Long Honeybee Poems
Long Honeybee Poems. Below are the most popular long Honeybee by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Honeybee poems by poem length and keyword.
I've never seen Her She refreshes me Imperceptible
Even with the trees waving: I see naught when she is here Unseen to the naked eye
Rippling the waters On hot afternoons Waltzing among us
When the Eagles soar Helps the Honeybee The Unseen Beauty
She is there to help guide them Pollinating the Flowers Is all around;for SHE is
Enhancing their flight With her unseen Breath The Zephyrus Wind
Entered in Deborah Guzzi Contest The Beauty Way
Entered in Christie Moses Contest The Many Voices Of The Wind
They start thick—
not the polite kind you stir into tea
not the mild drizzle on breakfast toast
but the kind that runs hot
slow
dangerous
coating your tongue before you grasp
the price of its pleasure.
They start golden—
dripping off the comb
sun pressed into their marrow
too rich, too syrupy—
gumming up the gears of your schemes
too luminous for hands that flinch from light
too wild for walls meant to contain them.
You want squeeze-bottle love.
Clean.
No bees.
No stingers.
No buzz.
But they ferment in kitchens
where no one thanks them—
same way their grandmothers did
spooning fire into each serving
stinging their own tongues
just to stay sharp—
drizzling down your better judgment staining
Sunday shirts
unraveling wedding vows
spilling past boundaries
no one asked them to obey.
They get called—
too much.
too loud.
too open.
too shut—
like they were born to fit into your grip
instead of slipping right through it.
You try to jar them.
Slap on barcodes:
Best before.
Handle with care.
Discount if damaged
for quick sale.
But wild honey won’t kneel—
it contradicts logic
defies preservation
reason
perfumes the air
wrecks your thirst for tradition.
You mistook raw for reckless
Reckless for ruin
Ruin for something to fear.
You laughed when they wept—
like grief was a spectacle
like tenderness was weak
like softness
was a defect to be filtered out.
But by the time you realize
she’s the rarest thing
you ever tasted—
she’s already sweetening
the hands that never swatted her
And now,
we sit here—
jars without lids,
spoons still sticky—
trying to remember
what it meant to taste something
that never begged to be caged.
Maybe—
the glass wasn’t meant to hold her.
Maybe—
it was meant to shatter—
to let something wild
and feral
flood in
and leave you
pleading
for ruin.
—it’s a reckoning,
unapologetic,
untamed,
final.
Zeal the Zealot just made some poison,
and he was proud of it as can be.
He advertised the poison for all the world to see.
He touted that his would kill all the mice and rats,
but, promised no harm to the helpful bats.
Quincy the Quiet made some poison brew
and he was proud of his work too.
He advertised the poison for all the world to see.
He touted that his would kill all the roaches and fleas,
but, promised no harm to the bees.
Zeal the Zealot sold his poison at the corner mart,
and he gave out fliers for the user's instructional start.
Quincy the Quiet sold his poison out of the back of his pickup bed,
and had the instructions on the label in red.
Little did either realize dangers these sales threatened to be.
Stripped the Honeybee fell into Zeal's poison's pot
and sipping the poison he began to feel hot.
Then Stripped attempted to fly away,
but Buddy the Bat thought he was food anyway.
Both the bee and the bat died-on Quincy's pickup bed.
Neither Zeal nor Quincy wanted the bat to die,
but both blamed the other and did not question why.
Then from around the corner came Loudmouth the Cat
who tried then to help them understand,
the product they both were selling would be destruction to the land!
Who could ever even ponder such a creativity
All across the lands and throughout every sea
And let us not forget His Hand in the sky above
With every single detail pointing to His great love
From the tiniest little ant who is as strong as can be
To the very smart killer whale who rules the entire sea
From the common honeybee as they pollinate the land
To the dominate bull elephant in loudly making a stand
Each creature having a very unique talent of it's own
With most parents watching their young until their grown
And all the feats and migrations that they each perform
Even knowing when to shelter before an approaching storm
We could learn a lot just by looking at His wondrous Creation
But instead it is being destroyed in almost every single nation
To begin to see His Glory and the Love His Creation does bring
You need only listen to the early birds and the praises they sing
In the quiet of the morning with the full moon overhead
I like to set my mind to wandering while I’m walking…
but sometimes it goes wondering instead:
I wonder about beauty…what a wonderful and harmonious world this could be……
if everyone saw beauty in everyone and everything they see?
I wonder if pride is important to a peacock? Does a cheetah dream of speed?
Does strength matter to an elephant…or size to a centipede?
I wonder if beauty is valued by a butterfly…or approval by a honeybee?
and if these aren’t important to other creatures…
I wonder…should they matter much to me?
I wonder about differences…
when we meet someone who’s different from us…
then get to know them…then we evolve into friends…
perhaps our differences shouldn't matter in the beginning…
since they don’t matter in the end.
I wonder about courage…for isn’t the truest form of bravery ever made
coming face to face with a fear when we’re the only one who knows we are afraid?
I wonder about babies…who, like acorns in the snow,
need warmth and love and nurturing if they ever are to grow…
I wonder how many parents understand how tall and strong their tree will grow…
depends on how they care for…their acorn in the snow.
