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May 2020 · 1.0k
Crave You Haiku
Bee May 2020
cravings as follows:
whiskey, cigarettes, and you.
how long will it take?
Dec 2018 · 799
Bee Dec 2018
suddenly every
heart break makes sense; they led me
here to you, my dear
You feel right.
Bee May 2018
I wish I had more
time with you, instead you’ve
left me saying, “*******”.
May 2018 · 585
haiku to self
Bee May 2018
you are the only
person that can make me feel
like it is worth it
May 2018 · 640
Bee May 2018
Hope is the light that
seeps through, reflecting prisms
in our memories
Apr 2018 · 1.0k
Bee Apr 2018
Dear, Sweet, Damascus,
Even your vinegar will
attract hungry flies.
Mar 2018 · 4.3k
Bee Mar 2018
Every step you take,
you are
your future, whether you realize it
or not.
Emerge like the rail road
that was once underground.
Each choice leads to a new narrative.
Mar 2018 · 1.7k
Bee Mar 2018
the world is constantly proving
that anything is possible.
sometimes i wonder if our dreams are alive
or if they are windows to our alternate realities.
if that's the case, we are together,
some how,
some way,
some where.
Mar 2018 · 623
Bee Mar 2018
This marks the birthing of monumental proportions
turning a black and white world to one of perpetual
variegated sunrises. You are the furthest thing from
an accident.  You continue to cultivate one step at a
time breathing new life into each set of hungry eyes
waiting to confront the trojan line that produces the
battles in the brain.  What to write next is under the
surface,  patient and dormant,  for the future paints  
you in the adrenaline of other colors.   Instinctually,
I look to you and surrender to the abrupt,  arresting
grip of the ghost of a thought that’s just out of reach.
Mar 2018 · 1.1k
Bee Mar 2018
It’s not about fitting it all into the car;
it’s about fitting the pieces together
against the agrestic trunk space.
It’s the way we hungrily wait
to spit up our influence It’s
the patient extraction of
a cat cornered conver
sation that is easier
to  shove  under
the innate rug
that is this
l i f e
Mar 2018 · 29.7k
personal hell
Bee Mar 2018
hell is a place where
you constantly love those that
do not love you back.
Feb 2018 · 1.1k
Bee Feb 2018
E  v  
so often I
like to think back on
that greasy summer- my hidden
lover. Teeth ripping into me like they
were devouring a sticky peach on a patio
near the beach; hungry and so full of desire.
Early eyes quivered as I suffered your satisfied
fingers on my thigh-  feeling the contusions that
replaced my pale pink skin. A felt existence left
devoted in moments like these-our compulsive
wrappings conceal the fortunes that can be
found only in one another. In a way, this
biblical dimension carries a perpetual
forgiveness and passion that play
together hand in hand.
Feb 2018 · 712
Bee Feb 2018
With the sun at it's peak, the dew from the morning's
fog began to trickle off the leaves, soaking into
the ornamental indigo bulbs, decorating
the shrubs with an inedible elegance.

Standing tall and gently swaying, a near by
alder tries to hug a lamp pole or help
it stand, with the ferns sturdy,
reaching at it's feet.

Branches stretch themselves out as if to say, "Good Afternoon"
to the squirrels and humming blue jays making their way
back home, bringing donations found under-
neath the soil that breathes life to all.
not finished
Feb 2018 · 5.7k
Bee Feb 2018
Down the stairs, my hands a shield
for incoming priority mail,
and trained for the way your body would
hug me closer with every exhale.

Your mother won’t stop calling.
Kind of like the week we spent hopeful
before they sent you away.
Kind of like me just trying to hear your voice,
always searching for something that’s calming.

The windows have
been open since yesterday,
and I heard the bird sing to its sky,
“I love you”
before it started to rain,
darkness swallowed up the sun’s sky
and wilted all our daisy-chains.

Rescued frames surround me,
reserved to tell your stories.
The breeze never fails me,
it carries your scent in flurries.
If I try hard enough, I could feel it

through my hair, and on my lips.
Every night the breeze
brings with it a solar eclipse
that soaks through my skin,
and intertwines with my blood cells,
going straight to the bones that
keep my body from further farewells.

Tomorrow I will build a home with
the words of your silent prayer.
My cracked walls will be painted with
your skin and the scent of your hair.
My new bed will be made with
old t-shirts you always used to wear.

If I could fit your eulogy on this page
I’d make sure to mention the breeze that whirls
through the center of my chest,
and my lungs that faithfully breath the air
that may have once circled your ribcage.
Feb 2018 · 479
Bee Feb 2018
fight for our fearless
fallen face of ferocious
females for future
Feb 2018 · 1.1k
Bee Feb 2018
Every morning I
jump out of an airplane with
out a parachute:

Swallows Starlings and
Ancient Sparrows caress Me
through Mt. Everest,

Humming Magpie’s hang
on to my fingertips past
Burj Khalifa in Dubai.

Plummeting over
the lark’s meadow the loon’s lake
and today seems small.

Fifteen-thousand feet
holds the rebirth of rubber
band resiliency,

Chant with my feathers
now bound to tumbling shoulder
blades like holy fowl.

Destiny a grail
all-embracing imminent

Morning endures as
I ascend our reflecting clouds
“Today is the day”.
Feb 2018 · 741
Nature's Prayer
Bee Feb 2018
It’s been raining for 22 days straight and I
couldn’t tell you why the evergreens weep like
they do but if you must, the skies ravens are
bellowing what they’ve witnessed in a song we
will never understand and will endlessly hear.

Feathered armor protects the branches that starkly
plead for handfuls of the sponge-clouds above.
Why don’t we listen to the warning calls
of the floods coming from God’s eyes?

