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BEEZEE Jul 29
It’s rained.
Crawdads swept up on the street.
I chase them down with small bare-feet.
Across the street, there rises steam.
The neighbor makes hot oysters sing.
Carolina, is still that child—
She’s in my heart, she’s roaming free.
No need to brush your hair, little Bee.
I like it stringy.
I like black feet.
The story here is one of Me.
It’s where I copped the name “Beezee”
Where I road bikes and scraped my knees.
I ducked and dived and climbed up trees.
It’s forever and a day so sweet.
Nostalgia is my favorite street.
Messy hair, black feet, no shame.
BEEZEE Jul 22
Blue hued skin from across the room.
I can tell that you’re trapped in a daze.  
Though, you’re a stranger to me and I don’t know your name—
The location we share is telling.

Blue hued eyes that miss and meet mine.
Inside, I shutter and gasp.
For those blue eyes, one of which is blind.
There’s a story that will help time pass.

Two chairs and a clock tick-tock, tick-talks.
We chat in the evening bloom.
No phones blue-hue to trap and consume,
It’s only just Me and You.
Sometimes, we share space with strangers who feel strangely familiar. This piece is about a quiet moment of unexpected connection — no distractions, no devices, just presence.
BEEZEE Jul 18
Shifting realities
like favorite movies.

Love intertwines
with robust beauty,
wrapping him tightly
in vines of earth’s presence.

Divine intervention
from a woman’s connection.

Within a snow globe
beneath the stars,
she lays slowly
as he wraps his arms
around her.

Tightly,
she will fall asleep—
cosmic love
confessing
that life
is a dream.
Dec 2 2020
BEEZEE Jul 28
Holes throughout the body—
a syndrome of the past.
Light as a feather,
I float through the lapse.

All the actresses and actors
that push me to perform, get paid—
while the silence of a clever one
avoids this house of blame.

I’m alone when I call you.
I don’t want more shame.
I’m driftwood washing on the shores
of a land called Never-Clean.

Can you help me become new again—
sand me down and stain the pain?
I’m a hollowed human of useless, unkept, selfish rage.

“It’s not that deep—not the deep end,”
said one shallow mate.
They never knew I’d touched the soil
that’s damp and cold— infinite.

“She’s so dramatic.”
emotions—lymphatic—
They drain and drain again.

I’ll be the one, light as driftwood,
from wounds where nails drove in.
Is there any cure for the rot
within this flesh, beneath this skin?

Refurbish me.
Let me live again.
Make me the centerpiece
from that angry river’s end.
Showcase the beauty
of this damage eating in.
She pleads—
“Take me, make me yours,”
as the storm begins to end.



“This here is an heirloom,”
weathered, rough, reclaimed.
“A simple reminder of the power of potential.

Grandpa found it along the river,
after the great storm—
that same summer he met Grandma
as she ran away.

This is no ordinary driftwood.
The holes carry a whistle
that sings our family’s name.”
We all share the potential to be reclaimed, in love and life.
BEEZEE Jul 18
Do we deserve?

How would you know?

When her lips meet a curve?

From bitter to broke
She reminds herself firm
To coddle her none
For fate be the cure

A riddle too special
One rare without words

She lolls deep in a garden
With a face that’s still hers

She’s begging a stranger
“May I be demure?”

Her face turns to a gemstone
While the wind sings
“May you always be pure”
BEEZEE Jul 23
Grief as an interlude.
The in-between performance.
Where shoeless days, wandering forests—
meet
black-dressed, paired farewells.

Where velvet curtains close and draw,
a symphony has long prepared
(for you).

Percussion slices into silence.
Clarinets hum in minor tune.
The bass joins in—they’ve been appointed.

Welcome to Grief’s Interlude.

The music plays now just for you.
Regret takes center stage.

What wasn’t said.

“What could I do?”

The music begins to fade.
I guess it’s time we see the view
from our heart’s balcony.

Crossing legs and leaning in—
anticipating more…
A special place for all our kin
is bursting from our core.

Cymbals reach the back of room.
The flutes play loud and low.
The composer pulls a handkerchief—
tears and sweat compel this show.

You feel so sorry.
You feel alive.
You feel memories—sharp and sore.
They’re taking bows.
The act has closed.
Another’s passing through death’s door.

Welcome to Grief’s Interlude.
Grief doesn’t arrive as a finale—it slips in between the acts.
This poem imagines loss as a performance
BEEZEE Jul 19
It’s like I’m looking for ways to avoid myself      

       (I’m looking for ways to not care)

It’s like I’m going around every corner trying to avoid my own stare  

It’s like I’m running away from a shadow

          (Yet I know it’s always there)

I’m afraid of every part of me I swear…

They want me to love myself???