Well, I’m back home…my morning walk is over…
and I must admit my heart feels a little brighter
my mind a little clearer…
and my soul a little lighter
This is what often happens in the quiet of the morning
with the full moon overhead
when I set my mind to wandering…
but it goes wondering instead.
It's been an odd dream, hasn't it?
I can taste my breath behind this mask
The sweet bitterness of cold brew and hazelnuts
As I run out to replenish my dwindling stock
And the masses cast their breath about
As what feels like the ninth Once-in-a-Lifetime event draws on
I amble about in the dreamscape that must bind me
It'd be too much to admit the virus won
And the base emotion of humanity is selfishness
It's been an odd dream, hasn't it?
Time to break the set down, that's a wrap
As I haul hundred-pound bags of gear down the stairs
Job well done, let's get a beer
But the celery with these wings is limp and pale
It had to be a dream, of course
A fairytale ending for a fairytale meeting?
It just wasn't to be, and thus the last time I packed our gear
Was the last time I packed our gear
It's been an odd dream, hasn't it?
"Do no harm," your oath declares
But where does that responsibility end?
An infantile dream for an infantile mind
How often do you remember your patients?
Thousands, if not tens of thousands
Must pass your eyes in the blink of an eye
If the son of a soldier died when you turned away
Would it even be vaguely your fault?
It's been an odd dream, hasn't it?
That spring would be nostalgic if it wasn't so bloody
Slaughtered dreams lay at our feet, nascent and raw
The setting sun had never felt that way before
As a dying honeybee foreshadowed the months to come
"I'll make it past this."
"There's something at the end of this tunnel."
"It'll all be worth it in the end."
"I can't give up here."
It's been an odd dream, hasn't it?
Good morning.
It's time to wake up.
Bad dreams again?
Get back in touch with your doctor, it's happening more often.
What did I gain by dreaming?
What would I have missed taking that plunge that day?
Are three video games and poverty wages all that can be mustered?
What stands to be lost returning to the skyline view seven years ago?
And what's to be lost finally seeing the view from halfway down?
Good morning.
Look around; Gaia is crying,
for whales and elephants dying.
Honeybee numbers are way down:
Gaia is crying; look around.
Plastic pollutes our world's oceans:
creating poisonous potions.
Despite organic substitutes,
our world's oceans; plastic pollutes.
Climate change, our future forecast,
was wrought by greed, present and past.
Today, global warming sounds strange;
our future forecast, climate change.
We've overfilled all our landfills
and cut down trees for our sawmills.
City garbage dumps are backfilled
all our landfills: we've overfilled.
We feign surprise while glaciers melt
at speeds not previously felt.
Because we choose to believe lies
while glaciers melt: we feign surprise.
Years go by like a purple blur of time,
As when the ripest grapes are turned,
Into the most luscious and aged wine!
Then memory itself often comes calling,
In sweltering sunshine and in the rain,
Like roaming bluebirds' memories of home,
Or the sweet memories of the honeybee!
Seasons come and go so colorfully vivid,
Obeying a golden rule of sunshine cycles.
Hectic time goes by quickly like rainbows,
Like the short-lived beauty of a sunset,
Leaving deep impressions upon our hearts.
Marks like family or friends and laughter,
And sometimes like sorrows bittersweet.
Then tears are falling amid bright hued
Autumn leaves that swirl upon the wind!
Memory is alive forever, like aged time.
This weak-minded control freak has a plan.
To elevate himself at everyone's expense.
He's causing the very problems that he claims to fix.
But he's nothing more than a brown-nosed little prick.
Tossing everything around him on the pyre.
He's forgotten that we've got time and karma on our side.
That sweet little honeybee with the powerful sting.
That deems bad intentions as lowbrow, poisonous things.
One day, sure enough, that karmic bee blitzed in and stung him in the nuts.
(his brow beat wife bloodied his nose and left him in the dust).
He's too conceited to believe that his dirty ego...
Raped itself and leaped into the ditch.
Now guess who's rising from the ashes.
Guess who's spinning on the spits.
A strange blue rose - alone
midst an array of clustered flowers -
a few of them her friends -
the shy violets, lovely white lilies, and bold marigolds.
In the gracious garden spot the traveler singled her out -
his gaze resting admiringly upon her.
Each day as he passed that spot,
she was the one he sought. . .
And day by day the traveler came around,
speaking through the fence softly in sweet sounds
that wafted her way with the wind.
Persistent wasp, in guise of a honeybee,
he tried so hard to wear that flower down. . .
till unexpectedly, he strode right through the gate,
and blissfully ignorant of a rose's care,
plucked her up, swept her high up into the air,
and uprooted that blue rose from her safe soil.
But he did not a gardener make.
Knowing nothing of roses,
he knew very little of any flower he pursued.
Moreover, one mere blue rose cannot long compete
with the other bright fanciful flowers
which, along that traveler's path, he was sure to meet.
Those soft whispered words
that caressed her blossomed cheek
soon ceased.
And the water to her soul (if a rose has a soul,
he did not care to know), stopped its flow.
Scars he left -
new thorns on her stem that grew outward
from his cruel cut,
but she'd go on. . . .
Long time replanted now in solid refuge ground,
the strange blue rose
has gained self-understanding,
that one thing for himself (she imagines)
which the traveler she so briefly knew
has never found.