Long Bees Poems
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A Garden Dreamy
I often dream a sweet little daydream,
of a garden dreamy . . .
A lush woodland place with a flowing stream,
up above are drifting clouds like ice cream;
a realm of floating bees and butterflies,
a paradise of birds songs and plumage;
where green tree leaf frogs sing me lullabies,
taking me back to my childhood age;
and I am a little weepy . . .
Then a little girl stands in a sunbeam!
A sweet girl who left me one winter day,
and her name is Suzanne . . .
She takes me by the hand and giggles gay,
among painted daisies and snowdrops we play;
I was so shy and she was always wild,
we weave in and out of the tall yarrow;
a bouquet of posies, from a lovely child,
then, Suzanne is fading to a shadow;
I dream whenever I can . . .
I daydream this dream that will always stay!
____________________
January 18, 2017
Poetry/Verse/A Lovely Little Daydream
Copyright Protected, ID 17-8867-022-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Submitted to the contest, Screwed XV
sponsor, Rob Carmack
The Darks not so dark when it's lit by a spark, and a flood cannot drown us if we're in the Ark.
The wolves will not bite us, all though they might bark,
they're still way behind us, (they had a head-start.)
The snow cannot freeze us, our glow is too warm...
The Bees cannot sting us, all-though they may swarm.
A Cell couldn't cage us, our kingdoms inside.
Our feet touch the ground, but our souls fill the sky.
The Clocks cannot age us and neither can time,
we laugh in their face and continue to shine...
If Our power is Love, then our weakness is none!
How can _____ be the end - its not even begun!
I recognize you in your entrancing diversity.
Float through the scent when the sun is sparky.
To plunge while hanging in the air on your head.
Each magnificent blossoming plant in the glade.
A fresh term starts as the former one withers away.
I'm vile by your demise, which neared firmly decay.
Sorrowful, Bees vociferate within the messy mass.
She is undeniably distraught as lies down to pass.
Why, goodness, you coerce this man in any way?
Reckless and ruthless, lacking care as the world decay.
Foulness and war are inciting Earth-wide total warming.
Wrecking the planet's core for our honey bees killing.
I'm sitting down now, fearful it will strike you again.
Your richness is valued by both lords and beggars, zen.
Nevermore will you trill in the hills and meadow.
Chimes won't loop during weddings, although now.
A world nearly breakdown, brought around by man.
Man-made droughts, lack of fertilization, and famine.
Written: February 12, 2022
WRITING WITH WEEPING WORDS
Lucinda runs through the forest,
runs past the barren fields, runs
past the lucid waterfall, runs
with her tears, leaving seeds of despair.
Roses with thorns grow most beautiful -
red, pink, yellow, white, as she grieves,
running, always running, with her paper
and pen. She’s fallen with her scissors
until she’s almost dead, snipping away
the times of her life spent with him. She
sees him flirting with her in the barn,
teasing with the hay, hiding until she giggles
then he grabs and kisses her, like he loves her.
Lucinda runs through the verdant grass
past the dandelion seeds, runs as a doe
frightened by the hunter’s arrows, runs
with her tears, scattering seeds of despair.
Dandelions pop up, sending sunshine through
the playful grass. A young girl sits in their midst
fashioning a necklace while the bees buzz around her.
Lucinda pauses, squeezes out her paper, to begin again.
The emotional tide, floods the grass, weakening the weeds,
uprooting the girl, who sails to her home. Lucinda writes
with watercolor pencil, colors blend as she adds her tears.
Memories of a proposal, on bended knee, under a sturdy oak tree.
Later the same day, she would find her intended kissing a frog,
and she would taste the bitter warts. How long, she wondered,
had he played her? She continued to weep with her words,
as nature meted out a cure with its meticulous beauty and strength,
not a tear was wasted, but rather tasted, a saltine splash
savored until the knotty oak placed Lucinda’s palm inside
its favored diamond in the rough, a young buck who would love only once.
10/5/2017
Broken Wings’ It’s the end of the forms series
He was the maker of lillies, poppies, and tulips
And a host of other eye-catching beauties.
When I met him, I sat at his feet, so facinated
With his amazing feat. And then he said to me,
"I am a rose maker".
Without another word, he reached toward
The sky, and fixation engulfed my eyes.
The elements smiled when he spoke to them
Whereupon they flowed toward him like the
River Nile.
He then gathered the soft and fertile soil, so
Filled with life giving substances. The rain
Agreed to provide water when needed in
Every season.
Air, sun, wind, and the quiet morning dew.
Heat, not cold, like a warm blanket for the soul.
Thriving buds and feeding bees. Thork, Limbs, and green leaves. Color and shapely forms for beauty so soothing to observe.
