"beekeeper" poems
Nero kicks Vespasian
1
Nero plays the lyre
He’s Emperor
so all must admire
but Vespasian goes to sleep
so Nero exiles Vespasian
and poor Vespasian now minds the bees
*I am the Emperor
and all must admire
when I sing
or play the lyre
for I’m also a god...*
Time kicks Nero
2
But Nero goes to extremes
Rome burns, Nero kills
and soon events turn against him
and the Senate declares him
Enemy of the State
and Nero kills himself;
and the beekeeper Vespasian
through events played staccato by time
becomes Emperor Vespasian
and begins construction of the Colosseum
*And Emperors too die
and I think I’m dying
Hey - help me up
for an Emperor must die on his feet
And hey! you know what?
I think I too am becoming a god!*
Feb 8, 2012
Feb 8, 2012 at 5:46 AM UTC
woke every morning and
dressed in the sun, then
dreamt in the breezeway
where the day's laundry
hung. She listened for
him in the summery hum;
sometimes she was honey,
sometimes she was stung.
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 10:15 PM UTC
~
*I work in the clouds
Building a world out of hype
I could be a beekeeper
A prison guard
Reverse pop idol
Extinguishers, all
Hackers ferry contemporaries
Around the diseased city
Merchants of transference
Polymorphing
Paths and angles
Pieces of eight
They could be brutal war fantasies
White noise translations of the snow
Cathedral nights in the deli
Ghost recordings from an opera house
Each with its own price tag
All the pretty girls
Thick with mascara
Go to plasticity
Drink chloroform
100 aspects of subterranea
So long as they come home
With a credit problem
Money devotion
It's what transferred us
Into numbered silhouettes
Slavishly pouring our blood into the sea*
~
Aug 24, 2022
Aug 24, 2022 at 5:12 PM UTC
The mute man spoke
Without tongue or teeth
The deaf man heard
Without ear bequeathed
A blind man looked
But not through eyes
A lame man walked
But not with thighs
So the hateful will scorn
Where nothing is wrong
So the child will dance
Forever- without song
Then we will pray
Oh! Someone is there
Then we will say
Why would he care?
Should the artist not paint
Because nobody sees?
Should the beekeeper keep
Without any bees?
Can't we just sing
Even though out of tune?
Can't the church-bell ring
On Wednesday afternoon?
I've heard the mute speak
More powerfully than Men
I've been heard by the deaf
Time and Time again
The blind see me better
Than anyone with sight
The lame can walk
With more grace, more might
The tides come in
The tides will go out
The sun comes up
The sun will go out
What truly will matter
When all is said and done
What truly is true
When steady time carries the gun?
Dec 29, 2012
Dec 29, 2012 at 8:02 PM UTC
my arm is nothing more than an extension of my soul,
stretched parabola forming a straight line
towards heaven.
I stand on my soapbox with a sermon dangling
from my lips, this tired old street corner
this tired old man giving the world what it wants.
I am enlisted.
I am the bubble hidden deep
inside the bone.
I am the beekeeper creating a brand new colony,
stung by his own pride.
here, brother, listen:
walk with me while I tell you about the
accubation of life
and all of it's little lovers,
those tiny frail things so easily forgotten.
my tongue is nothing more than an extension of my mind,
soft, flattened, delightful
attracted to flavor.
a million spiders bred a million more,
and still their webs spread empty between the trees.
this is the way God works.
earthquakes,
tsunamis,
libraries engulfed in flames,
over-dosed artists,
a genius child sold into slavery.
we all become what we already are:
gentle creatures abacinated by society
fenced in and cornered by evil dreams.
we thrash in our sleep,
we wake violently,
we burst onto the scene like lions
from another planet,
hungry, oh so wild and hungry.
this is the way We work.
Mar 28, 2010
Mar 28, 2010 at 9:07 AM UTC
My mind buzzing in a kaleidoscope of hexagonal memories.
I am reminded of when I was a child
My mother and I would drive for a hour deep into the
Evergreen woods to a small cabin,
Where an old man lived.
He harvested honey.
The beekeeper man.
I never went inside with her when she would go to buy
A jar.
The car riding idle, shaking while I wait,
I hear the hum of a thousand bees in the distance.
I imagine the hexagonal honeycomb
Home to hundreds of bees
All working simultaneously to bring me
But a single drop of paradise.
