"beehives" poems
flesh smirks cautiously
silent beehives squelching elk
leaps glumly, mules snarl
bluebird builds, rigid
foundlings disappear lamely
incarnations peck
raw conjurers acts
devious shady agile
rosemary boasts, stare
starflower hovers
depression gives birth snidely
harps romping mustang
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 5:22 PM UTC
You were once vast, large and never lied
Stretching far and reaching high
Now you are a wooden twig
Pulled away and Broken by a pig
The pig who didn't care for what used to be
the magnificent tree
who sat in my yard by the garage and the pool
In which, you had rule,
over all those tiny sapling oaks
who now look up and mope
Because trees are limited and rigged with beehives,
but many see that as the loss of their wives.
Apr 24, 2017
Apr 24, 2017 at 1:57 PM UTC
The moon is missing
Old stories oppress the scorned clock's hand
What is this interminable waiting?
Lost are the World's metaphors
Lost and fled to a dark place
Once beehives born in new orchards
They now dissolve in time's dead way
And die in the viciousness of niceness
Densely social and devoid of empty
Do I dare ask these forbidden questions
She is missing, missing to me
I know where she is but I can't find her
but now I see the harvest corn
and a bursting city of goldenrod
(this can only mean good)
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 1:38 PM UTC
feeling like I should feel bad
experience sadness for innocents
and anger at bad people,
gun toting murderers
without care
threatening the fabric
of my burgeoning police state…
but I do not –
eyes light up at daily headlines
unwound minds blindly destroying.
human land mines, primed and
in line at your local grocery
mostly just waiting for that moment
when they can really show them
all –
I call this the road to the end
humanity’s demise realized
live on the five o’clock news
nightly…
it’s alright we lie to our children
telling them sleepily not to hide
and abide the tide of rising
genocide
on the young and dark skinned
who are destined to win in the end
when those left on the planet
share similar skin
let me begin, again –
last punch I threw
was in 2nd grade
got hit in the face in 6th
but didn’t make a fist
already leaning to a pacifist
in the mist of my drunken
father’s fists.
shot a deer in my 15th year
and put the gun down for the fear
of some cosmic shear…
still ate meat without feeling defeated
but cheated myself by disguising these choices
as voices in my head…
with an unruly hand planning on writing poetry –
but I love the disillusion
the growing confusion
that is a fusion
of people in sheep’s mindset
letting psychopathic dictators
dictate their lives
pill popping wives in new-age beehives
naming children ‘Chandelier’ and ‘Compromise’…
I accept my sociopathy
and embrace myself as a dying race
those willing to face the truths
and not try to sooth the pain
while knowing these are the last days
and sit amazed
while blazing legal marijuana –
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 11:22 AM UTC
Blithering blather of bothering biting bothers that botherly blather their blantant blatherings of bumbling bemusings brought by bringing blue berries back by blue babaoons bumping beehives behind bubba bears big buggy before biggoted bums braving boorish battles
Aug 23, 2016
Aug 23, 2016 at 1:15 AM UTC
Here's to pianos.
To uncut toe nails and broken jaws.
Here's to sweaty palms and fancy door knobs.
The last tissue in the box and third graders who know every single dinosaur.
Here's to prickly legs and furless cats.
Slamming doors and rubbing alcohol.
Fun house mirrors and wet towels.
Here's to the boy with the sweaty armpits,
And the biggest heart in the room.
Here's to all the girls who will never give him a chance
Because his hair is greasy
And he always has pieces of apple stuck in his braces.
Here's to grandmothers holding their children's babies for the first
And last time.
Here's to six foot tall nine year olds
And acne covered foreheads.
North Ohio and beehives.
Here's to wrinkles and back pain,
And the kids who never change for gym class.
Here's to burnt papers and wrongful convictions.
Faked I love you's and backwards t shirts.
For every broken leg and broken heart,
Seasonal depression and ADD.
For unshaven armpits and ripped jeans.
Frequent showers and twisted ankles.
****** mattresses and forged signatures.
Here's to the things that remind me of you.
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 9:27 PM UTC
When I meet her gaze,
it rips the soul from my body
and ***** it through time and space
into her hollow and vacuous eyes.
Into the vacuum of her being.
I find myself in her mind
and step tentatively over the creases
and folds of her grey brain,
avoiding the beehives hanging like grapevines
from the ceiling of her skull.
But my eyes adjust to the light
and I see that my fears are misplaced,
it's not hives hanging inside her mind
but a series of dark rainclouds
behind black and blue skies.
It's too dim in here, thinks I,
where's all the sunshine?
If it's true, and her sun has died
I would douse myself and burn alive
just to provide her a little reading light,
just to dry out her rainy skies and
maybe brighten up her nine lives.
