Stars

by Rawclyde !

Everyday after dinner

I wait for day

To go away

I can hardly wait

To dwell with the stars

& my heart’s guitars

Twanging for her

As I lay on the ground

Blanket thrown down

Is it really

To no avail

To once more set sail

To be

At her tattoo side

To get balled-out as “Creepy Clyde”?

In the starry trembling-train night

Ahh, the mighty dreams

Ohhh, the flighty schemes…

~

Text Copyright Clyde Collins 2016

Drummer Photo Copyright Clyde Collins 2016

Art by Giacobino & Fedini at Deviant Art

(color modified considerably) & by Disney

~

Girl Scout of America

“Indubitable, Waskly!  Indubitable!”

~

Baby yourself with a smooth landing

Try it, you’ll like it, unto eternity

At a careful little fire in a measureless night

Where each thorn is a gentle quiet reply

~

The ground here is our planet’s cleanest

The universe provides no better place to sit

As it swirls your tallest tale above us

Old Rye’s reminder:  you are good company

~

In fact it turns out you’re the best

The only one beside yours truly

For hours we say nothing

This pleases the cacti choir no end

~

Rawclyde

!

(Art Copyright Beth Neely)

(Text Copyright Clyde Collins 2016)

Spirit of Place

~ 

It’s a place, that’s all, just a place ~ a knoll of dust & pebble ~ surrounded by a view, a view with next to no sign of humankind.

There’s a little truck-trail passing by below the knoll. At night time you can see an insignificant group of lights way out yonder ‘tween two dark mountains. Other than that, the place & the view is a home of nature ~ lived in by saguaro & creosote, ocotillo & cholla, thorn & more thorn, millions of tiny little flowers in the early spring, jackrabbit, coyote, lizard, red racer snake, stray cow, an irritable cactus wren, a curled-up baby rattler, a grey tarantula lying on its back, some gullies, a drywash under a sky unparalleled ~ & wavy crystalline distance broken here & there by a few volcanic rock pinnacles ~ & out-further-yonder more mountains of rock ~ craggy rock & piercing thorn.

Just a place ~ where nobody ever goes ~ except me ~ at that time a lone middle-aged man of no permanent property ~ in fact, of no permanence what-so-ever.

I was on my way to San Diego to work & buy more books for the Book Mule, which was a book store & a monk cell in a one-ton `85 Ford van with dual wheels in the back (hopped thru drywashes like a jack-rabbit). T’was the end of winter & a witto bit into spring or somewhere’s around that time, which was the end of the selling season, a witto ways above the Mexican border in Arizona. On my way outta there I decided to drop by this place, one of my hide-outs ~ and say “Good-bye” to the desert.

A good-bye consisted of indulging in a half-pint of whiskey & a warm 12 oz. can of Coca Cola, mixed together by & by in a coffee cup, standing around looking at the desert, & leaving in the morning ~ or something kin to that.

This was a very holy place ~ to me. I mean, for example, in early spring, in the glittering good-morning dew, when the drywash was a wild cacophony of bird song & the desert floor was a thick carpet of tiny colorful flowers, when I lost the trail & had to step on the flowers to get from point A to point B ~ I felt guilty. Of course you can’t touch the bigger plants when you’re walking along or you’ll most likely get pierced by savage thorns. When I almost stepped on the curled up baby rattler, I certainly did not kill him or even disturb him, but observed the snake, stoic little critter, then walked around him (or her). The whole area, in other words, besides being a hide-out, was also a shrine.

(more below)

~

~

So me & the Book Mule ditched the highway, rattled along a washboard road for, oh, about 7 miles, turned right on a particular wagon trail, hopped thru a few drywashes or whatever you want to call ‘em (arroyos?), lollygagged along with a silent song surrounded by gorgeous desert & sky & no reason why & backed into the hide-outty shrine without bothering a twig just before twilight time.

The wonderment begins. You can hear a pin drop 100-yards away. But when a desert critter lets go a shriek that bubbles thy blood, you wonder whether you heard anything or not. And the only thing making any noise is the bell ringing inside your head. Stark silence is dominant in this realm. If the Author Of All Things has anything to say to you ~ He says it now. Otherwise, you’re deaf & dummified in an eerie land of splendor. So go ahead ~ holler like a coyote!