                      “Say hi!”

  Look in the mask

         There’s blood
            
                     It’s stained.

Avoiding myself

(a lonely ride)

All of the ways I could

           -complain-

Look to my heart and you’ll see

     (inside it steadily bleeds)

Blood veil drags behind me
                       &
I don’t know how to scream
BEEZEE Jul 20
I have retired from temptations of attention.
I’ve retired from the need to judge.
I’ve retired from feeling like I need that moment,
And I’ve retired from feeling too sad.

I have retired into a place of contemplation —
A place nearby, and where I sit.

I have retired from feeling guilty,
And I’ve retired from needing your yes.

I am retired.
BEEZEE 1d
Anxiety, do you think you love me?
Oh mind, do you want to be my friend?

A lonely stone in the full quarry
No chance that it will begin to swim

Shadow girl, with your many faces
With every ash you take to sin

Big voiced tropes steady unfolded
A fear to never tell again
BEEZEE 6h
My psyche’s manor,
candle-lit,
snow-capped hills,
gated in
against a fire
roaring in.

The wise old woman
waits and sits;
she speaks of safety,
preserving peace.

Unconscious contents
shake bronze gates,
so seasons change
beneath the skin.

In a white, vast court
where silence lives,
I’m safe for now —
but this I know:

that my Unknown
will come to Known.

Before the spring,
beneath my snow,
the grass of Me
begins to grow.
This piece is part of my Dreams series. Encounters with the wounded inner masculine and the wise old woman.
A glimpse of my individuation at work.
BEEZEE Jul 23
An abandoned cathedral
where I drag my soul to repent for my
𝙋𝙚𝙧𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨.
A lady appears in a wedding gown-
I feel like I am 𝙥𝙪𝙧𝙚 again.
Her dress turns 𝙧𝙚𝙙. She turns her head—
and wicked reads her eyes.
I face my fear and go too near to find that she’s gone 𝙬𝙞𝙡𝙙.
She disappears and then appears a puny  𝙨𝙝𝙖𝙙𝙤𝙬-𝙙𝙤𝙡𝙡.
It chases me, I trip, I fall, they drag me to a hall.

“𝘕𝘰! 𝘔𝘺 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴!”

I wake up-
deep breath & sweat.
I wonder of what it meant…
To dream of
𝙢𝙮 𝙧𝙚𝙥𝙚𝙣𝙩.
This poem came from a dream — part confession, part confrontation.
BEEZEE Jul 21
Toes curl and uncurl.
I sit back and sip coffee.
Poets from around the world,
evoke the smell of warm linen
& the musk of a hard life.

Im dwelling here, words set me free throughout the day.
No longer still, nothing now will be mundane.

Gratitude, Contentment.
We’re home now, Soul.
Collecting trinkets as we scroll.
A soft baby in my arms.

Who cares the time, or of our role.
Right now, I’m steam from a black bean cup.
Warm & Full.
A thank you to the poetry community.
BEEZEE Jul 24
He is the light
breaking through the trees
at dawn.

The dust
that falls softly
from the stars.

The wind
that blows leaves
into the air.

And the moon
beaming
on her skin
so fair.

Subtleties
with remarkable beauty.

His love
lives within the universe—
so truly.

He is the light
breaking through the trees
at dawn.

She will cherish a love
until she is gone.
Nov 21 2020
A quiet tribute to my (now) husband
We had only been dating 7 months when I wrote this.
Today is our 2 year wedding anniversary
BEEZEE Jul 21
My dear,
              you’re a lime. I’m a cherry.
My dear,
             & I like your chest hairy…
My dear,
           I’ve got sand in my throat…
My dear,
         Would you take this poem home?
My dear,
          Your tan skin and warm eyes….
                          
      (He’s mine, and I think I’m gonna die)

My dear,
            I’ve got years left to grow….

Oh dear,
            I think I got your email wrong.

                Subject: Please disregard!
In the voice of Lana Del Ray
BEEZEE Jul 27
You are the sparrow, or the one who oversees.
You are the sea worm — the one that bottom-feeds.
You are the urchin which waves could never crash.
You are the person whose feelings will never last.

You are the yeti, whose hand is very grand.
You are the teddy, soft as white sand.
You are all things, and no things, all at once.
You are the heartbeat whose race cannot be won.

— The End —