If it's true that her moon is hollow and dim
then I would be proud to fill it up again,
I would be happy to reinflate it's craters
with my final dying breath,
with all the essence of my being.
And I would hang it there in the night,
surrounded by the hole-punched skies.
So maybe when it reflects my self-immolation,
light would shine down through her beautiful eyes
and into that long-neglected mind.
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 7:29 PM UTC
a thousand what-ifs swarmed before my eyes,
and stung me as if I had rocked beehives,
the woulda-coulda-shouldas, if-only-I's,
all buzzed their screams, that he'd be still alive,
yet I had done all that I knew to do,
the breaths of life I gave him, much too late,
the EMT's three-quarter hour, their crew,
could not revive my father from his fate,
his heart had fibrillated, lifeless eyes,
were blind to all, his ears heard not our screams,
upon my breath his breathing finalized,
he fell to sleep the sleep where are no dreams,
now on that couch where father there reposed,
not we nor our dear cat to rest there goes
(C)2012, Christos Rigakos
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 8:44 PM UTC
Look at the ones
with beehives for mouths,
ejecting out opinions
to anyone caught in a net
of overworked words,
every opinion delivered
with a lethargic varnish,
each one a sting
as a glob of soap in the eyes.
But we use our voice
with our lips tightly shut.
Let the art inside us
buzz like a sneeze
waiting for release,
blast out in a fizz
of ink and smudged fingertips.
Hear the consonants trickle
like a tap not quite turned off,
the vowels rising and falling as waves.
Spill your thoughts if you must.
Make a point.
But don’t hurl them at us
with a sour taste ,
sharp as an already grimy blade.
Use them sparingly and well,
let them linger before
evaporating in a trail of steam,
as if a ***** of sunlight
before it slithers
beneath the horizon.
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 10:47 AM UTC
Dumb Streets stroll along with brains of blitz
to an evening ritual of bathing with blood
where young smiles melt away and tears dry out,
guilty die and so do the ones who dare to doubt,
audience calls it the crowned fool’s supper
but our fool names it ‘Blooming of the Juniper’.
Dumb Streets poke their pride with ***** knives,
scoop their brains out for the queen of beehives
and surrender their soul for a single penny
which leads them to a war-zone surrounded by jinni.
The poor souls mustn’t retreat to the fool,
who’d treat them as his supper or a war-tool.
Dumb Streets fed-up, riot with sullen spirits,
they burn bridges and **** the fool’s puppets.
The supper gets heavy as the days go by,
our fool feasts on rioters who’ve sworn to die.
Soon the puppets disappear into thin air
and leave the palace for rioters to spare.
Dumb streets have our fool as their supper,
sink their shelters with wine and clutter,
but fail to notice uprising of another fool
who’d played leader of fish in the pool.
Shower mercy O! wise Fool upon your streets,
preach the dumb, who wonder what he eats.
Mar 26, 2018
Mar 26, 2018 at 2:24 PM UTC
The black cloud will shroud
The multicoloured rainbows -
A hard rain is going to fall -
The honey bear won't wake
From her hibernation,
She will dream of placing
Her paws into golden beehives.
The swallows will migrate swiftly
To African shores of green and blue,
They won't be coming back soon.
Our black-cloud sky
Will be composed of ravens and crows,
Squawking tuneless nocturnes
Whilst pecking at our windowpane.
Where are our rainbows?
Where is our sunshine?
Where have our honey bears
And our swallows gone?
-Jamie F. Nugent
Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 11:48 AM UTC
India painted breast cancer, especially tooth, female, nature beetles and beehives with beehives. Maya Maori Production Source: Unique Police Revolution, Wisdom Propaganda, Female Girls, Snow and Body. In terms of health, Evan changes the market for green maize and gravel, body, sound, leather and lamps in the marketplace. Listen to the person's indignation, his refusal to call his family, and the drama that burns in the Middle East. Children themselves return to pregnant women, breast cancer, pregnancies, especially girls, in the usual rent and flower returns. Maya Maori Production Source: Unique Police Revolution, Wisdom Propaganda Propaganda, Female Girls, Snow and Body. In terms of health, Evan changes the market for green maize and gravel, body, sound, leather and lamps in the marketplace. This is known as the infinite power of Satan, known as the infallible building phase. Even though it is naughty, I'm coming back with a warning. The company was taken in heart. The Children's Science Letter In the 19th century, a clean baby brought fresh green grass and improved their energy. Volcanic eruption begins with a volcanic leaf in the volcanic eruption. The cooled flavors, mills, biscuits, sunflowers, sunlight, Milton's Power, Fireworks, El Universal, Metropolitan Police Station. Clean, are they back? First dress and weapons. Basic gasoline is not permitted. The woman was thrown out. The device includes services and music. Simple, public and geographical answers. Then we go to the town gate and the police station is 1. The main pollutant gas does not. He is a new heir by General Henry and Juan El Batista, a daughter and civil civilian gypsy who has been interviewed for several years. Activities by Philip Ainlin, football, wheat, bran, and web-based resources. 2, 26, Harold, my brother Phillips, and I had David's report. 2 Southern Nigeria's Southern Doctrine Institute was confused. Most "write to Google" crimes were transmitted by the police station. Before the library bar. Philippe goes to Abenne and provides clean Black rivers, leaflets and seeds, which shows the reader and love movement. This is very timely. On the fifth day, modern clipper was called Herod's father. 2, 26 Philip and his brother Harald Aliel were born again in the Netherlands in Phoenix in the Netherlands and Phillips II. There are two trumpets on the "Google" Crime Camp at the police station. But the Fly Museum has doubled before, but it will not be used in the first conflict.