I stood upon the knoll, cup of whiskey & coke in hand, head bowed, wondering how a ring of rocks at my feet got there. Inside this ring of rocks a few scattered sticks lay. Nearby was a jumbled pile of more sticks to feed an anticipated fire inside the circumference of stones. There were no footprints around here except for my own. How long had a campfire been waiting to be lit here? 100 years? And why hadn’t I noticed this campfire set-up before now?

“Well, I’ll be…”

Then I looked up ~ and what do you suppose I saw? A huge full moon had just slid up into the twilight sky from behind the nearest mountain. Whoa, what a sight.

“Lordy Lordy…”

I gulped down the rest of my heady mixed drink ~ but it really wasn’t that heady. What was going on around here?

Then, behind me, I heard the faint, tiny, but unmistakable sound of a ~ no, it couldn’t be! I swiftly turned ~ and behold! Three desert squirrels with minute musical instruments ~ a midget mariachi band!

No, not really, just kidding. But the mysterious fire ring & the magnified full moon, not to mention the other myriad miracles of twilight-hour tweeking the landscape all around, gave me the distinct feeling that I was not only saying “good bye” to the desert, but the desert was also saying “good-bye” to me.

Ain’t that somethin’?

I didn’t light the fire that night. The following day I took off for San Diego, got work, bought books, and returned the following winter on New Years Eve.

Then I lit the fire. And I had with me half a quart bottle of Old Overholt rye whiskey to make sure we enjoyed the flimmering flames & the swirling stars. We had a, uh, melodious conversation that night ~ me & the quiet, gentle, tremulously shy spirit of that place.

Dominus vobiscum.

~

from Cloyd Campfire

(around the beginning of the 21st century)

Text Copyright Clyde Collins 2015

~

~

art courtesy

of

Lynden St Victor

http://www.stvictordiaries.com

~

Rhymer, Let’s Burn One!

The Secret Passage

by

Davy Crockett Reincarnated

(2007)

~

Where might be
The secret passage
To heaven?

Might ye
Buy it
At the Seven-Eleven?

Where is this passage
Thru which so many
Seek to pass?

Is it in thy
Beloved’s eye
Or at Sunday Mass?

Please tell me
Oh Lord
Where I might find

This passage to the
Oblivion of torment
In my mind

Can it be found
Upon
The desert trail?

Or might it be
Delivered
In the mail?

Oh Lordy Lordy
I am
Growing feint

Can it be found in
A parable or
A can of paint?

Oh my darlin’
Is this secret passage
A beatitude?

Or per chance
Is it a more
Reverent attitude?

Or oh mother
Mary
Up above

Is
It just plain old
True blue love?

And
If
It be

What kind of
True blue love
Must we

Seek
Of
Thee?

Love enslaved
Or
May it be

Wild
&
Free?

Will it come only with
Lots of prayer
Or simply naturally?

Where is this
Secret passage to
Oh my heaven?

Certainly it cannot
Be bought at
The Seven-Eleven!

~

art by David Lozeau

http://www.davidlozeau.com

~

The Jesus Litany

~

Lord, have mercy

Christ, have mercy

Lord, have mercy

~

Christ, hear us

Jesus Christ, graciously hear us

~

God

Our Father in Heaven

Have mercy on us

~

God

The Son

Redeemer of the world

Have mercy on us

~

God

The Holy Spirit

Have mercy on us

~

Holy Trinity

One God

Please have mercy on us

~

~

Jesus

Son of the Eternal Father

Formed by the Holy Spirit in the womb of Holy Mary

Please have mercy on us

~

Jesus

substantially united

to

the

Word of God

Sacred Temple of God

Tabernacle of the Most High

Burning Furnace of Charity

please

have

mercy

on

us

!

~

Heart of Jesus

Abode of Justice & Love

Abyss of All Virtues

Most Worthy of All Praise

Center of All Hearts

please

have mercy on us

~

In Whom

are all treasures of wisdom & knowledge

In Whom

dwells the fullness of divinity

In Whom

the Father was well pleased

please have mercy mercy on us

!

