The Bark From The Bite

Everything tells me, I'm criticizing...no! Really? Is the bark of their tree so thin? Is the bark of their bite, all hidden on high ground, as their savage teeth, gnash...clickety click, an inch from my mind? as faux fruit arrive, by the box, to my doorstep daily and the world winds down, for their contriving...to a dying thing? Am I criticizing? How could I do such a thing? Well! Guess it's time for a 'political correction'...nah, not from me...


Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico

Surprise At The Grange Hall

This writing is, loosely conceived, from a dream I had several years ago. I left out the three White Goddesses, from the text of the poem. There were three of them, sitting, each on a straight back chair...each with a tall blond wig, it appeared, done up in a sort of 'beehive' arrangement. They were all young women. The chairs were arranged along the side of a 'green painted' Grange Hall. The alter table, for the assembly, was a paper tablecloth, with candy corns, and pumpkins, and moons and stars, and black cats imprinted upon it. The young blond haired boy, faced the audience, just before me...his back to me and held a black stone book, having two sides and four sections. In this book, were the sum of all knowledge. The book appeared to have raised relief, like 'brail'...a little book.





If Jesus arrived at the Grange Hall, some Halloween Eve, or any eve, like a thief in the night and he were a witch, and his child 'fetch', read them the sacred text from the black stone...and, bless his little toe head, he finished, saying..."These are the words of true Jesus".






We have, all of us, our gifts. You know. Grow into yours, if you want to know.

Ye need not hound another's down...ye have your own soul.

There are far too many secrets known; The 'half informed' a practice'n, the whole.

It's out of hand. You see, that's what happens.

Come out come out, where ever you are, and say..."Jesus, Mary and Joseph!"

Show me yours, I'll show you mine. Put away the pistola's...It really wont matter, this time.

If there is a change to come, it must hasten...the wise must be one.

For the crown, ye must join your gifts together.

My mother could raise to life, my father to heal...

both sides, abiding the other. It can be done.

The craft is strong, in our nature.

This handed down, I offer you,

and no other.


Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016,  Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: rvecafe.com, upper Applegate Grange Hall, Applegate, Oregon

The Wild Ride

I have dreams of flight,

from a backward fall,

I rise upright,

and fly without a broom,

I see my enemies down below,

in the countryside,

as I fly across the moon...

fling sticks and stones

to bring me down...

people I've known,

since the early days at school...

I don't know why

this thing was given to me,

but it's true.

Only the first few flights,

ungainly...balanced wrong,

like riding a bike,

I get the right of the thing,

as I walk in the sky.

 A gentleman asked,

"how fast do you fly?"

 Well, I wasn't that surprised,

 he knew..."Quite fast."

 I confessed, at last,

"a bit over three hundred miles an hour...

I guess",

as we chatted there

at a Big Sur breakfast bar.

So, I'm telling you,

cause I don't give a shit

if you know.

Get it off my chest.

 Stay off my ass.

We are no surprise,

 to the wisher's and wise...

to the real healers in our world,

who watch us walk

and wish us luck.

On a morning not so long ago,

a man was seen racing,

down icy road,

of early morning light,

six inches above the snow...

bolt upright,

to stares of two

who were there

and watched him go.

I am ready, you know...

to go,

but only heaven knows

when... 'll be done here.


Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016,  Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: pinterest.com, cloud diving

Telluride

In that place of ghosts, of glimmering crystal wax...imaginings...pealing laughter, peeling... paint...caked on the face of that old dame, sitting there, on the damned street...like a dead toad, with one croak left in her. I should have known, that all are counted lies in this place, but was unwise in the face of glamour. A center table chose for me, beneath a chandelier, waitress leaning in, it's quite late, sir...coffee here, just waiting...timbrel, chiming of the china stacked...somewhere.  I spied the finest linen lace upon the table, then, the people just...weren't there. I fail to recollect, they left...they faded from the scene, as all the house lights dimmed, until the darkness, was the only speaking thing. Arising, I departed, with unsettling chill...I never heard the music go and, though it did, never said...until we meet again, someday. The whole tent folded, and was gone...I had never been invited to the party anyway...only happened by, that night...to  the cold heart'd bite of Telluride.


Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016,  Deming, New Mexico

Photo Credit: mountainroserealty.co, Telluride, Colorado

Conscript

Any one who speaks their truth, is bound to draw flak, in these times. Speak them anyway, for there is a war and we are in it. Put the armor of God, and rightousness upon yourself and come. You are needed at the front. Poets first, not last...for this is a battle, not of the flesh, but for the soul of humanity. Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016, Deming, New Mexico

Forgive, But Never Forget

If I must,

I will go backward,

forever...

to find the beginning...

that heals the end...

Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016,  Deming, New Mexico

Straight Men

I like straight men, brief, wise...tender to their mates and friends, men I can trust. I would do anything, for a good man...just don't shove it down my throat...


Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016,  Deming, New Mexico