The Remains of Alt Clut

There is no alternative to History, and they who write it, but 'the guess'...and that, as accurate as may be, is silent in avowal...as confessional. Merlin, The Mage...existed. He lived at a time when the Valley of Alt Clut, lay stretched in it's dominion...east to west across the wild of northern Scotland. The Kingdom was ruled, with an iron fist by one Rodderich Howl and his sons, from the promontory castle known as Alt Clut...seat of the Kingdom. Today, we know it as Dumbarton Rock, and Castle...situate in the upper Clyde River, and the Valley of Alt Clut, is now 'The Strathclyde'. This poem hints at days...long past, where Merlin ran against Rodderich, and payed the ultimate price. It hints, as well...at a recompense, justified of fate...that no bad thing can practice and prosper...forever.
There are numerous tales of Merlin. He was here...he was there...he was this...he was that...but of the truth, or for a fact...no one may ever know...so, here is my condensed version of a likelihood...as likely as the next. This poem is published, in advance of a future novel...that will reveal more.

Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016   Deming, New Mexico






Back in the forest...

yes, and rather glad to be...

just having now returned...

upon a quest, and glad are we,

as having...necessarily...to say,

apart from present company...

sadly...sore...a bit lame,

but none the less...

to wrest the chair of poetry,

from out the hand of he,

who would have snuffed the very candle...

from the alter of...the Orat'ry.

Here then...amid the trees,

In languor at ease,

in this true home.

A bit of rest is all one need...

what more, an hour...an age...

so, mote it be,

to whom, is thus...evermore.

Dear friend's explore...

the gore remains, of that foul suit...

that seat, Alt Clut...

just there...

in river head on yonder promontory.

Tell us what ye find,

that history may say...

tell it not, that we may deal with the lot,

in our own way...

it matter little for the telling...

as has always been,

for truth be skewered

of a three fold death...

again and.again and again...

and yet... we live...don't we.

We live...yet now, must rest...

go...find us what ye can.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016   Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: Geograph.org.uk, Dumbarton Rock: The Portcullis Arch

Ancestor

My councilor,

is wonderful...

yet...not so kind,

to tell me

what I wish to hear...

oh no,

my councilor tells me

what I need to hear,

and damned if I don't like it.

None the less...

he persists in his advise,

always the one,

with the other in him.

He delights in my discomfort...

he continues to demand.

He calls me into question of myself.

He is a constant guide...

a light...

a blight upon my being,

and my certainty...

testing every balance I have won.

He is the breath of my world,

as I am the dust...

he is the father of my mystery.

I bear no weight against his might,

and yet...

from time to time I turn him,

as his voice of many waits...

silenced for a time,

and I argue...for my kind.

He returns...

his answer blunt,

or...chastened,

and as if...he even cares...

he cautions me with love...

adjure's me...

not to worry so.

 Allowing me,

where other's wont...

forgiving me...

his fatherly appreciation...

knowing no bound.

He is quite piqued by honesty's inverse.

He will not suffer long...

that son, who puts him on.

So, we commune...

commit to meditate,

alike...as one...almost,

and he and I...

a father and a son,

a soldier and a ghost,

touch one another's souls...

somewhere

in convoluted space and time...

his Wizardness...

I wisdomless,

bear witness of him...

and...I guess...of me, he does the same.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016   Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: Unknown, Humboldt Redwoods

This Easter morning

The poorest people arose,

this Easter morning...

in their millions,

to believe and wonder

on the savior of the world.

They needed no prompts...

no perks...

no paltry flag waving...

parades of the faithful.

They are everywhere...

they are his...

they are hidden.

The media did not recognize them,

for they did not recognize him.

In the secret hearts of a true believer,

is a child, waiting...

on that impossible thing,

full of love...

unconditional.

Through the ages,

they have waited...

they will wait

for ages to come, if needs be.

These are the candles of the world...

the true lights.

They are part of the light

of he who has so many names...

Jesus,Emanuel, Esu, Hesus, Ichtheus, Nine...

The Carpenter.

 He is everywhere...in them,

in their collective love and belief.

He is not far off.

He is here now.

This Easter morning, he is watching...

he is watching the sun rise too,

and he believes in them,

and...he believes in you...

Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016  Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: Unknown, Sunrise

The Desert's Spring

Here, all these tiny flowers,

lit on limber stems,

sprung up from ground,

in blue of sky and blue of eye...

of pink and white of wedding gown...

that 'handed down'...cream,,,

of lavender, and purple sage,

and all...so spare,

no gaudy showing of their spring,

as home made as a farm girls bonnet,

or a cowboy's jean...

upon this dance hall floor

of wind blown sand,

this golden plumb,

of plain spun mean...

right here, where we were led...

to perfect little stars,

of fives, of fours, of threes...

so, almost overlooked...

come out to greet us

with their secret math,

of petals and their frugal ways...

thus, are we met...

by heaven...so profound.

Oh, now...

among these cactus bristled wastes...

where dreams have died for some,

our dreams are born,

as all the life gathered, watches...

waiting on our kind...

to see, our worthiness...or no...

will we forsake this land or,

dwell, and pray our thanks

 of this new home?


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico

Photo credit: Vladimir Dinets

The Dust Devil

Here, where we live...

you can shoot,

a bullet into the wind.

It will spit it right back at you.

For, the wind will come...

it will press us to the east,

bowing us down...

as if, in prayer to Zia,

the Zuni sun.

Who then, are we master of...

not even of ourselves,

for the potters wheel spins

and we are perfected of the dust devil.

The little flower's know...

the cactus...

clinging for it's life,

with rooted toe...

nor drop to wet the tongue,

nor spit...to spit upon the ground.

For all our words,

the desert simply say's...

"quiet child...quiet down".

We must give to that great wisdom,

that is Father...

in the swiftness

of his rushing forth.

We must low ourselves

toward the sand...

even though...

he has not said a word...

we know.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016  Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: Land & Sky, Dancing dust devil

Dear God

Dear God...

will you find me...

I am a poet,

buried beneath  mountains,

buried beneath heaps,

of trivia,

of  non-essential,

un-original,

crap.

Even though,

the heart tries,

 the mind conceives,

this beauty and this garbage

fall on me...

muting words...

killing  prayer,

drowning hope,

givings sent forth,

sorrows buried

silently somewhere...

beneath this mountain here...

God help me...

God...

are you there?

What wave come next,

 what burial of apocalypse...

to wash away the poets words...

to lay them in the everlasting muck...

of mediocrity...

to blend them into poverty,

as if they never were?

God, I am down here...

screaming in the waste,

of scavengers who want,

no poets anymore.

Will you come save me...

am I written in the book,

or is that buried too,

among the many, here...

forgot?


Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016

Photo Credit: Laura Watkinson, 10,000 ton stinking heap of garbage

The Newbee

Don't worry,

I wasn't born yesterday.

I am handed off to devil's...

and I watch them carefully.

I bait them, and I tease them...

and, they come to me...

as fishes do...

to fishermen...

against their will...

their better judgement...

they...

perambulate...

the only tricks they know...

around, around...

to slowly show...

they bare no interest, in me...

really?

Yet, perhaps...

a little bite,

before we go.

The wolf,

the rider, and the pack...

a deck so stacked,

that even loser's scent...

their odd impossibility.

Their pride against the fool,

to win by slight,

of any means...

to bind, too blind, to be aware...

their arrogance to danger there...

the snag...

of he who has his meat...

and they...

have nothing but the air.


Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016

Art: The Wolf Turned Shepherd, artist unknown