~

Heart of Jesus

of whose fullness we have all received

have mercy

~

Heart of Jesus

desire of the everlasting hills

please have mercy

~

Heart of Jesus

patient & most merciful

Heart of Jesus

enriching all who invoke Thee

Heart of Jesus

fountain of life & holiness

bruised for our offenses

pierced with a lance

source of all consolation

our life & resurrection

our peace & our reconciliation

please

have

mercy mercy mercy

on

us

!

~

Jesus

meek & humble of heart

Jesus

victim of our sins

Jesus

salvation of those who trust in Thee

Jesus

delight of all the saints

please

make

our

hearts

like

to

Thine

!

~

Lamb of God

who taketh away the sins of the world

please listen

~

Lamb of God

who taketh away the sins of the world

please hear us

~

Lamb of God

who taketh away the sins of the world

graciously hear us, Oh Lord

~

~

Almighty

&

Eternal God

Please look upon the Heart of Thy most beloved Son &

upon the praises and satisfaction which He offers Thee in the name of us sinners.

To those who implore Thy mercy,

in Thy great goodness, please grant forgiveness

in the name of the same Jesus Christ, Thy Son, who livest and reignest with Thee

Forever and Ever.

~

Amen

~

editor

Rawclyde!

~

Ballad of The Northern Lights

~

by Robert W. Service

~

One of the Down and Out–that’s me. Stare at me well, ay, stare!
Stare and shrink–say! you wouldn’t think that I was a millionaire.
Look at my face, it’s crimped and gouged–one of them death-mask things;
Don’t seem the sort of man, do I, as might be the pal of kings?
Slouching along in smelly rags, a bleary-eyed, no-good bum;
A knight of the hollow needle, pard, spewed from the sodden slum.
Look me all over from head to foot; how much would you think I was worth?
A dollar? a dime? a nickel? Why, I’M THE WEALTHIEST MAN ON EARTH.

No, don’t you think that I’m off my base. You’ll sing a different tune
If only you’ll let me spin my yarn. Come over to this saloon;
Wet my throat–it’s as dry as chalk, and seeing as how it’s you,
I’ll tell the tale of a Northern trail, and so help me God, it’s true.
I’ll tell of the howling wilderness and the haggard Arctic heights,
Of a reckless vow that I made, and how I STAKED THE NORTHERN LIGHTS.

Remember the year of the Big Stampede and the trail of Ninety-eight,
When the eyes of the world were turned to the North, and the hearts of men elate;
Hearts of the old dare-devil breed thrilled at the wondrous strike,
And to every man who could hold a pan came the message, “Up and hike”.
Well, I was there with the best of them, and I knew I would not fail.
You wouldn’t believe it to see me now; but wait till you’ve heard my tale.

You’ve read of the trail of Ninety-eight, but its woe no man may tell;
It was all of a piece and a whole yard wide, and the name of the brand was “Hell”.
We heard the call and we staked our all; we were plungers playing blind,
And no man cared how his neighbor fared, and no man looked behind;
For a ruthless greed was born of need, and the weakling went to the wall,
And a curse might avail where a prayer would fail, and the gold lust crazed us all.

Bold were we, and they called us three the “Unholy Trinity”;
There was Ole Olson, the sailor Swede, and the Dago Kid and me.
We were the discards of the pack, the foreloopers of Unrest,
Reckless spirits of fierce revolt in the ferment of the West.
We were bound to win and we revelled in the hardships of the way.
We staked our ground and our hopes were crowned, and we hoisted out the pay.
We were rich in a day beyond our dreams, it was gold from the grass-roots down;
But we weren’t used to such sudden wealth, and there was the siren town.
We were crude and careless frontiersmen, with much in us of the beast;
We could bear the famine worthily, but we lost our heads at the feast.

The town looked mighty bright to us, with a bunch of dust to spend,
And nothing was half too good them days, and everyone was our friend.
Wining meant more than mining then, and life was a dizzy whirl,
Gambling and dropping chunks of gold down the neck of a dance-hall girl;
Till we went clean mad, it seems to me, and we squandered our last poke,
And we sold our claim, and we found ourselves one bitter morning–broke.

