Tuesday, December 18, 2007

The Bees

There is a call (do you call for me?)
and the bees fall into swarm, fly out,
and do not return.

Warriors on the path, no notes left behind,
hive homes turn to dust and decay;
hexagonal birth and wax chambers dried out.

There is a place where the intuition leans towards
with a push and a pull beyond letters or description.
Do not describe what remains hidden.

A silent call amid the rustle of breezes,
a chill, a warmth that freezes,
and the few fly out to swarm anew.

The bees are the beautiful who knew.


Wednesday, December 05, 2007

Early fragments

Some early poetry from 'BLOODHOUND: SELECTED POEMS 1992 - 1995' (click on 'Writings').


I see your face in Everyone.
I see you in All.
I haven't found your body yet.
I'm following the Call.


Like little sea creatures
In a shell we lay

pressed against
the pressured air;

too silent to be moved,
showing ourselves
as the layered rock
shows earth's growth
from youth.

Tiny thumb prints of some desire
we wish to encapture

and keep between the flesh,
to seep from our pores

on every embrace
to smell the skin
on every kiss

like honest things.


The world is asleep
and often I am one with it
with each millions of eyes closed
and mine shut too:

It is a greater trial to awake
than to make love to your enemy
And evolution cannot touch that soul,
vain with its own busy life,
which does not stop to turn
its silent observation upon itself.


The truly man of calm is he
who has a silent turmoil within
his heart.


Monday, December 03, 2007


I lie like a scorpion afraid to sting,
so resigned to the shelter of rocks.

Is this the protection you desire?