Hollywood And Vine

Follow your star...don't worry about mine...hollywood and vine.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: youtube.com,

Only Made Of Dust

We are all fantasy's and dreams...revealing ourselves. There isn't one real thing, in any one, but what you might believe you are. It is...how can I say? Dust. So, play. Play nice. Play rough. Play...with others, with yourself. Make it up. It's not the truth. It's not a lie. It's only 'make believe', if anything. It is, as vaporous as air, as bubbles blown to pop, and disappear...for, you are...and this may come as some surprise...and may not be, lest you believe...you are. We are only made of dust.

Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016,  Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: angelabchrysler.com, The Magic System-internal seidr

Child Of White Sands

There is a hot wind, blowing off the desert, who's whispering's are not lost. Cross hiss of withering sands, it pushes truth, on parched and desiccated lips...toward us. Surely, as the sayings of a wise man. Cometh...cometh it. Kindly. Neither meant to harm. "Forgive all these, Transcend beyond", it says.

This was that,  that subtly...came; remaining momentarily, a river...lingering, then passing on, to hidden stream...diminished none, where spirit...is not seen. I am wiser, by the listening...than speaking, where the welcome lets a man...that come, as gifts and teachers...from a promised land.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016,  Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: newmexico,org, White Sands National Monument

The Stop Light

Truths, are often revealed, in the strangest, and most ironic fashion. You could waste your whole life chasing...what? Then, suddenly...you know, it wasn't real and, it wasn't necessary.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016,  Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: Google

Raisins

One thing, that must be understood...is this. I am not in this world, to demean the weak, to take up division, and use it to bludgeon, those I fear. I search, like many...for the kind, the gentle, the loving creatures of this world. I am not here to hurt the lovers, or to judge them...and if I catch you, masked degenerate, buttheads hurting, any one of them...I will dissuade you, from your mission. I am not gay. I am curious, sexual, and concerned. My balls, are the size of raisins, but I would match them against any, who cause harm...oh, titanium ones.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016,  Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: homeremediesforlife,com

I Am The Wooden Door

You bud. You see. Your wings are wet...in chrysalis. Epistle's, you come to understand. You strain, at first...your fondness for a rhyme, embarrassingly fails...and then, you write again...but this time well. You realize, not everything, was meant to dance...unto your clever line. You edit, these contrarians...out. Though, best of all, you find...at last, that all combine...in riot of a wild kind, and you, a poet...quite, outside the ken, and court...of any man. 

This flower, you've become...no longer bud, no longer favored, of Chevalier...nor powdered, as the Courtesan. Inamorato. No...if ever were. For now, you find the field, dale...and forest, home...it's raw, good earth, it's carnal smell, of sinful fun...it's taint, of truth, has made you...what you are. Your Bud has bloomed...so now, you may do Robin Wild, or mad good Merlin, of The Calidon, and bless you new man. Bless you, by the star...you stand upon.

For, wild wild weed and thorn, of letters fled, to hedged places...rushing, with the waters of the streams and springs of poetry. These, limbed, and stemmed and branched...towers  sentinal, of all the trees, that ever were...and all the forests, in this world...their groves, magnificent. Every herb is here, and sage, among'st them all to stir the balms of help, and you...good man...you know them, every whit, for 'once upon a time'...and many times,you were before.

One good lad, a youngster, free...of  age, with gifts, whose majesty be recognized...shall find thee well, and learn of thee...the wind, the shell, the fire, the stone, and there, above them all...the stars, about thy whited head, and he will draw you to the sign you've made...upon the ground, that quincunx...where thou lay, and he...your mage, be made.

Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016,  Deming, New Mexico

Art: russianfineart.com, Druid Wizard (I am the wooden door)

Corner Pocket

I'm not a big man, but I'll be a bigger man...if, I'm not in the pocket of other people...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016,  Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: wordpress.com