Long Hive Poems
Long Hive Poems. Below are the most popular long Hive by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hive poems by poem length and keyword.
Comparing this against that,
mind’s natural habitat,
causes thoughts to go viral,
in form, where then then spiral.
Endlessly fuelling doubt,
we heed not soul’s soundless shout,
yearning to escape the word,
that it may be, in heart heard.
Defined by the thoughts we think,
ego’s afraid it will sink,
if we shift into the void
of peace, pure and unalloyed.
If head and heart choose to pair,
soul’s awareness, self-aware,
displays to us in full view,
our inner light, pure like dew.
Let go oh hermit, let go,
that truth of Self we may know,
here, now while we are alive,
in the cave of heart’s bliss hive.
Glisten like the moonlight in my eyes
Listen to the words of my mouth now
I crumble, I stumble upon my speech
I assume, I resume on like you’re out of my reach
I listened to your lies…
I am not through your goodbyes…
I’ve given up on love…
You’re still looking above
Where do I rove?
Where do I rove?
Where do I, dove?
Where do I, dove?
When you’re not my love?
When you’re not my love?
I’ve given up on love
Can’t think of…
Another way out
No doubt, no doubt, no doubt
I lost my route
Mend me for a little while now
Somehow, I’ve been lost without a sound
I’m like a bumble bee, taking its bow
Into the honey, into the honey before I hit the ground
I listened to your lies…
I am not through your goodbyes…
I’ve given up on love…
You’re still looking above
Where do I rove?
Where do I rove?
Where do I, dove?
Where do I, dove?
When you’re not my love?
When you’re not my love?
I’ve given up on love
Can’t think of…
Another way out
No doubt, no doubt, no doubt
I lost my route
I’m sick of your goodbyes…
I’m sick of your callous lies…
I’m going to be on my own…
Count me gone, all alone…
I’m sick of your goodbyes…
I’m sick of your callous lies…
I’m going to be on my own…
Count me gone, all alone…
I listened to your lies…
I am not through your goodbyes…
I’ve given up on love…
You’re still looking above
Where do I rove?
Where do I rove?
Where do I, dove?
Where do I, dove?
When you’re not my love?
When you’re not my love?
I’ve given on love
Can’t think of…
Another way out
No doubt, no doubt, no doubt
I lost my route
I listened to your lies…
I am not through your goodbyes…
I’ve given on love…
You’re still looking above
Where do I rove?
Where do I rove?
Where do I, dove?
Where do I, dove?
When you’re not my love?
When you’re not my love?
I’ve given on love
Can’t think of…
Another way out
No doubt, no doubt, no doubt
I lost my route
I’m sorry I lost you…
Into the bee hive, I go
I’m sorry I’m through
With being your love though…
I listened to your lies…
I am not through your goodbyes…
You’ve given up on love…
But, apparently, I haven’t, my dove…
I’ve given you love
When you gave up on it long ago
Who knew shredded paper...
alias confetti could be so much fun?
The misses took play therapy (hive
urgently got to tell thee)
to whole nother level,
she smartly, expertly,
deftly... didst contrive
at my expense - (to late),
when paramedics did arrive
abusive deadly torture,
I did not survive,
when she (Frau Abby) five
feet tall minus one inch
lobbed bajillion pounds
(analogous to many
a swarming beehive),
no matter I took strategic dive
buried yours truly alive
moments before perishing,
heard her banshee
cackling, hooting, kickstarting...
dancing spot on jive,
nonetheless mere seconds
before my demise did arrive
manage to scrawl illegible
plea broadcast across
icloud expansive ethereal
euphemistic hard drive
though unsure if
timely help will arrive
to resuscitate and revive
praying immediate por favor
very limited options more
or less absolute zero before
death be not proud doth score,
sad fate, I cannot ignore
salvation amidst desperation
doth tide dully shore
bolster faith no more
toward humanity - generally a bore,
maybe comeuppance,... thus I deplore,
premature demise grim reaper doth adore
yet perchance bottled message
throughout cyber sea reaches poor
or fabled lands i.e.
Zanzibar, Timbuktu, Bangalore...,
no especial rhyme nor
reason zee afore
saith place names mentioned
except they came to fore
front of noggin of this schnorrer
realizing United States marine corps
may also beg tubby enlisted,
viz search and rescue operations
even intervention papal monsignor
please communicate asap with pope,
now I bid thee good bye bonjour
beetle browed troubadour.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The city is a beehive~
hexagons stacked,
each buzzing with activity
morning, noon, and night.