When my mother returned to the car she would hand me a Ball mason jar
Full of the stickiness of my desires.
The label slightly gluey from the beekeeper’s hands closing the jar.
I can feel the warmness of the honey seeping onto my lap.
The inkiness of honey dripping
Down my wrist.
Sweet, savory,
The flavor thick in my mouth
Each drop of amber seeping into each
Taste bud.
I always noticed the picture of this face,
An older man smiling.
A full grey beard and mustache.
There on the label he became alive to me,
A picture of the bee keeper’s head attached to the body of a bee.
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 1:20 PM UTC
The problem with having one life
is having to choose
which life to live.
And the problem with soul mates
is having to choose
which one to love
and which to never meet.
There has to be a better way.
You could be a beekeeper on Mondays,
a violinist on Tuesdays,
a mother of three on Wednesdays,
and the greatest boxer since Ali on Thursdays.
On Fridays, your heart would belong to
the handsome attorney two doors down.
Saturday would come, and you’d fall into
the arms of your old Philosophy professor from university.
What would you choose to do
with all of your Sundays?
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 4:54 PM UTC
You anticipate the bees’ arrival
with that same wonder lust in
your eyes that a child wears on
Christmas Eve, spending the whole
month before their arrival planning,
thinking out the construction of their
houses, going back and forth on the
decision of where you will put them
in the backyard. I listen with
fascination as you explain to me
about the workers, drones, and the
queen, who from a larva you tell me,
feeds solely on royal jelly.
You have become a beekeeper
extraordinaire, intent on teaching
me everything you know about bees.
And it is quite funny when you mimic
the bee dance, buzzing around in
circles, then abruptly changing
direction and buzzing around again.
I watch you with the same wonder
lust in my eyes as you have when
you talk about your bees, feeling
a wealth of love for you, this man
tenderly caring for and loving one
of God’s smallest creations.
I anticipate the bees’ arrival with
dread, careful not to let on how
much they intimidate me. After
they arrive you take out a few and
gently hold them up for me to see,
the thought of their sting sending
chills over my body. That night, as
we do our own tango between the
sheets, I think of them out there
buzzing, buzzing; the ****** queen
leaving the hive to mate with drones-
the lazy bees who make no honey,
their sole purpose to mate then die.
Nov 12, 2011
Nov 12, 2011 at 7:42 PM UTC
it's been longer than i'd like to admit
since i last heard your voice
with your uncanny ability
to turn my blood into liquid gold.
i can no longer hear you
calling my name,
but i can still taste the honey
that poured from your lips
as i drowned in each sacred kiss.
Apr 12, 2020
Apr 12, 2020 at 11:33 AM UTC
In my world it rains indoors.
The riverbed is always flooded.
The bottle is opened
and the hot liquid is poured.
And it keeps pouring.
Over its cold heart.
Little blocks of ice.
Lying in darkness,
I speak of unspoken things.
How much I reveal is unknown.
Even to me.
In my head...
In my head they are crying.
Their constant gaze.
I'm still fighting...
I'm still dying...
My childhood scars run deep.
And they burn...
In the black I feel a warm hand
touch my back.
It guides me safely.
I can not survive the night,
without this guiding hand.
I am not a beekeeper.
I cannot control their raging storm.
Yes...
I too hear the thrum...
They are forcing their way out.
The box is too full already.
The dark shapes are moving in the blackness.
The children's hands are bound
and they are beaten.
They want what was taken from them.
I can't help but think...
the guiding hand is not enough...
Release the children from their box!
I will stand on the flooded riverbed
and pay with one gold coin for passage.
GRAHAM MURPHY
Aug 25, 2012
Aug 25, 2012 at 2:16 PM UTC
*
The Honey Bee
Little buzzing Honey Bee,
Honey sweetens me and thee.
Thou art busy all the Day;
Busy Bee, thy Wings are gay.
Flowers bloom and Showers fall;
Spring is springing over All.
Thou shalt work till Daylight's end.
Golden Bee, thou art my Friend!
The Beekeeper
Little buzzing Honey Bee,
Thou dost make my Gold for me.
Labour, Bee, because thy toil
Buys my meat and drink and oil.
Thou art mine: what thou dost make,
Slave! to Market I shall take.
Mine the Bee and mine the Earth,
Mine by Right of Human Birth!