The Dago Kid he dreamed a dream of his mother’s aunt who died–
In the dawn-light dim she came to him, and she stood by his bedside,
And she said: “Go forth to the highest North till a lonely trail ye find;
Follow it far and trust your star, and fortune will be kind.”
But I jeered at him, and then there came the Sailor Swede to me,
And he said: “I dreamed of my sister’s son, who croaked at the age of three.
From the herded dead he sneaked and said: `Seek you an Arctic trail;
‘Tis pale and grim by the Polar rim, but seek and ye shall not fail.'”
And lo! that night I too did dream of my mother’s sister’s son,
And he said to me: “By the Arctic Sea there’s a treasure to be won.
Follow and follow a lone moose trail, till you come to a valley grim,
On the slope of the lonely watershed that borders the Polar brim.”
Then I woke my pals, and soft we swore by the mystic Silver Flail,
‘Twas the hand of Fate, and to-morrow straight we would seek the lone moose trail.

We watched the groaning ice wrench free, crash on with a hollow din;
Men of the wilderness were we, freed from the taint of sin.
The mighty river snatched us up and it bore us swift along;
The days were bright, and the morning light was sweet with jewelled song.
We poled and lined up nameless streams, portaged o’er hill and plain;
We burnt our boat to save the nails, and built our boat again;
We guessed and groped, North, ever North, with many a twist and turn;
We saw ablaze in the deathless days the splendid sunsets burn.
O’er soundless lakes where the grayling makes a rush at the clumsy fly;
By bluffs so steep that the hard-hit sheep falls sheer from out the sky;
By lilied pools where the bull moose cools and wallows in huge content;
By rocky lairs where the pig-eyed bears peered at our tiny tent.
Through the black canyon’s angry foam we hurled to dreamy bars,
And round in a ring the dog-nosed peaks bayed to the mocking stars.
Spring and summer and autumn went; the sky had a tallow gleam,
Yet North and ever North we pressed to the land of our Golden Dream.

So we came at last to a tundra vast and dark and grim and lone;
And there was the little lone moose trail, and we knew it for our own.
By muskeg hollow and nigger-head it wandered endlessly;
Sorry of heart and sore of foot, weary men were we.
The short-lived sun had a leaden glare and the darkness came too soon,
And stationed there with a solemn stare was the pinched, anaemic moon.
Silence and silvern solitude till it made you dumbly shrink,
And you thought to hear with an outward ear the things you thought to think.

Oh, it was wild and weird and wan, and ever in camp o’ nights
We would watch and watch the silver dance of the mystic Northern Lights.
And soft they danced from the Polar sky and swept in primrose haze;
And swift they pranced with their silver feet, and pierced with a blinding blaze.
They danced a cotillion in the sky; they were rose and silver shod;
It was not good for the eyes of man–’twas a sight for the eyes of God.
It made us mad and strange and sad, and the gold whereof we dreamed
Was all forgot, and our only thought was of the lights that gleamed.

Oh, the tundra sponge it was golden brown, and some was a bright blood-red;
And the reindeer moss gleamed here and there like the tombstones of the dead.
And in and out and around about the little trail ran clear,
And we hated it with a deadly hate and we feared with a deadly fear.
And the skies of night were alive with light, with a throbbing, thrilling flame;
Amber and rose and violet, opal and gold it came.
It swept the sky like a giant scythe, it quivered back to a wedge;
Argently bright, it cleft the night with a wavy golden edge.
Pennants of silver waved and streamed, lazy banners unfurled;
Sudden splendors of sabres gleamed, lightning javelins were hurled.
There in our awe we crouched and saw with our wild, uplifted eyes
Charge and retire the hosts of fire in the battlefield of the skies.

But all things come to an end at last, and the muskeg melted away,
And frowning down to bar our path a muddle of mountains lay.
And a gorge sheered up in granite walls, and the moose trail crept betwixt;
‘Twas as if the earth had gaped too far and her stony jaws were fixt.
Then the winter fell with a sudden swoop, and the heavy clouds sagged low,
And earth and sky were blotted out in a whirl of driving snow.