Streets: wax-thin, sticky with footsteps.
Buildings: golden, leaning into each other,
their windows humming with fluorescence.
Every corner is a chamber~
workers trailing in, workers trailing out,
carrying briefcases instead of pollen.
The queen? She’s a rumor~
a shadow in the penthouse,
counting her hexagons,
her kingdom of glass.
And the honey?
Oh, the honey is the noise~
the honk and clatter,
the murmured deals,
the laughter pooling
in elevators,
thick as syrup.
We are all bees here,
dizzy with purpose,
lost in the comb.
poem originally written for and submitted to Ultramarine Literary Review for its urbanity contest, Febrary 21, 2026.
I struck out on my own around a year old
life was so full of fun, so many things with
which to play, a leaf scuttling by, a rustle
in the undergrowth. I was enthralled.
I stood on a road watching intently
a little mouse. A car shot past bowling
me over and slicing off half of my tail.
It stung like hell and dripped blood.
Finding a cool stream I placed my tail
within, oh the blessed relief I knew
I had been lucky, one life now done.
My next life also flashed by as
hunter became prey, I ran for
my life from a pack of hungry
wolves barely escaping their
razor sharp fangs and hot breath.
Fishing for salmon I ventured
in too deep and got swept away
tumbling through rapids, banging
into rocks lucky to be washed ashore.
Bedraggled I lie in the sun
I swallowed way more water
than I drink in two days.
Shivering as I dry off.
Maybe four is the charm
as now I am much wiser.
Oh no I followed my nose
to an enticing exciting smell.
It led me straight into a mire
churned up by rooting pigs
I was being sucked down
exhausted I finally lay still.
Well a miracle happened
the muddy slime released
its deathly grip and I was
able to slowly wriggle free.
What a state my fur was in
muddy slime all over me
only one thing to do and
that's take a hated bath.
As I rolled in the shallows
I felt a change in pressure
and ran for my life chased
by angry snapping jaws.
Piranhas I had disturbed
Nearly ripped to shreds
I slipped away to rest up.
Unfortunately as I drifted
off I started getting stung
I was under attack from
angry bees I was lying
right over their hive.
Fast as a streak I headed
yet again for the river
and dunked myself again
and again till they were gone.
Seven lives already used up
and I was still only three years.
A few years past uneventfully
I am getting the hang of things.
One dark stormy night
sheltering in a leafy tree.
It got hit by lightning
knocking me to the ground.
Fur still burning I looked
a real fright, a cartoon cat
with hair on end whilst all
I really wanted was a quiet life.
Well I have used up eight
of my nine. I now mainly
sleep my days away. The
urge of adventure quietly rests.
My day will come soon
now as age takes its toll.
I am stiff and nearly blind
so I lay down a final time.
October 2025
Dalton Ogletree
Whispers buried deep in the dust,
Echoes of secrets, covered by rust.
History twists—depends who you trust,
The mirror of truth collects our disgust.
We barely see beyond the glare,
Fairness? Man, that’s been rare.
Since the dawn, it’s never been fair,
Just smoke in the sky and prayers in the air.
They praise what’s broken, keep the cycle alive,
Still stirring the pot, watching the hive.
Waters polluted, hard to survive,
Searching for light, but shadows arrive.
I chase meaning, step through the blur,
Answers hide, the lines all stir.
Nighttime thoughts begin to occur,
World keeps spinning—so does the hurt.
Still learning. Still yearning.
Ash in my lungs, my candle’s burning,
Every turn—another returning.
Energy moves, shifting, merging,
The truth creeps up, slow but surging.
People serving idols blind,
Evil grinning, biding time.
Clock hands twist, worlds combine,
I’m just walking the edge of the line.
Still searching.
Birds sing above our dirt and steel,
For a moment, I almost heal.
But the weight remains, the pain still real,
Trying to find what the flesh won’t feel.
Coins slip fast through my hand,
Dreams like smoke, hard to stand.
Rehearsed my hope, forgot the plan,
Still asking who I really am.
Still searching.
Still learning.
Still turning.
THEATRE OF THE ABSURD
Puppets, all parts, perpetually working.
Tense strings, plucked, with novice fingers.
Ruby sawdust sparkles with the warm sun.