Mar 22, 2025
Mar 22, 2025 at 12:06 AM UTC
Sometimes
I'm a passive pastime aggression past life regresser.
Sorry I'm such a sad excuse for a screwdriver,
you silly suffering succatash!
But really, I'm only sorry
because apparently
I'm the one who turned you into ****** tunes.
Maybe I'll come into your television with
new waveforms and let society tear me apart
steakchewsteakchew American diet and
then you can be a little less frayed.
And was I afraid? Hell the **** yes I was!
What are you some kind of beekeeper?
I've got half a mind to herd the hive and
two to love it for it's honey.
I haven't dove into a swarm of stingers
without a welt or two lately lemme tell ya.
Lemme show ya a lil somethin' somethin' cold
somethin' simmerin' somethin' like that
old house of cards filled with sickening soulsins.
Flutter flutter fly and the kingdom falls, *******
That was all that time?
Remember the last one of those I never finished and
there was no excuse for letting the time tick?
Bomb and tock when I had the right shoe.
Even if I've got two left feet
I've gotta make it werk!
I'm lip synching for my life
annd whattt!
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 9:57 PM UTC
Bee Plus
Sure it’s nice to learn, but I could never sit still…
(Humble! Sit up properly in your chair and stop moving about!)
I had my head in the clouds; never my mind on the quill…
(Humble! Are your listening!? What was I talking about!?)
The teachers liked to talk and I would nod my head,
But I was only there in bee form;
My head was elsewhere, so I would forget,
Everything they taught.
Humble wants to go outside!
Not bee stuck indoors.
There she goes again,
Talking about subtraction and multiplication, or something.
The truth is I never listened.
She could bee saying something really interesting,
But the sun outside, it glistens!
The sun calls to me and says come out and play!
So when the lesson is over, I am the first bee away
And out of the door,
Like a flash of lightning through the corridors.
I know I’ll have to come back after lunch,
But right now! In this moment!
I can fly once more!
Somehow I know the answers to the questions they set,
But all the knowledge in my head, when they ask me, I forget.
If it ain’t right now, then it will never bee needed;
So can’t we, just for today, just leave it bee?
They keep on talking about the future of the bees;
But dude, I just want to have fun, so give me some peace.
Yeah, I did the homework and I didn’t even get paid.
I read page, after page, after page, after page
And at the end of the day…
This ain’t that great.
“Well maybe you should get up and teach the class!”
So I did; I got it right and I even made them all laugh.
Then the teacher gets annoyed and tells me to “Go outside!
With the other boys and wait for detention!”
I guess she needs to bee the centre of attention.
Aww Man! Why you taking all my toys?
It’s just a bit of fun.
I can’t help being a joker
And then you give me even more detention!
For saying,
“Aww Man, you a beekeeper-smoker!”
I can’t wait to grow up and leave this place.
Sure, I’ll go and sit outside again,
With all the cool pupa’s in the breakfast club group.
That’s ok; we’re all mates
And we’re quite aware of what we’re going through.
So there we all are, just having a laugh,
Until we hear somebody shout “Oi! Get your bumbles back into class!”
We reply, we can’t; we’ve been thrown out again.
Then they tell us “Well, just sit there and bee quiet then!“
Aww Man!
Can’t I even catch a break?
Everybody needs to just, chill out…
At least now it’s nearing the end of the day.
Eventually, the teacher calls us back in
And then she surprises us all with a pop quiz!
Aww Man! We don’t know the answers;
Why you always picking on us?
And of course, you know the result…
I was third in the class;
I got a humble bee plus.
(C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Jul 5, 2019
Jul 5, 2019 at 4:15 AM UTC
Sickness, death, disease,
rats, bugs, ***** fleas;
Royal knights at ease,
not trying to appease
the masses anymore
as bodies amass on the floor.
Stomping down the corridor,
black-gowned conquistador
in court known as le docteur.
Majestically pointed beak,
leather satchel, utensils squeak
as one two three and four
the man takes to the floor-
And Waltz!
Clack the Castle door.
The wicker-faced figure
grows taller, grows bigger,
and one goes to figure
who first pulls the trigger
And Clasp!
Hands come together as one
step by step, step on the gown
almost trip and fall down,
white as silk and black as dawn;
A smirk met with a frown.
