bee in resin, prehistoric package
a coveted hidden link
grandma’s amber pendant
Contest: Pick-A-Title Vol. 59
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
My darling, you are to me,
What nectar is to a bee,
What soft sand is to the sea,
What ripe fruits are to a tree!
My love, our passion is hot,
We have what others may not,
You are my story and plot,
This love song is what we've got;
Dripping honey and sweetness,
You are my strength and weakness,
You perfect my completeness,
The measure of love's deepness;
You're my life's sugar and spice,
Everything that's bad and nice,
Summer's warmth and Winter's ice,
My beloved paradise;
I adore you and cherish,
Without you, I will perish,
Our devotion will flourish,
If we honour and nourish;
When the sea of life is rough,
We both will challenge the tough,
Overcome problems and stuff,
Together, we'll be enough;
May our love be strong always,
Our ardour burns like a blaze,
I'll love you all of my days,
You never cease to amaze;
My heart's a lock, you're the key,
Your affection sets me free,
My darling, you are to me,
What nectar is to a bee!
To Bee or not to Bee?
Oh, not that line again!
I can hear the buzz:
At least try to bee original!
Got to lose that bee-be thing --
Catchy, but a bit scratchy
(Same-old Same-old grove) –
Cute, honeyed words, sugary,
Seductive syrup for shameless
Tongues and cords.
Metaphorically speaking,
We all prefer sweet lick-text
As opposed to biting – tasting
Far more exciting. Perhaps time
To re-comb my hive
Of writing? – bee a bit more
Less refraining, or get used to
Stinging complaining….
What nectar is to a bee -
Oh, such sweet divinity!
What warmth is to the live oak trees -
as they bow their limbs to the mighty breeze
What milkweed is to the Monarch butterfly
lest its caterpillar lack for nourishment and die
What shelter and food are to the birdling -
Lacking energia, it cannot grow nor can it sing
What rainfall is to the thirsting flowerbed
causing each bud to bloom and in joy lift its head
What the flowing stream is to the deer
that pants until he finds it near
What God’s breath is to life and empowerment
when wind that whispers His love is sent
What nectar is to the bee
is what sweet Jesus is to me.
You are red sun in my gray cloudy sky
Cheering me on despite blues in life
I look up and see your beautiful light
From gold glowing soul such a delight
As white wind beneath my brown wing
You carry cranberry heart love inspiring
Your yellow whimsical smile like spring
Give rise to sapphire songbirds that sing
You are as sweet as sap from green tree
Lime cure your laugh defeats melancholy
Moonlight carves path from Black Sea
That is teal tragic past rebirth’s dream
Your heart is a love flower warm opening
Even in rain shower you power positivity
I can look at you for hours inhaling peace
You empower what nectar is to a bee
Of nectar, I never sing.
I only beat my wings.
As long as I'm alive,
I gather nectar for the hive.
I toil for a bountiful nectar crop.
I work until I drop.
So the colony will thrive,
I do it for the hive.
Lo, I hear something strange.
My brain begins to change.
It is a flower's voice.
She tells me I have choice.
I never lived until
I discovered I have free will.
Now, in nectar, I rejoice,
knowing I have choice.
What Nectar is to a Bee ?
" Its drinking desire must be !"
Invitation from bloom : Bee sips in glee.
Abloom blossom to greet
bee , offering nectar as treat
to meet its appetite.
Flower and bee ! Mutual : Complementary :
Both are comfortable in floral territory.
As prime drink, bee sips nectar.
Pollen sticking to bee in flowery sector
initiating pollination at random :
Flowery wisdom !
.
Flower and bee ! Made for each other.
Nectar as bond to one another.
Within the crowded dark,
She dreams of a golden bloom.
Weaves a swift, geometric loop,
Then traces right, a graceful swoop,
To banish gloom. from the room.
And share a silent spark.
The August sun is rising high,
The lavender patch is brown and dry.
While cleaning near the pipal tree,
I found a gasping, weary bee.
Dim and grey his golden rings,
Far too slow to beat his wings.
His pollen baskets empty today,
Perhaps his hive is far away.
With love and care I picked him up,
And fed him sweet brown sugar syrup.
He quenched his thirst and stayed no more,
But wizzed through the air while I watched in awe.
**The Thorn of a Bee**
*Written by Marilou G. Taupan*
In a peaceful meadow, a bee flies freely,
Small yet liberated and useful.
But no matter how good its deeds are,
There is something it fears—its “thorn.”
Like the bee, humans also have their own “thorns.”
It is not something that literally pierces others,
But it represents the experiences they carry—
The pain, anger, and wounds of the past
That have never fully healed.
Like the bee, a person may sometimes hurt others,
Not because it is their intention,
But because they only want to defend
And protect themselves.
When you see the true “thorn” within someone,
You will understand that it belongs to a person who has been hurt,
Someone who is trying their best
Not to be wounded again.
So, when you encounter someone with a “thorn,”
Do not immediately fear or turn away.
Perhaps that thorn is the very thing that keeps them strong
When the world has tried to break them.
Because behind every hidden thorn,
There is a story of pain, hope, and perseverance.
Like the bee—its thorn does not define who it is,
But the heart that continues to soar despite everything.
Creation
A bumble bee
Busy in the buddleia bush
Getting nectar and pollen
For life all to go.
A butterfly fluttered by
Going up high
For a purpose unknown
Exploring the sky.
Below on a cabbage
A caterpillar chews
And spiders just waiting
To trap some more food.
Incredible creatures
All multiplied vast.
God’s glorious creation
Future, present, and past.
Busy bee with fuzzy wings,
Flies around and softly
sings,
Sweetest honey home she
brings!
I open my eyes, and she is gone.
I was the flower, and you, the queen bee.
Though I promised sweeter nectar, richer and deep,
You grew restless, leaving my petals to weep.
Suddenly a bird, you took to the breeze,
Soaring away, far above the trees.
I close my eyes, and she appears.
A grand eagle, slicing through the gale,
While I, a mere cloud, send a scent so frail,
Chasing your shadow, a never-ending trail.
Now, she is nowhere to be seen.
I drift into a dream once more.
Seeking new blossoms to claim and disown,
You are still a queen upon your throne.
'When those other flowers wither and die,
To another garden, you will surely fly.'
So I shall bloom no more.
A flower already withered at the core.
Let spring, summer, autumn, and winter roll by—
My petals will never again greet the sky.
Yet remember this, before your journey is done:
Your final stop, under the dying sun,
Will be the jaws of the butterwort flower—
Trapped in the carnivore's silent power.
Tell me, child, besides
Whose light your play lent
A rule, wise as twas benign-bent
Should we not farewell?
That drone, cello-like
Deeper noon's, which hour.
Whose own world of, in its honour
Insects', heard to swell.
the bee had no idea he would become a piece of time
He was not a writer, a poet, he did not do rhyme
But he was encased in amber over time
And now he is a beautiful necklace of mine
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