Be Wolf

Be one with the wolf. Be the one with the wolf. Be fearless of the pathfinder, for the fearful rue nature, and ruin nature...in their riot to remain, behind the battened door...they would end every last thing!


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

Flick Flick Flicker

Luckily, I get little from 'likes', but I get poetry from frustration. When I feel unread, ignored...I become, 'as the dead', with great power to express; as they do over there. Lights flick flick flicker, chairs stack themselves...my kids wash the dishes, and everything's better!


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

Weekends Off

Does the devil take the weekends off? I've wondered that many times before...perhaps basking, in the glory of the morning, in a white fluffy terry cloth towel?

You know, nothing seems to happen, on a weekend...nothing national or global, that is. It seems to 'pause' for two days off, then 'pick up' Monday morning...as the whole world goes to hell!


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

If Only

If one stray thought, that isn't yours, comes by...ignore it for the ones that are. By the end of the day, if you can write 'one line of poetry', that isn't borrowed, blue, or pirated...you've done well!


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

I Get More From Rubbing Richard

I know, that there are pterodactyl's in Oregon, that there are sons of Esau, scaring hell out of campers in the woods and National Parks, of most of the world.

I know that there are craft, hidden in the clouds and men who can change, from a clown to a dick...in one instant.

I know all these things, but I do not know, what 'The News' means, or why the news lies! It just makes no sense, that I can believe in!


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

Useful As Fart Repellant

If we say nothing, of any account, we've a following. If we say something, indeed, we get nothing in return. We get dust in the eyes, thorns in the tires, or a silent warning...never to be meaningful again!


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

The Missing Words

They hide, in deep forest's of great limbs and twigging's, of crotching's and dangling's of vine grafts and mingling's, where clumping's of berry's as white as the moon shines, are caught in sage sheets, where a sharp golden sickle sythes.

These words conjoin the earth with the air, the fire to water, that draw down the quire, spelling the prayer, that sing of the spirit...as quaffed with the glain from a cup of the dewr.

When they are done 'dewing', they dream as a child. They walk with the lord of all life in the wild, on paths of a garden that no man may find...save, he hold the key to the oaken shield, and know the signs of the secret things.


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

Art: The Emerald Forest, by arwensgrace