"honeycombs" poems
*Honey bee collects nectar
Honeycombs with honey
Intruders get stung
Honey still tastes sweet*
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 9:44 AM UTC
~
*Weddings and honeycombs.
Why do they give us the hives?
The keeper knows.
There's a buzz in the air.
It belongs to
the rudimentary happinesses:
The minor miracle of father's smile,
a morning breath of honey,
painting toy lips with
blood from mother's finger.
Deathless protagonists,
Mom and Dad,
our propolis.
They love us from afar.
They love us with what they are.
There's a buzz in the air.
There must bee!
They can't help loving
us little monsters,
who sting
and then say goodbye,
sting and say goodbye.
A linn begins to form
in the corner of their eye,
as wheat fields sway in the wind.
The innocent
and the beautiful
have no enemy, but time.*
~
Mar 3, 2022
Mar 3, 2022 at 9:46 PM UTC
Dangerous times nearing midnight. Every day opens with fresh blood or ink drying down our throats, "...and I Must Scream.", Harlan Ellison [1967]
Honeycombs of humanity sink into themselves and form a thick syrup they claim will cure our ailments, but still tastes like Third ***** nationalism. They burn our shelters and chant, "Home."
Resistance looks strange. People aren't choking on gag orders, they're going around the wall, but hundreds are behind bars for protest, or still getting killed on the streets, or getting hosed down in the cold for advocating clean water. They're putting bounties on antifascists.
We beat that ***** Richard Spencer, but we're yet to strike the one in the White House.
Rattlesnakes under our heels, we've grown into something fiercer.
Something deadlier.
Jan 26, 2017
Jan 26, 2017 at 3:21 PM UTC
Burning, he walks in the stream of flickering letters, clarinets,
machines throbbing quicker than the heart, lopped-off heads, silk
canvases, and he stops under the sky
and raises toward it his joined clenched fists.
Believers fall on their bellies, they suppose it is a monstrance that
shines,
but those are knuckles, sharp knuckles shine that way, my friends.
He cuts the glowing, yellow buildings in two, breaks the walls into
motley halves;
pensive, he looks at the honey seeping from those huge honeycombs:
throbs of pianos, children's cries, the thud of a head banging against
the floor.
This is the only landscape able to make him feel.
He wonders at his brother's skull shaped like an egg,
every day he shoves back his black hair from his brow,
then one day he plants a big load of dynamite
and is surprised that afterward everything spouts up in the explosion.
Agape, he observes the clouds and what is hanging in them:
globes, penal codes, dead cats floating on their backs, locomotives.
They turn in the skeins of white clouds like trash in a puddle.
While below on the earth a banner, the color of a romantic rose,
flutters,
and a long row of military trains crawls on the weed-covered tracks.
2k
**Deceit is in the air, beware!
the stench of dead birds,
mysteriously perished,
is it caused by the weather change?**
I witness feathers change color
beyond recognition on many birds,
both young and old,
i usually used to see on my walk
now they don't smile,
or even send a casual look as before.
Monsoon clouds, expected
aren't dark, or fat, as usual
obscene white, like cotton wool,
Had it been in other times,
i would have eulogized,
"So white and pure"
Drought is predicted,
we are living in hard times
should one remind that often?
would you hold my hand?
we need to stick together,
now, more than ever.
Luscious looking grapes, but wait,
I've seen them bath those in
thick soup of insecticides,
death lurks in salacious and sweet garbs,
eschew that grapes, they are sore,
be like foxes , that are clever.
The apples? rotten to the core,
forbidden, though entice
polished by poisonous wax,
don't eat those rotten eggs,
dame salmonella displaying her bare *******
would be ready to ****** don't budge.
soon you will be down with illness.
Don't walk alone,
guardian angels have fallen in to bad days,
their wings are fragile,
vampires with fangs long enough
to draw blood, till the last drop
have come out in the open,
from the legends, where they slept.
The piranha, in the water closet,
has been starving for a week,
butterfly with psychedelic painted wings,
really is an evil thought,
out to attack on a masquerade,
Inside the cupboard there is a masked raider,
have you heard the hungry tiger,
growling in your cluttered backyard?
a bear is prowling in the garden,
searching for hidden honeycombs,
did I see a python, licking a girl's naked breast?
