Little Golden Girl

Sounds like you are lost
right behind where you are almost are
What are you doing here?
Swiping what I have to say about that?
It is I,
making sure that no thieves take the golden honey
from the hives.

We all are natural friends to befriend
the bees, but you have lost your way.
On the way, your treasure melts
away into a way to let go.
You’re almost there, save me!

Honey for everybody!
I hope I never see another world
covered in seagulls.
The bees are enough for me.
Little golden girl
you are perfect
in your comb
waiting for the right time to
find your way to where you almost
can be.

Wings Of Amity

Is my dead name happening?
September, my quickest friend.
Who waits for who?

Each night, your hands part my lips,
delivering the wise bees.
My throat tickles from his telling wings,
his impossible story
about how God will forget me.

His fierce wildness
will throw thunder, while I drift
on wings of amity
he will strike! My veins will crumble,
my body will become
an old abandoned city
for his merciful army.

The bees cry in agony,
a storm threatens them now
as I dream
of nothing past September.
I am sick with fate,
but rise to courtesy.
The bees and their sweet story
do not abandon.
My grateful knee to the Earth,
I whistle out the bees.
Their freedom, my peace.

 

THE LAUGH OF THE BEES

Swarming in with poisoned tips tucked
under innocence,
Nature’s vengeance dancing from
flower to flower,

no matter the color,
or the size,
or shape.

They are the thieves of each unique
fragrance,
and I wonder,

Do they watch for the tulip to open toward the warmth of the sun?
Do they wait for a rose to display her heart proudly?
Do they time each moment precisely
for attack?

The light of the sun is unconditional;
food for the flowers,
heat for the thieves,

and on those magical days,
when I am the Bells of Ireland,
exposed,
hungry for the warmth of my Sun,

they swarm in and attack!

 

If It Wasn’t For The Bees

No water. Small village.
All these thirsty blossoms.
Orange.

Yellow.
Weak bushes in hushed soil.

We lulled them by Lilac,
with two eyelids. Puffed.
Purple.
Bruised by honey makers,
swollen from fresh stings.

If it wasn’t for the bees!
If it wasn’t for the bees!

Glass jars come, mocking.
Scarves glaring
from
thin, glass necks.
Metal heads reflecting
time.

Sun time.
September,

this will be me. Smiling.
Displaying flowers.
Preparing honey jars
for guests.