We were climbing up a glacier in the neck of a mountain pass,
When the Dago Kid slipped down and fell into a deep crevasse.
When we got him out one leg hung limp, and his brow was wreathed with pain,
And he says: “‘Tis badly broken, boys, and I’ll never walk again.
It’s death for all if ye linger here, and that’s no cursed lie;
Go on, go on while the trail is good, and leave me down to die.”
He raved and swore, but we tended him with our uncouth, clumsy care.
The camp-fire gleamed and he gazed and dreamed with a fixed and curious stare.
Then all at once he grabbed my gun and he put it to his head,
And he says: “I’ll fix it for you, boys”–them are the words he said.

So we sewed him up in a canvas sack and we slung him to a tree;
And the stars like needles stabbed our eyes, and woeful men were we.
And on we went on our woeful way, wrapped in a daze of dream,
And the Northern Lights in the crystal nights came forth with a mystic gleam.
They danced and they danced the devil-dance over the naked snow;
And soft they rolled like a tide upshoaled with a ceaseless ebb and flow.
They rippled green with a wondrous sheen, they fluttered out like a fan;
They spread with a blaze of rose-pink rays never yet seen of man.
They writhed like a brood of angry snakes, hissing and sulphur pale;
Then swift they changed to a dragon vast, lashing a cloven tail.
It seemed to us, as we gazed aloft with an everlasting stare,
The sky was a pit of bale and dread, and a monster revelled there.

We climbed the rise of a hog-back range that was desolate and drear,
When the Sailor Swede had a crazy fit, and he got to talking queer.
He talked of his home in Oregon and the peach trees all in bloom,
And the fern head-high, and the topaz sky, and the forest’s scented gloom.
He talked of the sins of his misspent life, and then he seemed to brood,
And I watched him there like a fox a hare, for I knew it was not good.
And sure enough in the dim dawn-light I missed him from the tent,
And a fresh trail broke through the crusted snow, and I knew not where it went.
But I followed it o’er the seamless waste, and I found him at shut of day,
Naked there as a new-born babe–so I left him where he lay.

Day after day was sinister, and I fought fierce-eyed despair,
And I clung to life, and I struggled on, I knew not why nor where.
I packed my grub in short relays, and I cowered down in my tent,
And the world around was purged of sound like a frozen continent.
Day after day was dark as death, but ever and ever at nights,
With a brilliancy that grew and grew, blazed up the Northern Lights.

They rolled around with a soundless sound like softly bruised silk;
They poured into the bowl of the sky with the gentle flow of milk.
In eager, pulsing violet their wheeling chariots came,
Or they poised above the Polar rim like a coronal of flame.
From depths of darkness fathomless their lancing rays were hurled,
Like the all-combining search-lights of the navies of the world.
There on the roof-pole of the world as one bewitched I gazed,
And howled and grovelled like a beast as the awful splendors blazed.
My eyes were seared, yet thralled I peered through the parka hood nigh blind;
But I staggered on to the lights that shone, and never I looked behind.

There is a mountain round and low that lies by the Polar rim,
And I climbed its height in a whirl of light, and I peered o’er its jagged brim;
And there in a crater deep and vast, ungained, unguessed of men,
The mystery of the Arctic world was flashed into my ken.
For there these poor dim eyes of mine beheld the sight of sights–
That hollow ring was the source and spring of the mystic Northern Lights.

Then I staked that place from crown to base, and I hit the homeward trail.
Ah, God! it was good, though my eyes were blurred, and I crawled like a sickly snail.
In that vast white world where the silent sky communes with the silent snow,
In hunger and cold and misery I wandered to and fro.
But the Lord took pity on my pain, and He led me to the sea,
And some ice-bound whalers heard my moan, and they fed and sheltered me.
They fed the feeble scarecrow thing that stumbled out of the wild
With the ravaged face of a mask of death and the wandering wits of a child–
A craven, cowering bag of bones that once had been a man.
They tended me and they brought me back to the world, and here I am.

