"beekeepers" poems
pencil
slithering along paper
projecting a negative
spilling with meaning
enduring
the human condition
coiled abstracted
killing
the beekeepers daughter
dimming
with every other mistake
just another
scrumpled piece of paper
census taker
wet
with excitement
cabinets, pills, waste
a false flag
fundamental
our angels of materialism
cue commercials
peasants whim
never finding
the key to expression
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 9:41 AM UTC
i met a man upon the road
who carried his mind in a thicket of thorns
bluejays nesting in his thoughts had built it
one thorny troubled thought at a time
untill he staggered as he walked from the weight
of this contraption of the mind
like a drunkard in the backstreets of seaside town
he would sit by the small cafe or coffee house
and sing for young lovers such songs as ballads of old
or ones from folk singers and childhoods fancy
bright songs of good cheer
at the end of the long summer day
as the cafe and coffee shop would shutter their doors
he would gather his coin
and bid the day fare thee well
would climb slowly the flower strewn hill
sit under the great oak tree
and prune his thicket of a mind
with pinking shears and a hacksaw
with a farmer's plow and the beekeepers glove
a thousand fold bluebirds moving as one
with a terrible sound of wings upon the air
a soft beating of wings like a hearts dry thunder
each carrying a twig to add to his thorny thicket
which was now larger than the man himself
he would wrestle with it all the long night
till sleep overtook him there under the great oak tree
so he lingered here by the sea for years
at the whims of romance by lovers in the coffee house by daylight
and the light of the moon that lead him to dance
in a maiden hayfield at night
he would sing ballads to the star light
and to the wisps of clouds flying the night sky
they buried him with his thicket of thorns
at the top of the hill
below the stars that weep even now
he asked me why once
why none helped him be free of his thicket of thorns
why not one took pity and took his hand to at least comfort
and i told him that the world had
in bluebirds that kept him company
in coffee houses that loved his songs
in me that came to know him at long last
not as a man with a thicket of thorns
but as an empire of bluebirds playing in the skies
just at dawns first light
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 9:10 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
It was the place where I'd step from the train
and the sea air bouyed and supported me.
It felt just right. No sense of human drain
and exploitation. There I could just be.
Then I thought about it: About the men
so so beautiful and sparkling who chose
other girls. About the sweet fishermen,
surfers, beekeepers, gardeners, those
cool cafe workers, the greenie coop
community, musos, artists, weavers,
woodworkers and keepers of chicken coops.
Reality checks sometimes find dreamers.
Of all those lovely people I admired
not one reached out to teach me anything.
Nov 18, 2019
Nov 18, 2019 at 3:00 PM UTC