, I'm not telling you. But I will tell you this...it's all a lie, like everything else...the 'facts' are made to conform to the flow of a story, that if unwound, would reveal...the greatest lies in history.

All of it, the scrolls, the sunken cities, Columbus and the Conquistadors, their reasons for all of it...the ageless churches...they are searching 'for something', and it's imperative, they distract you...because, they want to claim it first!

Believe, people! Believe, as science tells you not to! For, there are things, but what those things are, and why...is another story. You haven't heard it right, and you don't know it all! There's more to 'disclosure', than you are aware!

'Buckle up and place your trays in the upright position!' Get ready for the RIDE of your life!


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Indiana Jones meets Princess Liea, James Hance

They Came Down

They adjusted their 'geospatial' lasers, and cut a kingdom into a mountain. The curious valley dwellers wondered, and prayed to these new gods...enslaved, enraptured. For a hundred years, they served these masters...these 'sky people'. One day, 'they came again'. and they left, with all their chattel. 

Would a mountain domain, a nearly unscalable fortress, in the sky, be abandoned...or will these mysterious 'gods' return, to claim their place some day? All we, the valley dwellers know, is 'nothing'. We still wander the steamy jungle and ascend the perilous trail...to a place we cannot own, only borrow and dream. Whoever they were, in truth...they were genius, advanced, in stone work and hydro, and engineering steep terrain.

They remained aloft, and aloof from human civilization. They came. They left a monument of wonder and speculation...and perhaps, 'a message from the stars'; and all that the sciences of earth will tell you is, "There's no one here but us".

So, I will tell you this...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Machu Picchu, National Geographic
Dedication: To my History teacher

And Light With Darkness

Poetry is 'the word', as it was given, and meant to be spoken...at the beginning. Poetry bound the world, and light with darkness, so that one great consortium of life could become...and go on.

Every creature wondered, what became of the song, when the sorcerer, silent...would sing no more. "I am tired", he said, "that all I have made, should be vainly given...to be undone."

But, the mother said, "Let them remain for a time, to grow wise of their kind...that the garden will cradle, even though words will grow old and forgot...to mean nothing to them then."

The sorcerer looked away to a star, and said, "So, let it be finished, and so it be done." as he rose from his world...and went along.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: myjavier007, native american shaman

You Are Monsters

You 'News people' are monsters. If you use truth at all, you wear it as a prosthesis, all turned around and twisted backward. It is wrong on you...just wrong!

Do you really have an audience? Is that the panic in your lying eyes...that groveling for shares, that, "I'll do anything, to keep you, dears!"

Well, how about 'a chain'...the links of blasphemies and lies, you've sworn to? Lengths you've treasonously gone?

What of the laws you've twisted, bent or broken in your 'cause celebrity', to spin the truth around, like a dancer that the devil used...then, threw upon the ground?

You charlatans of words, denying light, her due...instead, have bridled darkness, at this final 'witching hour', to throttle her and screw what's left of life!

You've taken sides, and in that halfling light of liar's, you cringe upon the piece of world, you've broken off!

To suit yourselves alone, as she floats in space...old, cold and dying! You are monsters!, who could never say 'NO', to anything!


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: The Devil card of the Tarot

One Good Soldier

A man, ill suited to the task, peers out an armor plated window, from the House of Hell's, own pledged and dedicated draft...to see a world turned ash.

He knows a bad decision has been made, so far, too late to turn around. The gold of grade and taste is his, as every thing he touch, turns wealth to wealth...yet, none of it's enough.

A lonely man, thinking to do good, as all the officers and gentlemen, intending to do bad...salute him. This, to him 'signed off', the one to blame, the Chief of everything...upon the seat of Solomon.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Trump at Military Academy, New York Times

Death Is Dead

Instead of silly pretense, coded word and picture show...you should be working out the final sum of games, like 'tic tac toe', to realize the sorrows of your choices.

You circle that dread thing, the predator on prey. Not one could stay you, nor make you look away.

Your laurel crowns you, yet, you haven't even won, nor ever will...for that 'dread thing' will reap you, when your victory is full.

For death sits empty on its throne, nor memory nor mercy of beauty or pain. Death has no pride and cannot fall, but rules you all the same.

Death is dead and cannot tell, just a doll of empty dust, yet men rush in, to gather it...as if it were, somehow, alive.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Old doll of a boy, google pic

The Outy Of The Inny

Good morning, all ye of little humor...for who, among ye'd bust a nut, tae let another know...ye laughed like hell, at every thing he wrought.

A smile is fair, if ye stiff and kinn'ah speak...for I hear a 'high aire', so's we know, ye sprung a leak!

Ah, go ahead and dare, tae let the damn repression go, fore, ye twice the fool of iny...an we know't as we speak!


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: therockofrochester,google art

The Crimes We Cover Up

There is no end, to depth of pain, I find beneath the onion skin. To peel back each layer as a surgeon might, revealing what, beneath the pretty pictures...lay so hidden from our sight.

