For Those With and Without Eyes To See

Sometimes I think...the sense of sight is what offends us all...the world be more at peace, if we just felt around...each other...touching, kissing, clutching, hugging...holding on to one another's hands...is that you...Ouch! Oh! My!...sweet air...Oh! Scuse em muah!...I was not going for your derriere!...is that a pot handle???...sigh...I hope so...smile...

Just think of what might then transpire...true love might be...without  a doubt, nor judgement, based on what you got...or haven't got...and wrinkles would be krinkles of our character...not canyons we could fall in...and belley's would be pillows...and the rest would not embarrass or arrest us...for our fondle's, nor our foibles, nor our grasping curiosities...

Our needs to know, would be quite brotherly and sisterly and motherly and fatherly...just helping one another find the door, the key, the can...the woman from the man...quite humanly and subtly, and sensibly...excepting where it almost pokes you in the eye...Oh my!...well that was fun...is that your cane???...a flasher on a rainy day we could ignore...we'd need to find another way...to objectify...

We would not watch the evening news...the handsome falsely phony faces that amuse, could be anyone then...and the bloody lies would all just drift away...and then suspend...due to lack of interest...The bus lines would be out of business...cars and airplanes wouldn't buzz around the earth and sky...annoying us...and we could grope our way's to parks to play...to roll upon the grass...

To feel each other's...yeah!...no more excuses to build war machines...those brightly gleaming dildo's of the Generals...cause, I mean...whose gonna see them???...It wont mean a thing...and that would be the end of that...and dogs would lick our faces...and teach us how to use our tongues...in places we had never dreamed...and ice cream...would taste...Outrageous!

Don't get me wrong...I do not want to lose my eyes...and hope the ones who have, forgive my ribaldry and metaphor...I thank my great good God, that I can taste and hear and touch and smell...and most of all...read sweet poetry...I merely wish a wish for you and me, that we could rest, from hell...to find a harmony and humor in our soul...that all might live and love and enjoy...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

The Buddha

Miho and I met, on account of a dog named Hooch...a garden buddha...and the kindness of God...she was a fairly recent 'emigre to America...from Japan...I watched her there on that farm, where I found her...the westering sun shining through her long dark hair...

She introduced herself to me and I to her...my little buddha brought her there..."Are you a Buddhist?", she asked with broken tongue..."I am some times."...was my answer. She had seen my little buddha, sitting at the front, of my tiny travel trailer...

As times went on...I working as a bus driver...I'd arrive home after dark...I'd play a little music low, on that old worn acoustic guitar...Hooch, her dog...would come to listen some, an old Rottweiler...seemed to like me...he would guide and almost beg me to get close to her...and I inclined...not knowing our future...

And so it went, from day to day, and month to month...until we got together...Hooch was almost dancing, the night I invited her to dinner...that went well...what the hell...we got married in a fever, not to borrow lines from other men's songs...but yeah...so, "Wanna move in?" I asked...she said she only had a couple things...

Forty boxes later...I was one cooked goose, flaming duck...fortieth blackbird baked in a fourteen foot trailer...this would not do...we had to find an apartment...sweet and lonely gypsy days were through...but I had this hot new little partner...and two kids and fourteen years later...here we are, still together...

I'm a bit older than a fossil now...and she, sixteen years my junior...talk about a cradle robber...I still watch old gent's and youngsters too, check out her caboose...and I go..."Hey! Hey! Hey! That's my wife!" She pretends not to notice...keeps me hopping...I can tell you...and just life in general...as god squats back with a video recorder...and captures funny times between us two...

And our dear children...well, there's another chapter...perhaps tomorrow I may jot it down...we have the two, a boy and girl...fruit not fallen very far from the tree...and they are smart as hell...and gearing up to beat us at the game...but I'm a dad, an old and wise one...and I think that really foils their plan...yet, overall, they love us, and they're just great kids...that I'm glad are in our lives...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Art: Buddha, by artist presently unknown

Screech!

Screech!...not the sound of screaming brakes, or water pump...or raptor peering down, from high in sky...Screech, a skinny sort of hippy guy...who had a gift...restoring old antiques...and that was me...for sure. Screech came around, from time to time...with his dear mate, Marilyn...and we would chew the fat...as they say, and drink beer, and talk and talk and talk...

Then...Screech and mate, would roll old Screech's jerry rigged contraption...clean on out of there...and me and Angie...we would miss them...and weeks and months would fly on by...and Screech would call..."Hey!...duck plucker!" He would say..."Want to come on up to North Dakota?...You can buy a whole damn town for five k."

"Oh...yeah, Screech...that's right up there at top of Angie's priority." And then, he went away, a few weeks pass, months, a year...ring a ding..."Hey! Duck plucker!...what you gotta say?" and we would shoot the breeze...Marilyn would take the phone, and Angie on the other end...the girls would chat...the real brains...and there would be a pause for months...or years...

