Once And Final War

This poem is based, loosely, on two poems previously written: One by Dante, in his Inferno...called 'The Harrowing of Hell, and the other, referenced of Geoffry of Monmouth, called 'The Dragon Star...having to do with Merlin and Arthur, in preparation for a great and final battle...this subject, as I have conceived it...is, of course, non academic..which gives it a freedom, if not a storied provenance. So, although, it is therefore wild and brief...it should not be assumed to be 'a weed'...look upon it, if you will, as a sage herb...that one adds at last...B.J.C.
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Ye hath the words...

thou progeny of hell...

ye hath creep'd...

behind the scene...

of every play...

ye hath marked it well...

ye hath known...

and fore known...

of this day...

why then...

display ye no sign...

'cept thy flagg'd finger...

down hath come...

that spirit known...

to harry hell...

tis now upon you...

foul thou spawn...

set on thou fool...

as were the way...

of thou and thine...

destruction's tool...

ye morbid mentor's...

of all death...

without delay...

let us allay...

the doubt this...

may not happen...

for it will...

the hour is come...

arrange ye generals...

lieutenant's...

arrogantcy's in serried ranks...

that angels may...

begin the reaping's...

of thy last defence...

the standards fail...

the watchtower's fall...

she will count...

the dead of you...

he will choose...

the everlasting...

naught is left...

save smoke and dust...

for thy satisfaction...

pleased art thou...

need's not have...

come to this...

alas...

surrender thee...

this day now...

or end forever.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Art: HD Wallpaper, by artist unknown

Gone Fish'n

Sometimes I wonder...

why I even try...

I am impelled to try...

just as if I have...

a little outboard motor...

on my ass...

pushing me to write...

one piece after another...

in spite of the lot...

who don't give...

a great flogging shit...

if I do or not...

I do it anyway...

ptptptptptptptptptptptptptp...

my little motor boat...

puttering along...

see you at the lake...

and for those out there...

who do care...

I know there are a few...

thank you from...

the bottom of my...

ptptptptptptptptptptptptptptptptp...

heart...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Photo: Electric Paddle Outboard, credit to Chesapeake Light Craft

The Evening Angel

I wrote this for all of the poets and artists and lovers out there, whose posts and pictures, and beautiful meaningful sayings, inspire me to collect, to admire and mostly to share with others, their efforts...their voices...their unvoiced reaching's...to be understood..and desires to be hoped...for that impossible thing...yet not...that yearning to give and to receive love...however difficult it may be to express...or to believe can be...it has buried my own work...my own cry beneath their's...that's ok...

I am covered by you...

I am buried...

in your beauty...

I am smothered...

in your loving intentions...

and yet you never knew me...

how many of us...

know the other...

how many of us know...

outside the prison...

that we are...

beyond our soul...

to pity another...

to show mercy...

yet to share from...

the sake of isolation...

we indeed do know...

for this is...

who we are...

and without you...

we are no more...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Art: The Evening Angel, by Alexandre Cabanel

The Truth Teller

The 'Truth Teller' is...

the vampire...

that most dreaded thing...

to the pretender...

who hold...

their crucifix aloft...

even their false dawn...

yet dawn afar off...

nor can they rush...

from life's stage...

fast enough...

being discovered...

for that they are...

and that...

they never were...

for truth be told...

the story would unfold...

another way...

the lover slay...

the dragon nay...

let's hear the way...

it truly was...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Art: Oh, What's That In The Hollow, by Edward Robert Hughes 1893

Our Dreams

You will receive dreams...

where the people...

you dream of...

are locked into the memory...

of your soul...

yet, these prisoners...

are free to come and go...

as the breath...

of your heart...

is also free...

your lovers are there...

when they were new...

or as old as...

yellow teeth of joy...

known ages ago...

your family...

your siblings...

waiting for you there...

with tales to share...

of how they...

have missed you...

and no pry'er of locks...

nor picker of dreams...

can steal these things...

nor stay their inevitability...

for these are yours...

of your hard won journey...

and these will know you...

as you are known of them...

and these will abide...

in the ways of...

your love forever...

as together...

hand in hand...

you shall remain...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015

Art: Pan Playing His Flute, by George Percy Hood

La Belle Dame sans Merci...(The Beautiful Lady Without Mercy)

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel’s granary is full,
And the harvest’s done.

I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever-dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful—a faery’s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan

I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery’s song.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna-dew,
And sure in language strange she said—
‘I love thee true’.

She took me to her Elfin grot,
And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.

And there she lullèd me asleep,
And there I dreamed—Ah! woe betide!—
The latest dream I ever dreamt
On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried—‘La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!’

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gapèd wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill’s side.

And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.

Written by John Keats 1819

Art: La Belle Dame sans Merci, by Henry Maynell Rheam 1901

I came to this poem after a dream whispering "dan sans grot" led me to Dame sans Merci...Bruce James Clyde 2015

Peace Or Piece

This poem, I dedicate to Thich Nhat Hahn...Nobel Peace Prize recipient...and his endeavor toward World  Peace




I had made a sandwich...

for lunch...

our dogs began...

to follow me...

toward the stairway...

Miho my wife...

stopped me on the stairs...

to mention something...

about the great...

Vietnamese Buddhist Monk...

Thich Nhat Hahn...

his mission to create...

the peace within...

that will ignite...

the peace in the world...

my Abbey girl dog...

'sat pretty'...

just as pretty...

as she could...

I could hear her...

say quite well...

"I only know the piece...

of your sandwich daddy!...

Pleassssse!"...

Don't worry...

she had some bologna earlier...

It was Thich Nhat Hahn...

my wife...

and Abbey...

who helped me...

appreciate that moment...

of being human...

and canine...

on the stairway...


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2015