There are those who see

Rhymes sometimes

In these beguiling minefields,

And hear sweet palm trees breathe

In slowbreeze moonlit nights,

But not those teeth gnashing

In teeming shadowed soil below.

They may see pink roses blush

In noontime's startled light,

But miss the root-blood

Fiercely pulsing thorn-veins.

The calling:

Die to known;

Banish expectations;

Slash all nets;

Leap wild in unforgiving air,


To hungry lions

Stretched on psyche's

Blood-drenched earth,

Waiting, watching,

Devouring feathery word-birds

Snagged in sightful

Starlight nightflight.

If a poem dares to die

To fashion's moods and modes,

And live informed anew,

Life's sweet singing sighs

Sound, as well, like

Primal thigh-bone horns

Braying hot down

Stony canyons

To the sea.

The Calling