Old Screech, the kindest carpet bagger man, had a plan for every thing...hated him the city..called and called again, to try to get us on their frequency...trouble was, Angie needed specialized care...we couldn't drift out there to jerry rig land...even if we wanted to...and Screech was my soul...calling me again, but I never went...my choice was clear...you do not leave a friend...

In the middle of no where...so that went on, and then, as time went by, we never heard again, from old Screecher...did he die...or did his girl of many years, just up and go...weary of her same old creature...I don't know...but I know, my sorry  soul has a hole, where my pal never calls no more...stay in touch folks...it hurts...when you don't...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Art: Junkman Frozen In Time, by presently unknown artist

Angie and Me

My girl Angie, had to leave us here in this world, in 2004...I miss her every day...she was my best pal, we went every where...and we'll hook up again some day...I just know we will...by the way, that's not a 67 caddy in the pic, or a Prairie Schooner...they're too rare, just like my Angie...
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We left Ojai...threading up the coast hiway toward Monterey Bay...that first day of our journey...our bright  orange and white vw camper van, chugging along...quite happily...We made it all the way to San Francisco, that same day...hungry for some dinner that late afternoon...

Angie, my sidekick, my friend, my quadraplegic dear...we escaped again...from Doctors and from nurses...and from antiseptic smells, and protocols...they trained me to take care of her and trained me well...we even raised a little hell...now and then...

We found a bayside restaurant...standing high on piers...Angie couldn't sight a ramp...just many many steps, to mount to their front door..."you ready Angie?"..."Yup!" was all she said...we spun around, I tilt her back in that old wheel chair...we mounted thirteen steps, up the gallows there...

Bump bump bump bump!...it went...we finally there...that front door hard to open, yet, no sweat! I got the damn thing open...proprietor's were giving us 'the glare'...'why'd you think we put the thirteen steps out there?" they thought..."to throw you down.", my silent minded muse conjured...my lips quiet...

We had a dinner there, in spite of cold and friendless fare...then we left...bump bump bump bump! I shook the dust from off my feet, at the bottom of the stair...we high tailed out of there, across the Golden Gate...and on a few miles more...we stopped for lodging, rest and care...

Next morning come...bright sunny day, more miles we chugged our way along the coast hiway..until we came, at last...to a little place called...Trinidad...had a lighthouse, and a store, an artist gallery or two,,,as all sea front villages are wont to do,,,and a very good chowder seafood cafe...and there we stopped to eat and reconnoiter...

They were very kind to both of us...I said "Hey! Angie! You suppose we'd stay if we could find a place here?"  "I guess." she said...I walked across the parking lot to the busy grocery store, and there upon the wall, an old cork board...stuffed with notes and business cards...I looked, and nothing there...but then...

This 'post it note' falls down to the ground, just like a magic feather...Trailer house and Cadillac to trade, call Patrick's Point, View Crest...blah blah blah...we called, we went, nice couple, bent on leaving there...this day...eyed our sweet VW..."So what you think." I said...and Angie looked at me. a little tear at the corner of her eye...

We traded straight across that day...they drove away in our van...I looked at the 1947 Prairie Schooner trailer, and the 67 Cadillac De Ville...said..."Angie!...Oh My God! We got a home!" That was the last day of sunshine, and for six months it rained and rained and rained...and I knew Angie, my girl, was sore at me...

I hooked us up...we pulled out there, down that California coast in Cadillac style...two 'stylin' gypsy's, bent for warmer climes...drag'n that silver beast...inside of three days, we were camped again, above the town of San Luis Obispo...we would camp there for ten years...a few tears, a lot of smiles...a lot of living lived by both of us...a lot of growing...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Swinging Through The Trees...Haha

This poem was written for and of a dear friend of mine...he is an outspoken activist for good things...in this world and against bad things.  My use of poetic license, first line of second verse..."what a dick"...is not meant derogatorily, but as a euphemistic friendship 'tag' in this case. I hope I have not harmed, where reaching cross cultures, is iffy and often misunderstood...he's a pal and very probably my best friend...
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There's not a dime of difference here...twixt you and I...you catch the prick...I  get to flinch...you wrath and froth and beat the air...Quixote at a tender twenty eight...I drag my ass along...to  all your wars...for love of being there...your sort of Sanchoismo...

What a dick...whose pen is sword with ink...thou fling to 'luminate the world...or 'liminate the whore...I ran the trenches with my messages before...and laugh to see myself in you...you mad melange of beaten brother lover soldier...caring more than all the lot together...

