Only Sleep And Changing

The gold in the pan, the colors on the leaves, turning over treasure...to another season. The glint in the eye, the twinkle in the stars...as some things leave, but nothing dies...only sleep and changing.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Autumn, google pic

Captains Log

I am the keeper of the place, meant to dust around...to tend the helm, as others sleep, that great sleep. The single light, left burning on the bridge...is god's. To wake them up, one task, alone...was given me, if all goes wrong. To burn this log of poetry.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Wizards Hand, whitebox house rules part 4

Valuing The Place

Might the calisthenic of mental fitness, acuity, by grace, be poetry? Poetry as magic, poetry as change...poetry as prayer? Might all things, be here, be there...because of that first word, engaged...poetry? Might we change all things, as fluid into fluid...swirling stars, new heavens, earths, beings? Might we think, as children do, on vaster scales...imaginations? Might we earn our right to heavens trust, by valuing the place, by picking up the pieces from our scrabbled floor, by honoring the god within? Capable of anything...we are, but care. Care, if you would enter in. The words are there. Remember them, again.

Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Point zero, Paris, France

Presto! Change Oh!

What happens, when the valence changes...in our being; I mean changes...crystalline, christ line...when, that adamant happens in an instant? What happens, when chemistry and language combine, changing everything, like a goat and a man or a mutt and a duck, or a 'what the fuck'? What will you do then, and when will we become that...if you know so much?


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Valence Electrons, google pic

Certainty Possibly

The theater's empty. I'm still on the screen...raging, like Donald Duck. Smell the popcorn, young couples groping in the last row. Guys, it's awful realizing, you're an intermission...when you think, you're so much more. They're gone now. They've seen it all before. Wait! There's an usher; with a flashlight...finding something; something, quite disgusting on the floor. It's Earth, alright. At least, that seems for sure...though seeming certainty, is never certainty for sure.

Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Diane Arbus, empty movie theater

Impossibly Likely

When, did the world begin to be a stage...and we, the players, strutting and fretting? It was said by some bright instructor, and I don't think, we were listening. Now, that it seems impossibly, likely, it is so...I want to know, how it all became a hologram?


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Theater stage, google pic

This Nest

Out my window is a sea of meadow land, in verde and yellow gold. It seems soft unto the eye, but to the touch, it is painful. With care, it can be held...only with care. It is a green carpet of new life, in a desert...spare and lean. Its fruits are many; hidden wonders myriad...of every color known, though bowed down...close unto the earth, as if trimmed...by that great gardener, himself. I thank God, for this view. I thank Earth, for this nest...to watch the world roll by, from.

Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Rio Grande River, by Britt Runyon