*Keep all the doors closed tight,
remain quiet inside*
)O(
Aug 2, 2012
Aug 2, 2012 at 1:57 PM UTC
my orchid now blooms
twelve to match
the bird pecking at
midnight
the yellow tongues
of blushed cheeks
become fans for
soft, white petals
inner honeycombs
turn red when
you say
(in perfect sobriety)
how beautiful I am
and for a moment
there are orchids blooming
in the diner
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 5:33 PM UTC
Blasting sparkling blizzards
White skies suffocating;
A ****** of crows hiding.
Chattering from treebark
Petrified little rodents (final)
Serenity in personified wind
Given shape through fog and flake
A symphony of schools of tiny pearly fish
Slamdancing in steam from generators
Perspiring the only heat (miles)
Needles on branches leaking natural
****** made by contrast of mother-of-pearl
Glistening from coral made in woodland;
Empires of organic respiration
Evolved into perfect lungs.
Let the Big Fish gather!
Stalagtites from shed-ceiling
Melting slowly. Cones sprouting
From ground of perfectly smooth rest
Nesting in honeycombs of golden hashish
Leaves falling from stems busted
Water filling up airlocks long since rusted
And the rooftops of cars and homes are dusted
A shroud of grey cloud, nothing comes in
No one goes out. Fortress, sanctuary,
Harmony, charm. Schools stop worrying.
No sharks, no wolves.
Only lonely, shivering coyotes.
And nestled cubs in bedspreads
Let your tongue out, divulge, reel in...
Partake...
Ingest.
Dec 28, 2010
Dec 28, 2010 at 1:33 PM UTC
stencil skin
perforated by thousands of honeycombs
stretched over a canvas of bones
a grey eye of the storm
inside solenoid ribs
electromagnetic apparatus
stained by organisms
without programming
ceaseless reproduction
asexual monolithic tyrant womb entity
gaping mouth
holocaust of birth
avatar of terror
antithesis of providence
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 7:07 PM UTC
Honeybee am I, of this enchanted valley,
eclectic and crazy, exquisite blooms gift me honey,
keep it handy for you, in honeycombs I craft,
taste a drop or two, in your smile I rejoice!
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 10:31 PM UTC
I zip up my astronaut suit,
plop the cubed veil onto my head.
In my hat, I am the observer
Living behind the netted television.
Dressed for pain avoidance. No tears.
(Perhaps I should wear this out on dates)
A tall metal teapot with its accordion attachment rests,
on guard, in my yellow stained gloves.
Together, we enter the boxed colony
The teapot’s steam spurts clusters of buzzers into the air—
I grab coarse honeycombs, drain the
visions of nectar.
When the day is over, I gather the jars,
amber sucrose, the pee-colored concoctions, to head inside.
In the kitchen, the timer aches to sing as the clouds
From the pumpkin loaves clog the room.
I hold my honey and I store my bread.
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 6:23 PM UTC
It’s probably not that you were awesome
(but you were)
It’s probably not that it was worth it
(but it was)
It’s not even that you deserved it
(but you did)
It’s that your words became an apiary
And all my bees built honeycombs with the curves of your face
Now your words no longer come
nor does your smile grace me
The sweet honey has drained into the jars of my heart
And I’ve tried to forget you
but the syrup on my tongue remembers you
it puddles into the hexagons of your name
whispering like bees wings
I strengthen myself with sugar
and beeswax feeds my flame
that I harvested on a day my feelings decided to dance around you
like bees they nestled in your flowers
How long will I eat of your honey?
How long will your sweetness remain in my memory?
Apr 15, 2019
Apr 15, 2019 at 10:50 PM UTC
Honeycombs of light
****** themselves into being
in metro fields.
Children cross the lush
to skip stones at the dead fence
as night assembles itself
into spaces and stars.
Day falls away like a skin,
beneath conquering belts of milk
that separate from a lidless emptiness.
Silver subway trains gleam
in their charcoal tunnels.
Apart from all of it
is a chalk morsel moon.
Sometimes you are
the thrown stone
sinking down to post
& sometimes you are
the star wheeling off tether.
Jan 12, 2021
Jan 12, 2021 at 5:42 PM UTC
We dredge secrets,
That's the start,
Panning love from art.
Our words wash over
Like sluicing water,
To clean the buried heart.
Crack the hard rock
To reach motherlode;
Veins enrich us,
With jewels to share.
Float to the summit
On romantic trysts;
Reclaim me from
An open pit
With deep drill
Diamond bits.