Bet you can't imagine...where I saw your face before...surprising after rising from the can...appearing in the mirror...I cut it there shaving...just a little nick of time...a thousand years before...no better...here we go again...another cock up of the slow changing...

Fuck a duck...you've got a clock to clean thou lad...glad it ain't mine...I fall to floor upon thy sharpened parody...I listen for the crowd to roar...they humorless and droll...their souls caught out...if soul they know...in shitleness of subtlety...in littleness of entity...in brevity of masculinity...hater's of all right as wrong they that...thou lovingly do battle for...Praetoria!

Thy cod be filled with balls...I will say that...though love would be a better peace...and harmony for thee and thine and time to...maybe toke a joint...to let the world pass by...thy pricks are quite enough of struggle...Kingdom's thou create...enjoy the grape...go ape with heady arms of ribaldry...swinging tree to tree...so very very funny...you are something else...keep on...keep on dear one...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

The Fertile Forest

Come with me...in the forest here...my hand in thine...to thee all...secretly sustained...enchanting's find...faint whisper'd...mystery so sweet...for this the...bower of thy bed...will tell thee...things thou never...ever dream't to...know conceptions...nay conceived...nor ever in...ten thousand lives...such things dear boy...

Come lay with...me and play...with me the forest said...dream with me...to be with me...that I may...teach you...of the way's...of nature...for I am the tree...I am the sky...I am the brook...and I am grasses...that your body lay...where mosses softly...cradle thee that...thou may rest...a rest of angels...all protecting thee...

Come listen boy...the cry of aerie...harbored eagle...high above near sky...the brown mole...down in ground...yet blindly...find his way...the wild ewe...her ram o'er shadowing...her back...their rutting song...of earthly joy...the wren her...busy nest...the cat bird fain...would'st steal  away...into my forest come...a'now dear boy...

And as we age...the forest...you and I...we listen for...those melodies...the forest play...in every note...a new design...all secretly enlace'd...and layered...in a web...of fine connecting...lives and lines...of bird and...bear song wind...and water rippling's...of space and time...and you...young boy will be...a learned fellow...of this sorcery...

And now we stand...this cup in troth...of spring'd water...cold as any...night in mountain...suck and... we shall sup...round campfire bright...arranged of stars...for table light...as dagger'd as...a winter's fangs...of 'cicles...yey I keep... thee close and...round about thee...warm as if...the forest...were in love...with thee indeed...thou son...indeed it were...will always be...

And this the way...of wild and men...and young men ever...knew this way...to be far better...than that soft...that cloying style...that steal...man's soul anon...is there a'naught...the wizard miss...for there his rare...apprentice lay...bare nakedly asleep...more trusting of...more pure and sweet...than any fair...and tender maiden...

It is now...the hour of dream...the time of sheep...dim distant bleating...in the night...to Pan there opening...his oaken door...and smiling gods...of pastures green...of forests verdure crowned...of supple children...playing in the light...as thou dare witness...majesty of faun...observed by thee...thou star crowned child...thou young man...rising with delight...

In manhood whole...young twig...no longer twig...thou pole blown...softly of the wind...young finger's dream'ly...wrap round...pull and play...thy Pan pipe... fairly free...thy proud and rigid... tree sway...ready to display...that rain of nature...that a young man spray...upon the flow'r...of every field...upon the meadow...

In the sky...upon the belly...of the world...that sigh is heard...preceding joy...that ever tones...release of that...white milky way...tis life...thou young man...wet with vision...of a pasture'd place...his own quiescent...now thou gentle os...lay down upon...thy little nest of hay...to thank and pray...and rest the forest...on it's nightly way...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Art: Reclining Pan c. 1535, attributed to Francisco de Sangallo, Photo by Preston

Book Of Hours

I have my...body of work...the poetry the prose...I have molted...very well...feather's folded...pop up angel...in a book...that disappears reappears...in one instant...all my life...my love sincere...chalk drawn soul...could be washed...away with tears...yet still be...no matter that...the world care...or not care...

I will still be...there beside you...loving you...whether not...or if you know...a billion lives...it took to...make you as...you are...do not think...lightly of yourself...therefore...thou kindly limned...of verb of vowel...of word and thought...I made you...and will love...you every bit...

You are there...your grace...your  sweet and...gentle face indelible...caressed and sweetly...noted in my...book of hours...to find thyself...this quest thou...may not choose...or may'st...to the end...of which...unraveled from...thy wrapping stand...as naked as...a child before...me think'st thou...and thou appear...

All copyrights and...time stamped notary's...are jests...the which in...all I find to...be so very funny...
for what dost...thou horde so...jealously thy word...thy love...my word my...love are free...nor have I...box or bag...with which...to capture thee...nay only that...that sweet love...you will know...the day...you come to me...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Art: River Landscape With Rustic Lovers, by presently unknown artist