Many years ago, now. I lit a candle at the table, proof reading there, a pile of my poetry. A lethargy of lovely 'nap' came over me. I lay my head back.
When I awoke, in afternoon light...the candle, out. The poetry taken away by some hand...invisibly, where but a circled pile of black ash lay, and it it's midst...'a note', a single '8th note' burned into the table top.
No smoke, no fire, no smell...nor sign of anything at all amiss, save this...the poetry no more, but 'one note' in a song remain. I think...'one breath', from a loving God.
Namaste
Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: musical notes, google pic
If you believe in signs, without demand and miracles on hand...they happen, all the time. Even if you don't believe...they still do happen. So, be a sceptic, if you must, a scientist...an athiest, a nihilist, but all the same. Don't turn away, to just refuse a thing. God's greatest witnesses, are oft times unbeliever's.
Namaste
Some will see me come. Some will not. Some will see me go and other's will refuse to. It's in the heart, what's harbored in the dark...but there's a moon there too, and a great warm light. You will feel the thing.
Namaste
Why are guys such 'dicks'? They run around with loud pipes blaring, loud mouths open, dragging some 'chick' at their side. They always 'pass', but end at the light...at the same time.
Could she possibly, be impressed...even knowing, she'll be 'his first undress'? Why are guys such dicks? Why don't they pull it out, like the pistols they pack, and 'aim it at their head'?
Maybe it would quiet them down...for a bit. They are so impressed with 'their balls'. It's all about that...and their stick and their girl friends can't stand pool!
"How about 'bowling'? Huh? What do you say? Huh?" Pant pant pant...drool!
Namaste
Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: drooling, google pic
Father's living under bridges. Mother's on prescription drugs... 'splitting sheets' heard for miles and years...screamer's scream'n, "Don't let your children down"!
But those very screamer's...left us in the dust. Took a good thing, a God blessed thing, and tore it up...because 'togetherness' was fatally political to 'cause'.
Anybody figure, what the God damn cause was? It sure was't love or God, I can tell you. It was war and sales of arms, and oil and running drugs and guns.
Keeping love pinned down, while putting up a pimp...to sell the girls and boys to rich assholes. There's your 'revolution'! Around and round it went...and goes!
How's it feel'n? How's it feel to know...you've been taken down, by something 'creeped' in?
Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: they live, google pic
Come on over people, if you're led of God. Come on over if you're worn to nothing, from the lives you've lost.
Come on! Let's toke 'some stone', and talk about the past, the way we used to when our lips were young...when we didn't give a shit for anything, or even know how to.
Those were the days, weren't they? We were young and dumb and full of coming attractions! But, we knew some things too, as naive as we were, weren't we?
We were lover's and rhymer's and Jesus finder's on our way to Buddha's place and Alice's, where you can find anything. But, we were interrupted.
Now! Where were we? You forgot. I did not, and I'm still on the way to the parking lot where my 'brothers and sisters' remember me.
Come on over. Oh, and don't forget...the pot!
Namaste
Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: Flashback, google pic
Good morning! and just to prove it, face the light to the east, and tell me, it does not comfort thee. We are not moths. We do not fly to the light. The light comes to us, for we are attractants to the light.
We live in the darkness of a great abyss, and we say, we are of the light. This is right, but more...we are of both. Good 'mourning'. Good morning!, If it could be so...why are we sad creatures? Always, we are akin to the light, yet always, we cling to what we know.
In the desperate darken, we need more...for the light, though always near, can never understand, entire, the lightless...so, come here and hold my hand and roll upon this satin bed, we kin...of light and darkness.
Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: light in darkness, google pic