You cannot cover up a wound. You cannot camouflage a hurt. You cannot box a poor cadaver's sin, from stinking up the world, for that is it's, and it's alone, bane'd truth to tell; and ours to bear...as well.

So, make believe, the world's a perfect place, no death, no grief, no age...but hear the screams of rage, injustice wages in the soil.

Nothing's green, so verdant as the grass upon a ground of death, nor any so amiss as that, bereft of pleasure is...it's time within the tomb, unheard...unread.

Then, listen well, the des'late howl of they, that cannot tell, but lay there moldering away, for they have kin that cover them, from ever seeing light of sun, or ever knowing care;

only stone to hold them down...and senseless plastic flowers, fading in the why?


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: The Anatomy lesson, Rembrandt Van Rindt

I wrote this, not as a diatribe upon those 'masking' a less perfect world, in glamour...for some spread the seeds of beauty, in their deeds, while others 'cover up the truth' in their actions. There are all kinds of reasons. The ones I like best, are parental ones...'cover ups', to retard the 'children knowing'. As Siddhartha found, without the gilded walls of his family estate...the world is full of cover ups...and pain and old age and death. 'Disillusion', is really the truth of Earth. But, I believe, once the wound has been opened and cleansed by the light of day...once it is treated with the clear waters of caring and forgiveness...even death can repair. We sorely need to be nurses, more than liars...even, if for the best of reasons. The picture poster's 'post away', covering our social sites with 'wallpaper'. We can never see out. Once in a while, 'a scream' shines through, of the pain, the anguish...beneath. We would rather visit the distractions, the political posts, the pics of naked girls...flaunting 'reptillianly', the wanton scenery of nature, but I think, we need to 'get to it'; unearth the crime...that 'hidden' that has put us all here, and begin the arduous task...of healing each other. B.J.C.

Unholy Gale

The wind is pounding, incessantly, urgently...against my ship on sand. It presages, I am sure, some thing. It finds countless cracks, of ways...persuasions only gale's, can bring, to knock upon my cabin.

"Oh Captain, Captain waken!" "I have never been more!" I walk the deck alone, for all other's hid, in fear, below, the trembling situation!

Let them avoid, in anonymity...their doubt, in sleep, as though, the ship had no crew, and there were no storm, terribly battering the hull, ringing all the hardware in the masts...to point of breaking!

I walk, and there is no light, but I know that one is there...beyond our trepidation. I know that one is there, that will not fail...whatever may come!


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: foundindesert.jpg

Looking Backward

Will you be looking backward, when the sea recedes from shore? Will you be banging on your ignorance of drums, when a voice...tells you to turn?

Will you be facing what is happening, when the ocean rushes in? Or, will you be sleeping...as you always have been?

Awaken, awaken now, my people! Look around you! Listen! Drop down upon your knees, and listen...as you never have before!

God gave you life and breath...just listen, that you might live on, or listen not and never breath again! 


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Cornwall wave, google pic

Merlin's Tedium

Poetry is not for self, for blather's pleasure, but a fulcrum moving worlds by increments of feeling. If it were not, roses all be red...violets be blue. That would be the last word...and poetry be dead!

It comes out, that all words cast a spell, both doing and undoing. It becomes a thing or doesn't and can stitch a thing, that wasn't to a thing that somehow, shouldn't, but is, at the end...rocking and rolling.

It all feels, rather strange and quite unordinarily right, if it's done well...as if magic had a part, where something playing in the heart...changed everything a space or ten!


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: halfwayanywhere.com, google pic

Clippings

You clip a twig here, a branch there...you find, you have a better yield of fruit, among trees, among words, among people. At last, you have nothing...but peace.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Jual bonsai, Kaskus archive

I Call It, Good Morning!

Every poet wants to think, they could grab you by the sack, and 'ding dongs' would come out your ears...but, we're not that good. We're just useful. Ego fly's before wisdom, like hubris on a broom. It's silly, really! 


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: ThisIsWhyI'mBroke, tea bagging

Chicken Necks

From the days of the caves, we struggled, we fought...tooth and nail, fang and claw...for what? To return to the caves, the cold, the fear, of a world in rubble? Because, why?

We let little men and women, with madness in their eyes...hold the buttons? We gave them up our instruments of decision, as we watched them tear down every treasure?

When, all we had to do, was reach out...and wring their chicken necks, to end the thing!


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Chickens in a pasture, google pic

Sideways Tides

Most of us have been there. Some of us have suffered, greatly. It gets better. It gets worse...it gets better. Everyday's a new chance, to learn, from the sun, from the moon, from nature, from ourselves...from a neighbor.

Life is ebb and flow, and sideways tides, rivers , pathways...that we do or do not know. Life is a bore, a danger, an adventure, a doubt, a hope.

Life is a giver, to some, a savior...to others, a taker, a scammer...a faker. Most of us have been there. It gets better. It gets worse. It gets better...don't give up!


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: ocean beach, google art

You Are The Sweetest Thing

You say the most shocking and colossally stupid words, directly after uttering blessings to all and 'dearest this and that'.

