Spider of Fortune – a poem

Tangles of spider husks in the underbrush

Are gathered, fallen from tribal wars

In the jungle demenses caused by encounters

Chance in nature and terrible in stature.


Hunters and horror fight against others

With equipment to repel and resist,

Natural arms seek chinks against strategy

Where brute force may fail, terrible fallacy.


Spider against spider is no even match,

The hunter mayst oft become the hunted,

Yet not now when a single strategist

Shall study for fortune, then strike.


Vision of a Hero – a musing



Sometimes of an evening I like to venture out into the garden for a vape, giving my room a chance to become clear of the vapour. 😛

Now, where I go to vape in the garden is riiiight at the back, behind a rather tall shrub/tree and next to a wonderful array of plants that have very colourful flowers. The bees and wasps adore it and the blossoms hanging just above my head to the left.

In the blazing sun it is a very active area, filled with buzzing and the whirr of wings in flight. I’d become somewhat wary of heading down there because of how anxious the constant insect presence made me, however…

The other day I was there, vaping away, crouched down in a squat to work on my calves (carpe diem, seize the day and opportunity) when I started noticing just how busy the area was.

To my left on the stone squares lay some bags of garden waste, just hanging out pre-recycling, and I spotted ants wandering over the black bag linings. After I’d spotted one, I started to see more. 1, 2, 3, 4…and so on. Then what looked like a winged ant, except…twitchier looking. As I stared at it, trying to figure out what it is…it suddenly shot forward and snatched up a tiny white creature!

I leaned closer that I might better take in review this previously hidden cornucopia of little life. Midges, ants, flying ants, aphids; I counted a total of 7 different kinds of insect around the waste bags alone. So much life that I was stunned in place for a long while.

Then the coup de grace;
a bee came. Huge, furry yellow body, and I instantly recoiled in case it came for me. Now, the thing we need to remember here is that I am a stranger amongst these creatures…and they *do not care*. I am nothing interesting to them compared to the flowers, scents and colours of what Mother Nature has tuned them to pursue by design.

This bee was a hero. He came swooping in among the violent wind tossed branches of the bleeding heart flowers, slowing descent and velocity like some mercenary ship to surface shuttle. Legs out and extended, he grabbed onto a leaf and DOCKED with the flower, entering to do his business and cover his furry yellow backside in pollen.

The wind gusted violently and I held my breath, hoping that he wouldn’t be knocked off. I need not have feared at all. This bee had no trouble and simply…crossed over to the next flower, no qualms, no troubles, sure as sure can be in practice.

I could see everything about this wonderful little bee as I squatted there, a stranger spying on his secret insect universe of minutiae. I recoiled now and again as the bee did more flyovers in the vicinity of the bleeding hearts, trying to snap pictures with my phone camera zoomed in.

Wait till I get a macro lens (:

Thank you for reading this ramble.


The Edges of Tiny Wings – a poem

​Edged softness swarms on tiny wings,

The constant lull of airborne things

Roams in the air all around, confusing

The senses, nervous tics and tangled starts.


Ahead, behind, in the air, all around,

Too hard to tell for the full sound

That seems to be everywhere, soft

The susurration yet deadly in slight.


Try to ignore the possibility, wings

Bearing stings from furry, bulbous bodies,

Or thin striped ones, vicious in hive

Blind loneliness; ever and anon rises

That edged soft blurring winged hum.


Insect Uprising – a poetic excerpt

This is a world where insects seek

To overthrow their Queen,

Millions in the hundreds

Of years have made fuel

That we burn, the dead

Bones of lost creatures,

Fossilised and Petrified

To make our world of smog.

Hundreds of millions of years

Have made fuel for a few

Hundred, single digit billions

Of people swarms roaming, eating.


We have smoked toads without thought

Of the sins accrued by waste,

Those bright shades swallowed

By the concrete Molochian philosophy…