Puppets on strings, such silly things!
A play set nearby, a seesaw, those twins –
Hansel and Gretel, balancing between life and death.
The wretched sound of falling trees, pulled
from resistant roots - ground shakes violently.
The buzzing of saws, like bees in a honey hive.
Splinters of puppet bone, praying for relief.
The lies that Pinocchio told - stubs compared to this.
The darkening of the witch’s wood, with terrible treats.
Wooden toes, stumble and tiptoe, over windswept limbs,
sending shivers through their gnawing cold bones,
as twigs fly and snap, popping of puppet props.
Leading the way, Ali Baba whispers “open sesame” -
They hide in a craven cave, whilst the forest implodes.
Perpetual motion, like watches, ticking of time-bombs.
Pinocchio cracks jokes, like he’s done this all before.
Treasures glisten in candlelight, “what have we done…”
Whispers of a forest saved, puppets clamorous in mine -
Their eyes like multicolored jewels, hideous in the gloom.
Redwoods run with stilt-like legs, banging at their door -
Begging for one last kindness, followed by sudden silence.
They arise at dawn, the parade of puppets on strings.
Silly things, characters performed by naïve children –
playing at war. They hear a cackle, as she, lures them inside.
Guard down, until the urchins ears bleed, with screams of kindling.
2/6/2017
Bat and Gat were reading one day:
just too rainy outside to play.
They had opened a book;
pretty soon they were hooked,
and they both got carried away.
Curiosity sang a sweet tune
‘bout a cat and a cow and a spoon.
The pump got its prime
from a Mother Goose rhyme;
Bat decided he’d jump o’er the moon.
Cautious, Gat was pretty uncertain
when Bat slowly drew back the curtain.
When he told her his plan,
she knew in a brief span
that he and disaster were flirtin’.
So perhaps you recall the nut sling?
How they shot with an elastic string?
He just planned to build bigger,
With more stretch and vigor,
And launch himself out of that thing.
So he built him a giant slingshot
And with Juno, he pulled it back taut.
Gat said, “You’re going to die!”
as he aimed for the sky;
he said, “1, 2, 3 - ready or not!”
Bat got lofted at forty degrees
and he’d nearly cleared all the trees.
But it wasn’t quite autumn;
a leafy branch caught him.
Missed the moon; got a hive full of bees!
Well, that hive is what probably saved him.
For it softened the blow impact gave him.
But it sure rang his bell;
He got stung, and he fell,
and he barely hung onto a tree limb.
Well, Bat missed the moon: Holy cow,
Gat gave him the what for, and how!
Number nine took a dive;
we’re just glad he’s alive.
He's certainly one life down now.
Bat’s sure singing a different tune;
He no longer laments his lost moon.
Although he’s got eight,
and that’s pretty great,
there won’t be a repeat real soon.
The draft dips downward, limbs swaying in the wind;
fearless butterfly hovers over a branch.
Listening too late, one strong gust of wind
propels her towards an overhanging tree.
She grabs hold; hunching under leaves; she waits it out.
What a story she'll have for her kiddoes tonight.
Audacious bee is busily engaged
stockpiling nectar from nearby crocus blooms.
He hears the wind's howl and quickly crawls to safety
deep inside a budding flower blossom's petals.
"Wind's too strong to risk flying back to the hive;
I might land in Timbuktu or the Sahara."
Hard-working ants had set out on their quest early;
word has it that there's treasure on Ridge Rd.
Hauling crumbs twice his size, along the dusty path,
weary ant has made three trips already by noon.
More slowly, he trudges along with his last load
and gets wind of a blast coming his way.
Dropping cargo, he cowers to a crack just in time.
god has not bothered me much
he said
ants continue to terrorize nations
the ugly I have found to be beautiful
the root
the gnarling tree trunk
they believe in me
what I see - I am
he said
it is hard to cope
only writing crazy poetry
keeps me sane
an eighteen-wheeler roars
the rigs smoke stack passes
just below
wings hovering
descending to the black top
to the flat carcass of a possum
a beak resumes its conversation
with death
i recall as a boy standing by a window
looking at a flock of sparrows
sparrows just like those seen now
every feather could be the same
are the same
he said
the air-conditioner is a hive of humming minds
most pillows are stuffed with whispers
gulls scream
the sky is all theirs
yet it is not enough
ghosts do not bother me
what does not seem to change
that bothers me