The sticky moss resting on the north side of the
rusty hemlocks will tell you, the record is 55 days
since they’ve seen the sun---a dialect less penetrating
than the all-too-inviting cries that echo the woodlands.

Whispers of the breeze flowing through the trees
are not enough to overcome this tempest that is steeping
slowly and surely the habit of nature will wash its face
clean of any inadequacies.  Now, if you told me

it rained here over half the year, I’d believe you.
Not just because it’s the Pacific Northwest, but because
I’ve witnessed the consistency of the pure quietude, of the
circling crows that count every beat and divide every lap.
Their dependable vantage forecasts any storm.
Bee Feb 2018
I would re-name the planets after galaxies in your eyes.
The stars finally know what it feels like to burn with envy.
There are constellations tracing the soft skin of your back.
Following dips and curves, I would draw maps with *******
of everything that matters.

Freshman science taught us about untouched miracles;
and just like that-
the ultraviolet cosmic phenomenon
fixed us to spiral arms in far-away planetary
nebulas, like the ringed Cat’s Eye.

The milky skies whispered
so that only we could hear,
"Heaven's dust will fall"
You feared last night you could hear the earth
cracking under the weight of the universe,

paralyzed with a crippling guilt
you'll only see the stars after they've died.
Neighboring nova would spectate
our telescopic wavelengths-
needing the prisms to reflect on

our kaleidoscope refractions.
No matter the efforts of a tangible spectrum,
one could never quite touch our frequency.
Between lazy and lively,
our whitecap love remained visibly invisible.  

Our infrared vessel to space, raced clusters of runaway stars
past post-distant intergalactic bodies,
shooting through beasts, astrologies, gods.
We window shopped stellar bursts of dust clouds
above our clouds, a gravity shelter.

Meteors became our faithful companions
glowing gassy flowers of dusty debris.
The pressure (we couldn’t touch) generates combustion;
atoms gazing psychedelic pinks, greens,
soothing tones of aquamarines.

Ever since then you've been the glittering
black hole, heaving me in.
The only thing I’m able to taste is  
the way your luminous Milky Way kiss
gives gifts of halos to terrestrial light rays.

But the flavor of your lips are the
battalions inspiring the star shining front lines-
Integrity a marathon taking laps
to the moon
to Pluto and back, the long way.

Blizzards of stars rewrite our language
in the moon beams,
guiding us past lost letters to Pluto.
How do you sleep among dancing stars
while the rest of the universe watches?

I made my home in your eyes
and you made your home in the sky.
Feb 2018 · 452
Death Valley
Bee Feb 2018
It was 9 a.m. and already 95 degrees.
I wished for a pool of ice but
instead I swam in a shirt drenched with sweat.
This was my first summer here.

At 10 a.m. I realized this drought,
this cracking, dry, unwarrantable heat,
might burn away the doorway hiding
away any signs of forgiveness.

11 a.m. lulled by,
heart beating dizzily in sync with the
fan spraying my skin with sickly sweet stale air,
habitually smothering my body’s hasty pulse.

At noon
I knew I couldn’t linger any longer.
Detrimental integrity leading a rope to
the next state over.

One o’clock came and
for just a second, there was fresh air,
or so I thought. Maybe You are what
made up that canopy’s cover.

I couldn’t wait until two, there’s always
some reason to stay.  Time to make due
and evaporate like sugar dissolving in the cracks
of the asphalt burning our toes.
Oct 2013 · 630
Bee Oct 2013
You’re the judge and
your jury is captive.

These old fashioned customs
like burning vellum
don’t fit--

to deny a woman her love
or challenge the love from him.

A wedding should be in store
two brides on the steps of City Hall
or two sets of suits and ties

We all need something to believe in.
We all need a sedative to aid us.

Your disciples place disgrace
on the church--
if they can, why can’t we?

I’m not convinced that
this is what you wanted.
Oct 2013 · 608
Bee Oct 2013
what’s the advantage of being unbroken?
innocence, ignorance;
what kind of bliss is that?

these holes in our soul--
the cracks in our conscious,
come from experience

is it possible to find
happiness without practice?
knowledge of heat keeps us from getting burned

is there a difference between us?

held together by fine wire
shattered faces reflecting broken spirits
glass stitched together casting shadows

on the bare walls showing movement
of the cracks within their core
leaving ourselves behind

in order to find yourself you must break
Oct 2013 · 751
May 27th
Bee Oct 2013
The sky was dark when we got the call.
We rushed to see you
I was a hatchling
absorbing sunlight for the first time

it just made sense.

I passed right there.
Hatchling to turtle to dust--
in the breeze, to the sand.
I was the shore.

The moment I saw you
Time stopped
as if I were at the bottom of a pool
for a second too long

The iridescent bulls-eye like waves
keeping the air from my lungs.
We belonged right there
surrounded and safe.

I was my esophagus,
obsessed with oxygen.
Obsessed with you.
The ocean released and

I could see with hazy vision.
Your eyes were closed
I knew I would be the first
to show you the world.
Oct 2013 · 5.5k
Bee Oct 2013
Bury me with my poppy.
My greatest memory; my simple joy.

Spring time brings brightness--
colors other than white.
A flushed landscape from

stamen performing as paint;
replicating a sleepy orange
yellow, green, red

I contemplate picking the poppy
to keep for myself.

Life feels large
like the sparkling lake--
that cold sunny hour when you sat
by a fire bordered by icy rocks.
The earth sheltered in poppies.

We all expect moments without an end.
Post-bloom petals fall flat before falling away.

Miracles can be a curse or a blessing,
brave or cowardly,
Swallowing up certainty.

Poppy tears
slowly release memories--
a crisp deliberate euphoria.

I leave behind the orange flower.
Appreciation is not lost.

— The End —