Unbroken road hast led me sagely warm, trails led east to feast upon the chill sweetmeat of me, Thou shall not tender foist mine hand awry, t’were it not, no less, for newness.
In mind of stony sojourn stippling wings; and what sweeps soft-smooth to the burrowed and Hollowed, O moribund death! doth winter chill, and yielding thee, under ring’d crow-blanched land, Thou not lose sight as the vixen chancing, as far horizons bend little glance, a dance of pivot, of joy.
Trees, said yew, and oak that falls on hard knees, timely wills are broken, down to old bees That teem with gold to catch a falling star; and in seek of dancing tongues compass far, beyond, Before and done, and death become thee.
O evergreen! thine lovely shrills and plucks of earth, to prove and coddle bluer luck; go, go and
Catch (your star), what is left of glowing wood.
In the honeycombed, boney-silence,
where projections of flowers
under the guise of a bees bell of leggy amrita
the huddle and bury of laughter before
strands of milkwood buries within the thistle
the things we have never yet determined from glimpses
lost to the dark;
and if, by some wishbone happening,
should it fall to the river,
its many conflations, in silica, in bees,
born to love against the sage flurry in a fuzz,
you would hear, among the ages of ferns,
the thousand thick hum –
the bodies contained within
the jelly-thick flutings of the brooding hive,
the ‘we’re oh so ready and done for the year‘.
Where the birch meets water,
lost in the mouths of lilied frogs
beyond and involved, evolved with the foxgloves,
purple of the edible pansy blooms;
the breadth of a bee sting, slowsoft in butter colour
as it spreads;
take care and be well
whisper down to the lambkid, she says:
down there, bygone by buttress and marigolds,
swiftsure and buried in the browns of soil,
out there, take the tail of a queen and walk forever,
downward where a willow meets pine.
Each in bird a hive to grow,
to tell of quiets lest profound,
to make the bee-buzz brim,
waft-like swoon of beak to bulb, a brief repast,
in ground, inside; an inescapable palette
even as the white bloom of flies
in saffron beds, be bold be, of the bee
you swivel, darling, there above the yew;
in a field that swells with the burst of grain,
dipped and then green after a week of un-taste.
below we bow –
blest be you for cutpurse flight.
This is the dawn.
it is the dawn,
garden, harden, pardon? Larvae, ᵂondering whether
as the case most usually, isn't or,
but, where or
gate, g(r)ategate Ḕaten
In the nose
better than me
bee in me,
[I wrote this for DVersepoets “Poetics: Nightmare Verse” – where we were charged with writing about a recent nightmare/nightmarish situation. It was a fun exercise! I based this of a recent dream I had: I tried a as-surreal-as-I-could composition; most of my dreams are as such! Can you spot the things hidden within it? I drew the bee picture (which you can click on for a larger preview) with some new software that I’m playing around with! I’ve also made a few changes around the site, too – what do you think?]
Blessed are the birchmarked trees and pilchard burn,
the brought-out batteries of packed sardines and mellow tails –
the beekeepers net, soft and wild. Linen, muslin; fabric-genius.
The holders of honey.
The bees sough, graze flower tongues and meet their Queen,
clandestine sorceress in jail-break colour.
Take chance and mount the hill beside, the lofty light,
and watch as pen to diary makes: to tell what of leaves,
a brier of twigs and fox-foot-fossils left in mud.
Blessed are the flockmarked trees and bees made gold.
Indispensable bumbles, fluffs and fauna.
Cranberry, tulle, Boysenberry, pawnbroker, penumbra. They scatter.
A fire above the blazing garden battle. Honeylove for a pout,
teacakes, Earls in Grey and flour white loaves. Caught at
the edge, the bee-sage makes a heavenly stout: pressed to lips,
a pleasant hum to make good the year and sun’s sweet sallow.