No Bees Fly

May by

May 15 2011


The cherry branches

And the plum

That briefly blossomed

Now are done

The apple trees

Bloom pink and white

While still the sun

Stays hid from sight

And no bees fly


But all undaunted

Out we go

To clear the soil

Transplant and sow

To gently cover o’er the seeds

And pluck away

The new-grown weeds

While no bees fly


And yet, this early morning

Of another drizzly day

The air so sweet it almost

Takes your breath away

The light so rich and somber

Holy as a church

The birds, in sequence

Offer cantor praises

From each perch

While no bees fly


Oh I’m a busy boy these days: Writing begetting writing, spring begetting gardening; politics begetting a shake of the head; the muse begetting poetry and, wouldn’t you know it, music.

I am delighted to hear, always, that this palette of mine is engaging people, near and far. Yes, ‘palette’. Isn’t that a nice word, commencing with a confident pursing of the lips and ending, with a flair, in the expulsion of air. A new term aborning; perhaps new to the world, who knows: ‘Web-palette.’

I rose early one morning, having lain awake for some time with thoughts aromping like foals in a meadow, to find an e-mail from one Jerome. A rare name….but it took the reading of only a sentence for the synapses to fire across the gap of time. Ah, this was the Jerome who ventured out from Vancouver many years ago to join us in the studio in Sechelt and lay down the drum tracks for all the songs on ‘Pulling For the Woods’.

He’s writing to me, from an ashram in India where he has been living for seven years or so, to praise this ‘palette’ and point me to his own.

And so I write back to the sound of his music and the voices of him and his companions.


Then, sitting, bum on beam beside an open fire at a favored gathering place beside the salt water in Halfmoon Bay, celebrating a friend’s birthday, I’m congratulated on this site, and in enough detail on its design and contents to know that it has been well-explored.

I live alone now, and find much to recommend it. I speculate that I might write more truthfully and accurately if not impelled to hedge at the edge from fear of finding myself alienated from my own kind. I am drawn to the idea of living evermore free from need, including the need for the approval of others, yet find myself grateful, almost to the point of tears, when told that what I choose to contribute is of value to them.

Something missing from somewhere, in childhood most likely. How do we ever delude ourselves that we can truly get a handle on what it is to be human and how we might be more fully so?


In the plans, perhaps for today, is yet another tale of a log spill ‘worked’ in my years on the water. All were unique in their way, each worthy of its own accounting. But this ‘Crying Girl Spill,’ as I am thinking I will entitle it, was a different thing altogether. Truly a tale of the courage innate to us all.


One more thing: It can not be overemphasized how catalytic to the existence and effectiveness of this site have been and are the contributions of site designer and sometimes editor, Laurie McConnell, of videographer Sean Murphy and of others who provide me with feedback as to how effectively I am drawing with words and, if need be, in pencil, what over the years I did not have the means or foresight to photograph.

This week I have also been the beneficiary of the writing of Jo Hammond, whose recently published ‘At the Edge of the Sound’ describes her years and adventures with her husband Dick, a log salvor of considerable reputation, resolve and ability. Reading it triggered a number of thoughts and recollections that I will be able to make use of in my own writing.

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