A Little Book Open

I feel my wings, each time the wind blows...as these storm clouds gather. The crows know too...they sit at the posts of the watch tower's, frozen in a stare. I watched them, in a woman's eyes today, dark as hell's own ebon snow's.

They are clever, these crows, that give away nothing, in their signs...but their anger's in their omens...stolen brass, shining in determination. One's a page, one a pawn, no less, nor more than introduction...understanding little of the game.

Ten of them's a book, of a dark deck. Thirteen's a 'reading room coven'. They gather their will, their hedge, measuring the strength against them...of a balanced power, preparing for war! Our wings are fire, our heads bowed down...low.

They know, but know not, the tribulation held...in a short 'prayer of sanctum', while, approach by death, by lie, by using little children's in their art...the blind of their perfectly camouflaged mistake,hidden they think, as they aim for the bird, whose hand hold a 'seraphim quire', open at the word.

There, then...the shadows disappear, as all the darkness summoned in itself, to stay, become as bright as day...at noon, and wither until gone, according to the angel's call, by the power of heaven...he peer about the room, so quiet now and holy...closing his little book of vellum.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico

Art; Seraphim, fiery angels closest to God, Pinterest

April's Fool

Imagine your self, a ten year old, skinny boy, wizard in the making...walking a forest path, beside a meadow'd creek on a clear cool day...three young lads of the same age, close behind. 'Whoosh' it says, and you disappear...as if a wand were stick'n out your ass.

Cold deep water, up about your ears...staring out a cut bank at round pebbles neath your feet...salmon in your face, round eyed as puppies. "How'd ye get here?!" says they, as your mouth forms an answer of air...escaping from your chest!

You swallow half the mountain watershed...then, a saviors hand jerks you through the moss, back up to life...where the lads are laughing, at your near demise, as you lay in the soft green moss, and gasp, along side they!

We were all amazed, and every day, the same...lit like a candle in a lamp...was our rose cheeked grace, and God would give us things...like this surprise, but we never knew which one...and I doubt, knew they, we all were blessed.

We'll call that, 'falling through the cut bank hole'...through the mossy door, to another world. I would'a knocked, but went too quick. It's been like that, through all the years...conveyed through life, touched by death, but never died...not yet.

Full many jested pranks, designed by fate, have they, to give one pause...suggesting, they have all the funny cards shoved up their sleeve. I am their butt, but have learned to laugh...no matter what!


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: WWF-Canada blog, google pic

Robbing Peter

Every time, I look around, there are western and European people, aiming to become involved in other peoples misery. A lot of that misery is created, by our involvements. Why do we become involved? Well, for the least part, we become 'piqued' by news reports, plea's of assistance by humanitarian agencies (aka government sub contractors). We send bucks, food, blankets. That satisfies 'our need', not theirs, because most of our 'good deeds' never arrive on site. 

Warlords, 'in it' with government agencies, see to that. They siphon all cash to themselves, and the rest ends up in some African shit hole. But, it's always the same, a plea for help, like a plea to save puppies or abused animals. All the good deeds do, is grease the skids of 'government's interest's in those regions. 

Those 'interests' move in, beguiling the under educated with promises of 'humanitarian assistance'. Next thing you know, there's a 'giant sucking sound', as Energy companies, Giant oil companies, Mining companies...begin drilling, scraping, and overtaking the sovereign interests of these needy countries. 

The governments promise 'infrastructure, dams, education, and independence from need, but all we ever see, are red dirt roads, women with dried up breasts, and starving children...pickups and army vehicle's full of brash young men, wielding automatic rifles and machete's...and nothing ever gets better in any of these places. 

Then, let these people care for themselves. Quit 'feeding the warlords', the bandits, the criminals, so that the west can suck its greedy gain, from out of the ground...of the suffering! Let the suffering 'tend to' these warlords, when they are tired enough of suffering. Get out of there. Leave them be. If they have resources, they are 'their' resources. 

Quit getting involved and mired in every one else's problems. In short...'mind your own business'! White Europeans, have always felt inspired to 'stick their nose in', that they 'know more' than those native peoples living in the regions. What does it do to the white European's...to the dreams of''Empire? It bites them in the ass, in countless small ways. 

It overloads their borders with immigrants and refugees, and interminable demands for help. It becomes impossible at some future point...to meet the demand, and ultimately takes more than it gives the greedy swine, whose true intent, 'to colonize the countries of others, wasn't humanitarian at all...but, an ever ravenous...search for wealth at any cost. 

It is still and always...a tale of 'balance', or the lack of it. You move commodities, or cause them to be moved, from their place...you create imbalance somewhere. There's a lot of that going around. Where ever you see a 'third world economy', you can bet a 'first world economy' is responsible for it, by some hook or crook! 

Is it 'guilt' that inspires humanitarianism? Well, of course it is...and it's paltry little improvement, to the ruined lives, made by those very same 'humanitarian entities'.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico

Sorcery And Faith

If any angel fell...to towers pointy spires of sorcery and faith, 'twould ache a spell...where sinful prelates courts, of flagstone wrath doth wait, so, n'er break the fall. If stone, there, doth not flatten thee...aspiration shall, for they would climb to God's divine...of their own will!


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico

Art:St Andrews Cathedral, UK

Be Thankful Always

Every line we write, for its truth, is revenged...by the powers. Tae feel the pain. Yea, ye know...but as twas said, it is the word, ye must deal wee now, and his time has come.

So, we may be his whipping boy...his tongue for a day or two, an hour even, mayhap, but a word...tae ye, that at least, we will nae be...pretend, a 'written over' rot or bumper sticker.

If that is nae fine, at least...it is plain. Ye must list to that, ye di' na wish tae listen tae. Be thankful, it is not a strap.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico

We Watch You Play

Many are suffering, the imperfections of your perfect lives. Every day, for most, is not a milk paint toast to life, in Santorini or the god's own voyage in the Med, nor a 'Venice flat' above a world class cafe...down a thousand year old alley.

But it is life, as 'really' lived...by most, and learn, we do of this, and stand afar, do we, to watch the stolen beauty and your lives of bliss. We wish you well. We watch you play. We watch you seine the arts of all the world, in your golden nets and drag them away.

The fine, lithe youth, you covet and you pay King's ransoms for, are never seen again...by the ordinary. But, the sand is running down...time to turn the clock, and the frowns of the world...upside right, for a 'sea change' comes, filling every bowl of gold, with brine, and kingdoms, that were buried in the sea...will rise, to dry in the sun.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Ordinary life in Cuba, google pic

Falls Paradise

Yes, nice...but don't get close, unless...you wish to grow the weeds of wrath. It's pretty to begin, the perfect plan...all crotch and curve and shadowed promises...of 'goodies', to be had, but years go by, and pretty soon , the pumpkin patch goes wild and crazy...sucks the living juice from everything! 

Then, husbandman...what you gonna do? What you gonna do, when the garden, there, starts work'n you and eating you alive? Best stand off...appreciate the art of things, take yourself in hand, young man. Desire is all that most things are, illusions and illicitness combined. Don't let the vines wrap round to pull you down to falls paradise. 

Nothings free. Nothings given, really...in this place, but pain and hard times, jealousy's and rivalries and slavery's of ownership...no one can work in this, for love, itself...will pack its tools and leave, long before the garden chokes to death...where the only thing left is your headstone. Just look, but don't touch...in this pretty place. You buy the thing, you'll pay the price. Heads up, tip to the wise!


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2017, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Gaia, fine art portrait, marta bevacqua