Nov 9, 2018
Nov 9, 2018 at 3:28 AM UTC
you should see the way the
sunflowers swivel to stare at you;
your shadow outshines the sun.
you walk through beehives and
emerge dripping in honey.
haven't you noticed the
sparrow on your windowsill; she
sings her sweet song
solely for your sake!
and the wildflowers that
blossom in your footprints
and the wavelets that ripple
from your words —
don't you hear your name beneath the
rustling of the leaves and the
crackling of the fire and the
whistling of the wind?
if nature marvels at the
magnificent masterpiece you are, then
so should you
Sep 1, 2019
Sep 1, 2019 at 8:36 PM UTC
"Whose heart was breaking for a little love."
Down-stairs I laugh, I sport and jest with all:
But in my solitary room above
I turn my face in silence to the wall;
My heart is breaking for a little love.
Though winter frosts are done,
And birds pair every one,
And leaves peep out, for springtide is begun.
I feel no spring, while spring is wellnigh blown,
I find no nest, while nests are in the grove:
Woe's me for mine own heart that dwells alone,
My heart that breaketh for a little love.
While golden in the sun
Rivulets rise and run,
While lilies bud, for springtide is begun.
All love, are loved, save only I; their hearts
Beat warm with love and joy, beat full thereof:
They cannot guess, who play the pleasant parts,
My heart is breaking for a little love.
While beehives wake and whirr,
And rabbit thins his fur,
In living spring that sets the world astir.
I deck myself with silks and jewelry,
I plume myself like any mated dove:
They praise my rustling show, and never see
My heart is breaking for a little love.
While sprouts green lavender
With rosemary and myrrh,
For in quick spring the sap is all astir.
Perhaps some saints in glory guess the truth,
Perhaps some angels read it as they move,
And cry one to another full of ruth,
"Her heart is breaking for a little love."
Though other things have birth,
And leap and sing for mirth,
When spring-time wakes and clothes and feeds the earth.
Yet saith a saint: "Take patience for thy scathe";
Yet saith an angel: "Wait, for thou shalt prove
True best is last, true life is born of death,
O thou, heart-broken for a little love!
Then love shall fill thy girth,
And love make fat thy dearth,
When new spring builds new heaven and clean new earth."
Aug 7, 2017
Aug 7, 2017 at 4:06 PM UTC
fingers intertwined, branches of a tree
you looked down to me, greedy eyes, pollen-grained
“draw me in” my mind wanders
thighs, or beehives, succulent and alive
fragmented sighs
a deathly sting, honey on my lips
breath on skin, wisps of hair like wings
dizzy desires
“draw me in”
Jan 27, 2019
Jan 27, 2019 at 9:04 AM UTC
Michelle,
do not cry for anyone except yourself
do not cry for the dumb boys
with their hands in their pants
and their heads in the clouds
do not cry for them
because they do not have eyes
that could cry for you
Michelle,
do not cry for anyone except yourself
do not cry for the lonely girls
dancing in their rooms
and drowning in their boy friend’s spit
do not cry for them
because they will be fine in the morning
and so will you
so just keep ******* your honey packets
and be careful to not let disdain trickle out of your beehives
because it keeps getting you stung
by the bumbling boys attracted to it
but do not cry for them Michelle
because you are beautiful and brave
and you scare them
because they are not
Michelle,
do not cry for anyone except yourself
Nov 17, 2012
Nov 17, 2012 at 9:51 PM UTC
I got to wondering the other day,
I wondered if you still have my t-shirts,
Do they still smell like me?
Do they smell like cologne, youth and regret?