These small gems
We call poems
Are sweet as gold
From honeycombs.
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 2:13 PM UTC
my lady is crowned with flowers of saffron
and sunfire gleaming she honeycombs through her hair;
her eyes are rain-streaked as silver-stirred seas
and she holds grace and the depth
of an ivory-blushed wild rose's many petals:
mellifluous fanciulla della mar,
what magic she has, how strange she is still to me!
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 6:17 AM UTC
Sweet of you to think of me,
Sweet candies so yummy.
you're more than what I can ask for,
Picnic together by the seashore.
You're sweet enough to make flowers bloom,
Floral scent with honeycombs.
You turn the grey skies to blue,
chocolate sweet fondue.
Dec 24, 2019
Dec 24, 2019 at 7:44 AM UTC
Does memory deserve such a platter?
Cellophane instead of silver, but still
An impressive tower.
Such weight it bears—
Exhibit of blue curiosities
Resting on shoulders,
Original honeycombs.
The honeyeater feasts
On what has made a meal of me.
Grand rooms echo with silence.
Love turned to hate
So often without comment.
A history of broken hearts lies beneath
Street level. Away from sun’s glare
I buried them.
It is a tomb I walk in, tour guide
To myself. It is an ossuary hidden deep
Underground. It is the Catacombs of Paris.
Here moldering in the dark repose
A stack of secret skulls and bones—
Those gleeful arsonists.
In the end, even they succumbed
To the fires they set,
Burning down chapels without regret.
The city rumbles overhead, oblivious.
Everyone is absorbed with their own busyness.
No one pauses to wonder outside the still museum.
The cool façade belies the treasures hidden within.
They forget the history we share.
No visitor ascends the stair.
Inside, all is quiet.
The sole curator walks among the artifacts—
The rare objects, a Gordian knot,
The personas we once wore:
The naked emperor, the femme fatale,
The honeycunt.
Nov 15, 2019
Nov 15, 2019 at 8:30 PM UTC
... flowers and clouds, and softer things
such tenderness wherewith life begins
in stately dorms or bourgeois homes,
or utterly destitute honeycombs,
and passes from versions of innocence
into states of constant sufferance,
painted with smiles and laughs at places
also with meaning but only in traces
-in manner of fame and ranks and degrees
or heartbreak, poverty, loss and disease..
With silent craving for deliverance
from here to blissful ignorance...
we drown, float and drift onwards,
packing memories into pictures, songs, written words
- like treasures, reminders and proofs of past
we make them live longer than we last,
so we may go through them in wrinkled skins
when the counting down of days begins
to end 'up above the world so high
like a diamond in the sky...'
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 5:49 PM UTC
Violence; the smoky air has
become a white tornado.
The violin of nature releases
a chord of dark romance.
The other side is there-
from what I can see-
she just wants to be free.
A sparrow jumps to and fro
between city skylines and
colours in black.
She is talking smooth-
an impression in a sunrise.
Onward, onward-a floral circus.
I cannot work this.
Speeding drops of rain become
the final goodbye of summer.
She is building a bridge of chimes
to aid her in her deafness.
Teacups fill with sunshine
and a stranger dressed in silk
is made of honeycombs of milk.
The crystal has broken up
into thousands of tiny stars
Hopeless nostalgia fills the sky
and ivory skin is revealed.
She is on a crash course of
late night manipulation.
She has witnessed salvation.
May 1, 2010
May 1, 2010 at 9:41 AM UTC
"where love is.... a jealous girl
of the wind."
i.
falling like a leaf
that sings to the sky
the cresting wave
draws down,
the honey sea
a miracle of dance.
ii.
deep vision of blue,
caves of grey iron,
the waters pool,
drifting with the
icy wind.
iii.
sharp vowel of
frozen earth,
the songful
depths of winter
sink like the seas,
the dark notes
of the clouds an
accent above the
vaulting hills.
iv.
i sink like the seas
before your love,
my knees trembling,
my legs aroused,
i am a storm that
gathers the
horizons of your
sky, burnt into the
honeycombs of
the wind full of
winter
song.
v.
the sky must sigh,
the wind whisper
to the sea; “take
me home.”
vi.
i see you and my
body melts, your
love the breath of
the sea, the magical
tides of the clouds.