Some say that the Northern Lights are the glare of the Arctic ice and snow;
And some that it’s electricity, and nobody seems to know.
But I’ll tell you now–and if I lie, may my lips be stricken dumb–
It’s a MINE, a mine of the precious stuff that men call radium.
I’ts a million dollars a pound, they say, and there’s tons and tons in sight.
You can see it gleam in a golden stream in the solitudes of night.
And it’s mine, all mine–and say! if you have a hundred plunks to spare,
I’ll let you have the chance of your life, I’ll sell you a quarter share.
You turn it down? Well, I’ll make it ten, seeing as you are my friend.
Nothing doing? Say! don’t be hard–have you got a dollar to lend?
Just a dollar to help me out, I know you’ll treat me white;
I’ll do as much for you some day . . . God bless you, sir; good-night.

~

art way up at the top of this post

black & white of Xullrae by Yerin Yoo

alias Slugette / DeviantArt.com

~

The Flyin’ Outlaw

~

by Curley Fletcher

~

Come gather ’round me, cowboys,
And listen to me close
Whilst I tells yuh ’bout a mustang
That must uh been a ghost.

Yah mighta heard of a cayuse
In the days they called ’em steed,
That spent his time with eagles
And only come down fer his feed.

He goes by the name of Pegasus,
He has himself wings to fly,
He eats and drinks in the Bad Lands,
And ranges around in the sky.

Seems he belongs to an outfit,
Some sisters, The Muses, they say,
And they always kep ‘im in hobbles
Till he busts ’em and gets away.

Fer years they tries hard to ketch ‘im,
But he keeps right on runnin’ free,
The riders wore way to much clothes then,
Cowboys was knights then, yuh see.

He bears a bad reputation,
I don’t sabe how to begin,
Part eagle, part horse, and a devil,
They claims that he’s meaner than sin.

I’m a-ridin’ that rimrock country
Up there around Wild Horse Springs,
And I like to fell out uh my saddle
When that bronk sails in on his wings.

I feels like I must be plumb crazy,
As I gazes up over a bank,
A-watchin’ that albino mustang
Uh preenin’ his wings as he drank.

Finally he fills up with water,
Wings folded, he starts in to graze,
And I notice he’s headin’ up my way
Where I straddle my horse in a daze.

And then I comes to, all excited,
My hands is a-tremblin’ in hope,
As I reaches down on my saddle
And fumbles a noose in my rope.

Ready, I rides right out at him
Spurrin’ and swingin’ my loop
Before he can turn and get going
I throws – and it fits like a hoop.

I jerks out the slack and I dallies,
I turn and my horse throws him neat,
And he lets out a blood curdlin’ beller
While I’m at him hogtyin’ his feet.

I puts my hackamore on him,
And a pair uh blinds on his eyes,
I hobbles his wings tight together
So he can’t go back to the skies.

I lets him up when he’s saddled,
My cinch is sunk deep in his hide,
I takes the slack out uh my spur straps
‘Cause it looks like a pretty tough ride.

I crawls him just like he was gentle,
I’m a little bit nervous, you bet,
I feels pretty sure I can ride ‘im,
I still has his wings hobbled yet.

I raises the blinds and he’s snortin’,
Then moves like he’s walkin’ on eggs,
He grunts and explodes like a pistol,
I see he’s at home on his legs.

Wolves, and panthers, and grizzlies,
Centipedes, triantlers, and such,
Scorpions, snakes, and bad whiskey
Compared to him wasn’t much.

I got a deep seat in the saddle
And my spurs both bogged in the cinch,
I don’t aim to take any chances,
I won’t let him budge an inch.

He acts like he’s plumb full uh loco,
Just ain’t got a lick uh sense,
He’s a weavin’ and buckin’ so crooked
That I thinks of an Arkansaw fence.

I’m ridin’ my best and I’m busy
And troubled a-keepin’ my seat,
He didn’t need wings fer flyin’,
He’s handy enough on his feet.

He’s got me half blind and I weaken,
He’s buckin’ around in big rings,
Besides which he kep me a-guessin’,
A-duckin’ and dodgin’ his wings.