I’ve gotten older, but clearly haven’t gotten smarter,
I clearly haven’t learned to avoid touching stoves
Or walking in traffic
Or poking beehives
**** your institutions,
**** your distance,
And **** your rules,
Because this heart couldn’t care less
The heart wants what the heart wants,
And what the heart wants is to **** me,
It wants to turn the clocks back,
It wants to be less of an *******
It wants anything but this emptiness,
Anything at all but this…
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 11:39 AM UTC
**God was angry
he blessed the earth
a life to everything
mountain started moving
Sea changes its shore
trees are moving to form a forest
plants are moving more closely to beehives
farm land moved near to the river
suddenly
for a man
the world become a maze
a punishment to human
a confusion
a rare insight happened
brain stop working
man become animal again
earth was preserved
GOD went to sleep..**
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 6:57 AM UTC
How often I’ve heard,
there’s no wealth to be made from words.
Just ink that burns,
pages that rip.
But enrichment of lives takes place,
profiting from human experience, and
Allow abundance in emotion
The beehives of my mind rattle.
Creating words, slowly,
their honeycombs of poetry.
I am as genuine as these stanzas claim.
Trying authenticity, keeping the first jar beside all I’ve concealed.
Words re-colonize all the time,
shaping themselves to make a home,
in the heart & mind.
Nov 30, 2018
Nov 30, 2018 at 2:43 AM UTC
I picked a sunflower
Seeds fall, falling trees
Falling from the sky
As the air turns light
Coming fast, 5 PM
Darkness comes
In the end
'Round the bend, fast drive
Hauling in beehives
Big hives, reaction time
Fast and slow reaction time
I divide, quick ride, open slow
Need to know
My mind
Hard to blow, my mind
Hard to know, my mind
This is fine
I am fine
They say the wounds
Heal with time
This time, I'll find
Soon enough
I'll find
Soon enough
I'll be fine
Nov 17, 2016
Nov 17, 2016 at 4:41 PM UTC
Words
always bother poets.
Especially at
night if
the dictionary
is not been shut
locked up tight
under the discipline
of a silver key.
The words
slip from
the interior pages
like trout
through
the grasp
of a poet’s
bear fever dreams.
They hollow
outside
the stanzas
the poet
has built
as a small shelter
on the paper white prairies.
There is a hollowness
in the beehives
beyond
the measure of winds.
Even the moon must rise
and roll out of clumsy stanza.
Hungry words
with their gleaming ribs
and shallow flesh
mourning that they have escaped
the poet
foreseeing in some future day
will place them
in the proper chambers
crannies and corners
of his misshapen barrels
and the river
of his awkward speech
may never flow
past
the castles
of elves
that sing
flying fish
in lush ink
in the depth
by the barrel.
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 11:21 PM UTC
he sold his house of cards and joined a band wagon caravan marching carolers streaming down the Nile River playing sad songs better
searching for Jesus and the Pharaoh and Cleopatra and Madonna
pop culture religion
he kissed ferris wheels
I never forgot the clouds
We stole the timelines from trees
Fractal fairytale disease
Symptoms of make believe
Falling in love life
Wonderland lust
Teaching kites how to fly
Graceful ugly ducklings sailing the moon to peterplan
So little princes and Indians can plant sunflowers
While the aliens are on vacation
Like surprise Christmas gifts of sparklers on new years the color of Atlantis books hidden in scrolls in marketplace buddhas
The world travels around us
As we play sad songs better
We build homes for those without
Feed our flesh to the Earth
Death blooming circles Mary go round ring round the rosey sunset kind of apocalypse called bliss
Wisdom streamlined by the old fisherman drowning in the fresh air as pinnochio waves from the whale saved by hopeful generation bred with care compassion
Playing our sad songs better
Christening the weather
Baptising ourselves in the rain
Calling the universe our church
Truth seeds in our hearts and membranes
Hummingbirds living in beehives
Hybrid hope of tomorrow
Letting lions and lambs play with mice
Aesop playing banjo out of tune
Poets turning into to fireflies
Lighting our way home
Through crop circles and ghost stories
Not being anchored by our past
We are no generation Titanic
We just play sad songs better
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 11:02 PM UTC
I got to thinkin'
Hotels is just big beehives
At least we comfy.
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 11:21 PM UTC
Most easily dredged up by balloons,
though it's in snowflakes, beehives,
watermelons and seasides, tennis
shoes, bare feet, deep dives and knee
highs. Two cups, four hands, infinite
tea, smiles. Falling asleep on the couch,
running a mile and then breathing out.
In the perfect timing, the rhythm
to life. The taste of the nectar, the
setting of the vivid dream, the smell
of the clay. The touch of the stone,
when you arrive at the peak. The
frequency of her soul, the feeling
of freedom. The communion of
people, who have found the same
wisdom. The light of the morning
Through the windows, of home.
The sound of harmony flowing
through your cerebrum. The air
in your lungs, the long breaths
when you breathe them. The
light in your face that reflects
off the sun. The clouds that help
all of the plants toward the sun.
The dog laying still finding warmth
in the sun. The air that was born
and that lives in the sun. The
piece of us that was once tied
to the sun.
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 3:33 AM UTC