Thou seeth we, but do'th, nay. Thou cometh by we, ye only see thy self. Oh, so proud, so full of pride and boastful, hubris, on ye downhill tumble. Oh, we were thee. We were thee, so many times, so many foolish falls...down ages passed, awee.
Are we? Though, it nay matter, thee...yay! Tell thee, anyway! Days, gone by, were called, White Salmon. That one, makes a smile...called Hesus, in Alba's isles, lailoken, Merlin, when the magic were upon Alth Clut, in Calidon and all Brithain...as well.
We were bard, to Anwyn, played of that fair land, we hail from. Also, Taliesin, pleck't, upon that self same harp, made the contraption, and, as all the rest, writ upon the heart. We knew the name of every herb and twig of syllable and star, of nature. We became...of anyone, or anything at all...through word alone, placed, 'just so'.
We are more than thou seeth, or canst see. We are 'that soul', thou art losing, of the race of men. There is, but 'one thread' left, of this thin book of days, hanging to the life, of he.Ye are leaving him, thou fools...and never know, nor ever knew, that thou hath done...this thing.
Amen!
Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: Taliesin, walks between the worlds of history and myth. The sixth century Welsh bard, called Taliesin, was synonymous with Merlin, Lailoken and other shaman figures of the fifth and sixth centuries. He lives in the soul of some poets.
Went out tonight, long after dark, after a friend stopped by, pointing out stars to me. Lit up the lantern, soft light of a kerosene lamp, course, the lamp oil used now, in lamps, is much more refined...than used to be. But, still has that fuel oil smell, I long remember. Brings back childhood memories.
I sat in my throne, of 'folding chair', with a brew of 'black as night' coffee, pulled the dark of heaven, round my shoulder's, Gods serene stars, above my crown. No King, was e'er regaled, in greater finery.
In the day, I was sad, that my family never called, but, at night...I came to realize, 'I'm here', abandoned, in the most wonderful way.
I got everything, I ever really wanted. Thought I did, anyway.
I'm free now. I can sit beneath the night sky, with no one to disdain...and my God to talk too. I can roll down the great highway, smoke, if I want too, chuck back 'a few', upchuck, if I do too many. I'm free to 'waste myself' away, in a half conscious bliss...if I want too.
It's not my style, but an option...better than 'apps', I can tell you.
Namaste
Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: cosmic moon, google pic
Good morning, everyone! Christmas day is here! Don't break a leg, getting to the tree, and after you pull the mask, off the old Lone Ranger, hope he's what you had in mind...to fiddle with. Non returnable.
Anyway, I'm looking for mine...a little shocking, what I got, a 'red hat' on my head, a mess of long white hair, an empty bag of 'nothing' left , and a cup of 'morning joe', for cheer.
I was wait'n for it all to arrive, but never expected, it was about...'coming to myself', thanking God, that I'm alive!
Merry Christmas!
Ho Ho, hack hack, gasp! :-)
Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: Christmas presents, google pic
Goodnight, my father in heaven. Thank you, for the starry crown, and the robe of midnight.Amen!
Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: starry night, google pic
There is darkness in the world, and 'it is night', but, what works best, in
darkness...is light, and so, this eve of Christmas, I lit a lamp and sat outside with it. I sipped coffee, and watched the stars...for any sign of Jesus Christ, or Santa Claus.
I admit, I am a child, deep inside. I still believe. To keep from growing sad, I hope. I found an old time Christmas show, on my, old days, radio...'A Christmas Carol', Scrooge, Marley, the ghosts...and all the rest.
The birds nest round me, in their warm black feathers. They chat about my lamp shining in the night. It makes them feel warmer, and I wish them well, as together...we wait, with faith, upon the morrow.
We are the better, for the spirit of our company. Goodnight, dear children...goodwill to all. Merry Christmas...tomorrow!
Sweet dreams, now.
Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: oil lamp, google pic
I cannot tell you, how much grander Christmas is, than 'Clausmas'. Oh, there's not as much...some manger straw, a little space, for each warm heart'd animal.
Stars up in the sky, cold glittering stones, for night light...wonder, that he'll ever come, the child that was the bravest one...who gave it all, asking nothing, loving everyone.
It isn't in the day, or in the tree, or in the boxes, bowed and stuffed...with momentary joy, and years of 'not'. It's in the heart, of every girl and boy, grown up or not, and that's 'the true Christmas'.
Happy Holy Day!
Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: manger in bethlehem, google pic