Thorns and flowers with contrasting purposes.
These all, willing servants of the rose maker,
Created harmony and melody like a well directed
Choir. Then, the rose maker smiled at me as he
Lifted me from my feet.
(01/10/12)
So many of my brothers and sisters are traveling this road
What’s expected is really unknown.
Death and destruction all around
Gunfire is the only sound.
War is really a living hell
Especially when you find out
Your best friend fell.
Innocent children sitting in the debris
Asking “ what’s going to happen to me?’
We have the technology to send people into space
What’s going on with the human race?
There is fear etched on every child s face.
Why don’t we use the brains that we’ve been given
To find peace and keep on living.
Wars have been going on since the beginning of man
Why can’t we search for peace?
What’s to understand !
There are insects and bugs, such as ants and bees
Who is in charge by their queen.
They have armies which they control
And they’re used to maintain their environment
In which they live, and do not use them for war.
So why can’t we follow their lead and settle our scores.
We kill other human beings to feel alive
Animals kill just to survive .
We say that they are the animals
So I guess we must be the beast
For on others miseries we do feast.
We fight for land, and we fight for power
Then what will happen in our final hours
Will we fight the temptation
to beg for our salvation.
in the cemetery
the vines grow wild
and wildflowers too
the air is full of sounds
as butterflies flutter
and bees glide and buzz
there is a beautiful stillness
and birds chirp a song
from hidden places
the peace sinks into me
as I walk the paths
I have no destination
no grave is waiting
but I saw the beauty
as I passed by and
had to come
to rest awhile
such old stones
some crumbled
some fallen down
some covered in vines
but the decay is divine
and the wild flowers growing
everywhere sublime
there is beauty in death
if you pause
______________________
January 28, 2022
Poetry/Free Verse/if you pause
Copyright Protected, ID 01-1426-149-28
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, A Strand (1061)
sponsor, Brian Strand, Judged 01/29/2022
First Place
Eleven years ago, it was a glimmering, gleaming, spanking new house
And we were so pleased, as we had designed it, our way, for us.
We immediately eliminated a dining room, preferring to eat in the
Livingroom on the multitude of couches, or recliners, reposing as we eat.
I have noticed so many things about it lately that are
Not spanking new, glimmering or gleaming, but I do not care one whit.
I have outgrown the need to spend hours and hours
Doing something I despise doing – namely housework, vacuuming
And other crazy stuff that is a waste of time as it perpetually needs
Re-doing.
I believe in living every minute of the rest of the time you have
Left doing stuff that is worthwhile, and fun, which explains my art
Studio full of paints, and brushes, and glitter, and canvases always
Sitting, waiting, with big white smiley faces on big white smiley backgrounds.
And my computers, one in my back office, and one in my garage office,
And four bathrooms, for two people. I wish I was kidding, but I am not.
No, it is no longer a glimmering, gleaming spanking house, but we love it.
It lives in the woods, with woodland creatures, and it has flowers galore,
It is a haven to bees, and wasps, and spiders, and snakes, and a boxed turtle too.
It is the only place I ever want to be, it is heaven on earth to us,
Our perpetual go-to-spot and best of all? It is home! My stay-cation palace
In the woods. I cannot imagine heaven being any more suited to my needs.
Best of all? It replenishes me nightly, helping me to eliminate the gloom
Of a sad day, or the memory of a lost child, who does not dare dream or hope anymore.
THAT'S HOW NECTAR RETURNS
Spring time garden smiles
In full blooming flowers
The branch of timid tree tries
To go up the sky even higher.
Busy bees sense the fragrance
Swarm from somewhere
Suck the flowers’ essence
Make honey in their ware.
The bare branch they eye
Waving welcome arm
With the wind they fly
Build a hive of honey charm.
In surging storm the sky breaks
The tree shakes in thunder
The honey-trap hive wrecks
Splinters spread down under.
Flowers flushed by night shower
Face the flare of the morning sun
Find on them honey spread all over
Tell the bees that’s how nectar returns.
February 4, 2018.
… I like him
not the fat bellied one as there is
too much hunger on the planet
an overweight pouch does not seem right
resembles too much opulent self-gratification
and distracts from prayer and meditation
the lean personification however
sits pleasantly under the fig tree
content with a rice bowl half empty
which is really half full
Buddha causes no suffering
does not hurt any sentient being
including themselves
yes it could be a woman
or binary human soul
transcending all evil
filling all chakras with joy
bees and butterflies happily
swirl around the ripening fruit
as they direct their merriment
towards nature and togetherness
I inhale deeply
hold my breath for a while
then let out the air
and for a moment or so
forget all my sorrows and pain