You judge. You fan the flames of the furnace of hate...and you are 'the sweetest thing'. You are the pot, and you call the kettle black.

it is impossible, to be your constant friend...because, I needs to 'say you nay' again, as you have wont, to bitterness...to make another feel the pain...you hold within your heart.

You are fickle and fine, but I must tell you, the error, you cause the world, with blame...is everyone's fault.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: beehive drawing, artist presently unknown

If We Were Called

If we were touched by heaven, and called...would we even 'know', embroiled, as we are...in our human battle? "I tell you, we entertain angels, unawares."


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Merlin and Nimue, by Gustave Dore

Save The Matches

The fires we start with our grudges and ambitions, our intrigues and political aims, are hotter, by far...than match heads.

We save a body here, a forest there, and then...kill the whole world. If we say, we love...then why do we hate?

How can we be both...but we are, capable of anything. So, let it be love we choose, for light, like dark...can be gotten out of hand, and all be lost...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: matches, google pic

Earned Interest

You take your money, you put it in a bank. They shove you sub prime interest, even though...you're clear of debt. You give them everything you have, they give you nothing back. They add a bogus service charge...they know, you'll never see, and there's your interest earned, all sucked away. 

You don't know where to put it, so a little bit returns...so you stick it in the mattress, or hide it in the attic. Your 'son in law' sleeps over and he finds your 'hidey hole'...and every little bit you saved, has moved to Idaho, 'city unknown!'. 

You lost the job, the wife has left. She took the kids. She got the house. She got the gold, you got the shaft. You just got paid, for two weeks, 'cutting grass'. You think, you'll 'stick it up your ass', but they'll find it there. You know, they'll find it there! 

You go to the bank, you write 'Fuck You! on the teller, then you check 'the evening news, and they're looking for the feller. They got Swat Teams out, 'their mission', squelch domestic terror...and that's 'you!' But you got lots of company...every dirt poor 'jerkweed' out there, including me!


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: motherearthnews, lawn mowing business

Message In A Burn Barrel

I wonder, how many sons and daughters, blaming fathers for their absence, never questioned 'mom's contention', in a house of madness?

How many children took a side, only grieving, that 'their lives' were not as full, as could have been...had they had a father there?

I wonder, how many children searched, to find the fathers, they were missing from their lives? How many put up posters, for the missing and unclaimed...as they would have, even for a dog?

I wonder, if they really cared at all, because...other men and I were there, under bridges, at the burn barrels of despair...but, we never saw you there.

I wonder, a lot, about many things, that ruin peoples lives...that never find answers, as I freeze my ass out here.

Signed: Your father.

Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Homeless holiday, google pic

It's Gonna Be Really Big...Really Big

Actually, I think Trump does very well at comedy. I think, he wants to make the world laugh...it's just that, nobody has a sense of humor anymore!

I don't think he could dance much faster on the stage, if he tried, and it's a tough audience. They're waiting for him to die, and actually, trying to help it along.

They're all screaming, "Break a leg!", but they mean it. Here he is, just trying, madly to get rid of the 'puppet strings', impeding his progress...and be a 'real boy'.

That, of course, is really upsetting 'the Antichrist', his dad in law's senior adviser, and the mainstream media freaks, spinning us toward 'Apocalypse!'

Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Donald Trump, google pic

Walk On Sacred Shoes

I stood there, in the sacred place...and prayed. Every time I closed my eyes, the hundreds, shuffled round. I opened up my eyes, to see, the many I could hear...and wondered, for their feet were gone, and there was nothing there.

Again, I closed my eyes to pray, as shuffling feet moved round, quietly, without a word, or any other sound. I knew now, many spirits were, sweet people, come to watch, and sensed...they meant no harm at all, but to stand in the gate of another world, beside me there.

I suppose, most come, most visitors...to watch and stare, at a lonely sandstone rock, but I tell you, here, this indiginous place, there is something more. If you cannot see, then pray...with the eye of the heart, for as moccasins softly shuffle on those ancient soles...I was there, and it's true.

If you ever come this way, please honor, with a quiet heart, the humble ways of this special place, that walks on sacred shoes.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Navajo reservation, google pic

The Fool In The Storm

The fool, is a crown of its own...of which, even a king is undeserving, for their must be relief from the arrogance and hubris of the haughty...otherwise, false pride would bring the world down.

When the fool laughs, the gods are invoked, to laugh as well. Who are the mighty of the earth, when the silly and simple can shake it, with their sweetness?

Is it not a joy, the buffoon can bring upon the lot...for, he rules the stage, a regent...without sense of guile, sniping at the certain...as they stumble in his glory.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: King Lear and the Fool in the Storm, by William Dyce

The Angelic Trisagion

Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus, Dominus Deus exercituum: Plena es terra gloria tua: Gloria Patri, Gloria Filio, Gloria Spiritui Sancto.

Holy, holy, holy, Lord God of hosts, the earth is full of thy glory! Glory be to the Father, Glory be to the Son, Glory be to the Holy Ghost.

Source: thesacredheart.com

The foregoing is an invocation for the Seraphim angels, round the throne of God.

Art: Seraphim, by cinemamind.