Three To Kill Ya's

It takes three Tequila's, to turn a repressed gentleman...into, a philosopher...four, to shut him up.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016,  Deming,New Mexico

Photo Credit: elcubogourmet.es

How Are They To Know?

A little liaison, goes a long way, toward...ameliorating wisdom.




Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016,  Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: youtube.com, Brenda Lee

If you don't know what I mean..."wise men never fall in love", from... 'Fools Rush In', By Brenda Lee

Hidden Things

Fear not, the naked creation. Diminish, not...its parts. Rather, wonder, at the hidden heart...compelled to stunt, its creator...

Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico

Art: Morning Splendor, By Henry Scott Tuke

Experience

Men, who are humbled...have faced either, power...conscience, or beauty. Men, who are not, know not...much.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016,  Deming, New Mexico

Art: newnownext.com,artist currently unknown

Signs Appeared

On, The Morning Of Magicians...all, the sage, and honored elders of the world convened, raising up their hands to sky, and bowing...low, unto the east, and sun's rise. The great one, of almighty-ness, arose. His eye open...gazed, at these...his golden, molten pierce, of tenderness...upon them. 

They called his ancient name, in no tongue known. He answered them, in thunder...and in lightening. They fell upon their face, to the awesome, and the terrible grace...of Almighty's presence, among them. Earth shook herself...and groaned.

For these, accordingly, were given power...as might please himself, these watchers, to the needs of all beneath. They knew his name, his gentleness...his rage. A little bit, of he...creator, given them, and in those days, they respected...this thing. They knew, the world was formed of this...long long before...they ever were; long before them.

Then, as years went by, millennia...eon...men and creatures changed, forgotten he, who peered upon them. They no longer went to honor him, or bow before his grace. He slept. He slept, and did not wish to harm them. He slept and dreamed...disturbing dreams, of desecration, and...of death...of his creation.

Startled, he awakened. Signs appeared...in heaven, and upon the earth...consternation of men, as many asked...among the wise...'what has happened?' It is time to, once again...convene, to bow unto the east, to recognize...that, we have forgotten, and if it please, creator, please...forgive creation...with your kindly gaze.

Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016,  Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: stateschronicle.com

The Grey Ship

It has hovered here, for days...like a grey tongue, licking stamps, hissing, and spitting...but doing little. A bit of rain, a cup, a bowl...but nothing for the thirsty earth...a ship aground, her bottom shoaled on the sky of heaven. Her sails are billow'n clouds...ripped, and soiled. Yesterday, they flew, fully...white, and bright, rose gold...where the sun, caught them. Now, her toil shows...her mood, to less hope, bound...her strength, the might of few...wallow'n in tides, outside safe harbor. Like a ghost, of ships, before...her grayness shrouds, as age endows with sadness, tears, that will not come...her wreck lays...unmanned, afar, off shore. The night, may blow her out...a candle in the storm...snuffed, and, thereby, morning...gone.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016,  Deming, New Mexico

Art: Caspar David Friedrich, Shipwreck By Moonlight

It Is Now June

Where we live, in the southwest desert area, of Las Cruces, New Mexico, and El Paso, Texas...the windy season, is supposed to end after March. It is now, June. Where we live, the summer monsoon's, are supposed to start in July and August. It is now, June. Every day...it is a strange mix, of vapor trails, gaseous, amorphous clouds, and chemical odors coming off the desert. Every day, we do our work, as particles, unknown and un-admitted, descend upon us, and our neighbors. If these things, are a harbinger, of our future...we just might have to move, underground. All around our farm, in the open areas...in the sagebrush, the chaparral  and grease wood...Jack rabbits, and Cottontail...Roadrunners and Rattlers, all ask the same question...What is happening, to the seasons, the cycles...we are used to? They sniff the air. They stare, at the sky, as we do, and they wonder. Do we still have time?


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016,  Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: disclose.tv, Tackling the Chemtrail Conspiracy