Feb 9, 2018
Feb 9, 2018 at 12:55 PM UTC
This is something I care not to clarify
I love the way you love the way I love the way you think.
It's so passive, reliable, justifiable, true.
Genuine, down to earth, positively youthful
I like the airwaves within this space
The fluttering shimmers of particles
Floating leisurely among these silent breaths
Between words, between sighs, between signals
Never misinterpreted
It's as though a single mind unites both of ours
Not as if we share it, but as if some unifying God shares us
And allows us to share its beauty among ourselves.
This is the moment that freezes the day still,
A completely honest simplicity in naked exposure
Veins pumping radiated green liquid
Nitrogen honeycombs decorating the walls
Splicing and combing DNA strands
This is what it is to be maybe, probably, quite possibly but most likely not in love
But maybe, probably, quite possibly but most likely not just a confusion.
I think, I think this is a blank sheet.
That we have openly filled in
You propose with those bright colors
And i fill in all the dark spots
And this blank paper becomes a painting
And soon, I feel, whether you try to make it work or not
We will be immortalized in this painting...
Because let me tell you one thing I know for sure about us.
Whether it ever got finished or not,
I would never, ever, EVER sell that painting.
Dec 28, 2010
Dec 28, 2010 at 10:48 PM UTC
There's a red tinged
Shiva Moon
adorning the night sky
honeycombs drip in
the sweet sultry air
My Lord is close to me tonight
His starry raven robes
cover me with pure enchantment
I am a tender whisper
in His heavenly caress
Aug 14, 2021
Aug 14, 2021 at 9:56 PM UTC
and you'd come up again
in our conversation,
a bit flustered
wandering through haystacks in June
what else did you want from me?
it's either this or that...
words shared yet lost
meaningless and obsolete
a hazy afternoon for two
i knew a child who built houses
out of pebbles and twigs
he glued them together with honeycombs
and called it love.
those inhibitions
he tore up and sealed
for another day
then one day the wind thought
to come around to tumble
the bees harpooning above him
hypnotizing stings,
the cries within him
undulated to the frequencies,
of bright peonies in the spring.
and I saw this,
twist I did,
to bend the story wayward
like the rivers without moons
peering inquisitively at me.
But they were only fictions
carved by ancestors and
ancestors past,
whichever way to get their point across
to hold my head in their arms.
it was
folklore I'd forgotten to let go
the impossible book held deep in my chest
the anomaly I'd refused to relent
the searching for paradise.
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 3:27 AM UTC
He write in bread crumbs,
trails of clues that will not be found because the birds have eaten them. Fleeting, unremarkable, but it feeds and feeds and fills empty stomach. Unfulfilling but full.
( Most of the days that is so much better than being hollow)
Over the years, the forest grows.
Grasses mold it self into canopies, rooftops that shields him from the light. A darkness that blinds but pulsing with warmth. Branches twisting towards each other, entangled in each other stories. 'write better' they whispers.
Flowers will not blooms but the sweet smell of honeycombs wafts through the air like hunger.
( we are hungry and hungry and lonely tell us stories, tell us more more more more please moremoreore-)
So the path to home become unrecognizable. Intangible, flickering as if it wanted to be real.
He feels kin ship down to his bones and whimpers fall out from his mouth, quivers but does not fold.
He curled but life would not, will not let him bend.
What should a man do if he cannot curve, cannot bow and break? They all said that to achieve greatness, he have to taste 'broken' on his tongue. Ripe to the point of decaying, fingers sticky with black honey.
He let his teeth chatters, secrets flew out of his mouth like love letters. Carved into him self are the promises made by breakers and yet, honesty is what he sounds like. A forest is an illusion, they say. Wrap your perception until everything look the same and there is only doubt in your self.
( After all everything have to protect their heart)
Peeling barks, bleeds. He bit his lip, wounds are his lovers but everyone knows that love is treacherous. There is a little boy and a man. There is Him, the one who only grows and feeds but never fulfills. 'Isn't that enough?',he asked.
This was what you sow into me, you make me grow into a man but not a human. So he becomes,
forest isn't the only thing that can burn.
( How do you escape your self?)
This is a mirror house, a forest where every trees are your thoughts, their roots are your beliefs, and their seeds are your doing.
(most of the times, it become your own undoings)
You reap what you sow, but what if you are the one who was sowed.
-nabs
Oct 18, 2017
Oct 18, 2017 at 11:58 PM 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