Endless days, deadly gaze
from beyond the red-glass eyes:
A mosaic from the skies
as God's son met his demise,
idolized by commonfolk,
glass sculptures embedded into walls.
The ******* of angels,
interlacing strangers;
masked visage from nature
in the form of bustling bees
busy beguiling Byzantine baronesses,
backstabbing brides, burning bioessence,
******** burdens, nature's reconnaissance.
Tiny creatures nestled into wooden crates,
by the hands of humans' race;
the beekeepers their only living grace.
The two figures intertwined
Ying-yang dancing under starlight
Snow-white and the seven plagues
dressed in crystal, black parade.
The court jester coughs and gargles,
the monarchs paint the floors with blood,
as the silk road lifts embargoes;
a thousand-year old flood
of plague-infested spices,
time to roll the dices,
is it rats or mices,
who really cares,
everyone's already dead.
May 7, 2021
May 7, 2021 at 4:34 PM UTC
the small dog
attached to the long lead
has a tail that is blurred
with happiness
as he wanders through
the market village
tongue lolling
nose questing the air
for the myriad of scents
he is happy curiosity
in a brindle coat
i watch amused at his vigour
as i drink from an enamel mug
holding a wonderful local bean coffee
eat warm coconut mango muffins
and ponder the purchase
of some artisan glass jewllery
my boys having scoffed their muffins
are off to see the woodworkers
the golden child hoping
to add to his collection
of wooden puzzles
his father to chat with
other lovers of woodgrains
we will meet later
after i have bought, applebox honey
collected by dave the beekeeper
portabella mushrooms the size of saucers,
to make stuffed fetta mushies for dinner
and all the other green and organic vege
i can find. some prawns and a mud crab.
lunch tomorrow, olive bread, olive tappenade
stuffed olives, some goodies for the biccie tin
and some of these coffee beans....
the dog raises it's leg against the canvas
of the tent down the pathway
before carrying on....
oblivious
Aug 4, 2017
Aug 4, 2017 at 8:04 PM UTC
The truth that we thought was the truth
fell like the pack of lies that it was and
the odds that we thought were even,
were even more crooked than that.
So we dropped off the radar
and went under the grid and
slid off the end of the rainbow.
Same thing there
gold everywhere
and diamonds that
coloured our eyes.
In the morning after the morning last night
still tight with the alcohol, coke and some Demerol
we glued back the curtains to look at the sky,
it was raining.
And I know it always rains in February,
but something told me that
Summer was on the way.
Being criticised constantly
and ostracised eventually
September seemed like a good
time to go
but
as it's dry now
think I'll try now
to rejoin the
hive,
staying alive is easy
it's the living
that's hard.
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 2:57 PM UTC
As light in flight as I am on my toes,
who knows,
I could have been a ballet dancer, a
swan on the lake.
Take two.
Heavy duty suits me
I am slow and
also know my feet don't skim,
I tend to sink when really I should
swim.
Take three.
Happy is the man to be
who knows the joy of being
We,
one
two
together.
Aug 6, 2015
Aug 6, 2015 at 6:56 AM UTC
Let me tell you now, I’ve never picked up a bass guitar in my life
the guy stood stage side, cool as hell, his looks as sharp as a knife
surveying the crowd, picking the best, which girl is coming back to his room
town to town, gig to gig, thanks for the ride, I won’t be back anytime soon
An aura of disdain, a secret never to be told under that cowboy hat of his
reeling through the catalogue, hit after hit, hiding has no place in showbiz
A breed to contend, so lets never offend that man who has a different point of view
we could all have been a plumber or a copper, but the line-up for this role is a very short queue
Comparisons are strange and never the same, from deep sea diver to football goalkeeper
hey, a job’s a job no matter what you do, even home brewer to a honey making beekeeper
So what if you’re an oddball, the world needs its variety
from 6 strings to 4, its hardly a chore, he gave up on the piano and its keys
because that’s the way it is and the life I now live
simple, sometimes exuberant but always content,
That’s it,
Bass player me
JJB
Jun 26, 2018
Jun 26, 2018 at 6:19 AM UTC
For Terry McFall, a Man of Bees and a Bees-y Man!
A beekeeper knows
That beauty is in the eye
of the bee-holder
Apr 4, 2018
Apr 4, 2018 at 6:45 PM UTC