By golly he starts gettin’ rougher,
He’s spinnin’ and sunfishin’, too,
I grabs me both hands full uh leather,
I’m weary and wishin’ he’s through.

He hits on the ground with a twister
That broke the wing hobbles, right there,
Before I can let loose and quit him,
We’re sailin’ away in the air.

He smoothes out and keeps on a climbin’
Till away down, miles below,
I gets me a look at the mountains
And the peaks all covered with snow.

Up through the clouds, I’m a-freezin’,
Plumb scared and I’m dizzy to boot,
I sure was a-wishin’ I had me
That thing called a parachute.

And then I musta gone loco,
Or maybe I goes sound asleep,
‘Cause when I wakes up I’m a-layin’
Right down on the ground in a heap.

He may uh had wings like an angel,
And he may uh been light on his feet,
But he oughta had horns like the devil
And a mouth fit fer eatin’ raw meat.

I’ve lost a good saddle and bridle,
My rope and some other good things,
But I’m sure glad to be here to tell yuh
To stay off uh horses with wings.

~

Curley Fletcher was an American composer of cowboy songs and poetry.  He is best remembered for the classic cowboy song “The Strawberry Roan,” written in 1915, and for his book, Songs of the Sage, originally published in 1931.

Wikipedia

~

Pegasus by Daniel Eskridge

http://fineartamerica.com/profiles/daniel-eskridge.html

~

Cloud Shadow 44

Now

thee

most

beautiful eyes

~

More resplendent than

the most resplendent truth

ever unveiled

beneath pure blue skies

~

Appear in the cloud that

blooms and looms

ever more sharply

defined above

~

These two eyes

of

course

overflow with Love

~

They are

of

course

gazing down at me

~

And

I

am

utterly

~

Enslaved

by

this

Love

~

In

these

Eyes

   up above…

~

Deep Desert Blues

~

From Where Came Her Sword?

When Saint Joan of Arc was burned at the stake for heresy, her sword was shattered by an English soldier, and the fragments were widely dispersed…

However, Roux and Garin, two of the knights in Joan’s personal retinue, were cursed with immortality in order to be able to eventually track down…

And reassemble the holy sword…

Annja was present when this came to pass, and at her touch, the blade miraculously re-formed, making her its new bearer…

Saint Joan of Arc’s sword cannot be taken from Annja against her will, and she has the power to remove it to and retrieve it from a supernatural location referred to as the “Otherwhere”…

This process works regardless of the sword’s current location, giving her the ability, for example, to use the weapon as a projectile and then immediately recall it to her hand…

Moreover, Saint Joan’s sword also enhances Annja’s general constitution and helps her recover from injuries…

~

https://www.goodreads.com/series/41157-rogue-angel

~

compliments

of

Rawclyde

!

(with some help from Wikipedia)

Let It Be

~

When I find myself in times of trouble
Mother Mary comes to me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be

And in my hour of darkness
She is standing right in front of me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be
Yeah, let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be
Whisper words of wisdom, let it be

When the broken hearted people
Living in the world agree
There will be an answer, let it be

For though they may be parted
There is still a chance that they will see
There will be an answer, let it be
Yeah, let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be
There will be an answer, let it be

Yeah, let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be
You know there’s gonna be an answer, let it be

And when the night is cloudy
There is still a light that shines on me
Shine on until tomorrow, let it be

I wake up to the sound of music
Mother Mary comes to me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be

Let it be, oh no, let it be, let it be, let it be
There will be an answer, let it be, let it be
You know there’s gonna be an answer, let it be
Oh, let it be

~

sung by Paul McCartney

art by Lajuls

~

A Princess Of Mars

When I kiss thee

On ye

Dimpled knee

Let it be

Let it be

Let it be

It is only me

Being free

Adoring thee

Let it be

Let it be

Let it be

My eyes overflow with stars

My soul twangs a thousand guitars

You are my Princess of Mars!

Let it be

Let it be

Let it be

~

Rawclyde!

~

artwork via

Dynamite Comics & Vinicius Menezes

~

seeking the blessings of

Edgar Rice Burroughs

~