Long Stingers Poems
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A beehive, filled with golden sweetness.
A guardian leaves, landing on thick skin.
With urgency, piercing through the layers.
A hand raised to a pale face.
Eyes filled with rage,
beating beauty into compliance.
Stripping her of grace and dignity,
domestic abuse is his forte.
Amidst the tears and this final act of cruelty,
A familiar scent awakens in the hive.
Extending limbs, razor wings emerging from our queen.
Stingers piercing from fingertips, aching to strike.
As she lingers and towers over the man,
The stars align in his vacant eyes.
Hypnotized by fear and unrestrained rage,
A swarm of beautiful bees flash their colors.
Lifting her arm, we brace for impact.
The man now speaks in screams and wails,
twitching and crying, he can only blame himself.
This flesh and blood now belongs to the hive.
A giant bee is buzzing
Just outside the window pane.
My silent wish that he would leave,
It seems, was made in vain.
He's circling around the roof
With not a hint of going;
His loyalty to that one spot
Shows not one sign of slowing.
I worry, though, about his friends
For bees that seem to thrive,
Instead of shacking up alone,
Will habitate a hive.
Perhaps he's only passing through
And working out his wings,
But I'm afraid he's found the place
For testing out his stings.
The joys of spring are balanced out
With nettles, thorns and stingers,
For beauty sans a little pain
Will slip right through our fingers.
Never-ending aftershocks of yesterday’s tomorrow has settled in my mind’s eye…there’s so much out there to look forward to…I’d rather not die, but indeed, I must live to see the light of day take wing from on high! Cleanse me with your hope, oh Lord of Accord and you are so perfectly imperfect to me…and you shine bright like a diamond in the cave and you mirror my pain with healing, crystal-clear rain! I’m out of my mind in the past, present and future…what’s my fate? What is there in store for me? Why do I hestitate? I hesitate for the sake of Your honor-packed jubilance, not his blasphemed envy! Good news (It’s intriguing! Very!) – I’m suriving and still standing tall; bad news (nothing brand-new or exciting really): I failed the test with a F- for failure to the extreme…your sub-zero eyes see right through me and I can feel the coals heating up in my heart! I’m mad to begin with and I’m sick of breaking apart! Deplorable Reality’s strategic tragedy stings like billion’s of buzzin’ busy bees out of their honey dens or hives! Deal with the cards, roll the dice. Feel my words – you’re my livin’ sacrifice! We need a happily ever after after all! Deplorable Reality’s strategic tragedy stings like billion’s of buzzin’ busy bees out of their honey dens or hives! You kill’d me inside and out and I won’t pout like a child, running about! You killed me with your lonesome song and I have no slight doubt about that, if you know what I am speaking of no doubt! Are you damaged by your suicidal depression? Do you have any clue what I’ve been through? Deplorable Reality’s strategic tragedy stings like billion’s of buzzin’ busy bees out of their honey dens or hives! I am a money saver, but a worthless beggar or an ungrateful waster OR a real big spender ~ I don’t mean to offend a single soul or drive anyone insane in any way, shape or form…I am just telling you the truth straight out of my brain while I lay down and type this verse up in my solitary, yet unique, wild and stunning-blue dorm…avoiding a bee swarm like escaping a windstorm with stingers flying all around me every direction I turn! Every angle I watch, there is danger looking at me straight in the eyes…replicating the death stare of the Lord of the Flies…my hope and faith withers and dries like a weed, left in the sun…pulled up from the ground by the gardener himself…rotting away…today…
The sky hounds are tracking me down.
In the cul-de-sac of social anxiety drive...
Despite covering my tracks in a hot, peppered wind...
Sticking the heart into a bowl of burning dice.
(to cover the scent of predictability).
They've arrived. To bore their way back into the core.
Pick the scab off every weakness.
Exposing every soul blemish,
(that crippling, iron face of shyness).
That's chased me through the back alleys of life.
The sky hounds have cornered me again.
waving stingers -coming down hard
like an anvil in the night
getting off on the vibe of
my twitching mind.
Years later I'd half-mastered.
All those black lessons from the past
Kneaded my heart into a quasi-flower.
Dipped the petals in a whorl of lime.
Attracting that swarm of hollow iciness.
Then laughed as their stingers snapped.
When the wet cement of karma had crapped in their minds.
3/28/21
Sanitized a lot of messes with Lysol
Saw it all through my eyeballs
By being logical during daytime or nightfall
Did no good to dawdle
Helped to be thoughtful
Experienced the pleasant and the awful
Didn't always benefit one side or the other during debacles
It happened so much, I could write novels
So many squabbles
One was victorious, the other one wobbled
Head held high, or hobbled
Occasionally left me boggled
I didn't just watch through my goggles
Odors and fragrances picked up through my nostrils
Among living species and fossils
Some people docile and others hostile
Doing the bare minimum or going full throttle
Kicked the habit, or really hitting the bottle
Some people are humble and others think they're a model
The impact it had was minor or colossal
Putting others down because it makes them feel bigger
Obsessed with image and the figures
People so quick to point a finger
And to pull the trigger
Danger always lingers
Life filled with drama, like Jerry Springer
Been through the wringer
Another dinger
And zinger
Hook line and sinker
Still a hardcore drinker
And deep thinker
Among gentle animals or aggressive lifeforms with or without stingers
I continue to tinker
Covering a lot of ground, like a sprinkler
Still drinking beers
Here's a cheers
To my peers
Heard so many truths, rumors and lies through my ears
Over the years
Occasionally changing gears
Expressing happy or sad tears
While wielding shields, swords or spears
Getting rid of any fears
And finding a way to persevere
Once the smoke finally clears
The world was in a happy or sad state
People that do or don't have faith
Life going fast pace
Caught in the rat race
Pushing for first, not last place
For a long time, I've been in bad shape
And half-baked
Now that we got that straight
Regarding the cuisine of the world, I've barely had a taste
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.
In the swamp the raccoons romp
And gators ply the waters.
Wild boars snuff and strut their stuff
And eat their sons and daughters.
Take a ride but stay inside
The boat, both feet and fingers
Or else your zeal provides a meal
(And teeth hurt more than stingers!).
On the boat, when gators float,
The captain calls them closer
With marshmallows tossed at little cost
Or meat that’s raw (much grosser!).
The gators know this little show
Provides a snack quite tasty,
So use their tail to some avail,
Their movements smooth but hasty.
The swamp’s a place I’d hate to face
On any daily basis,
Yet to its beasts it’s never ceased
To be a true oasis.
I never saw the coiling snake,
The suddenness of its striking,
But I quickly felt my mistake,
Stung with terror while hiking.
That quickly turned to burning rage,
A response uncalculated-
A sudden and angry rampage,
And the snake was annihilated.
Then swarming bees sent me running,
Through a swarm of thorns and briers.
The number of stings was stunning,
Like a hundred little fires.
Then hellish lava began to spew,
In the form of threats and curses,
Of all the vengeance I would do,
Which a tortured mind rehearses.
Afterwards, my wrath subsided,
And a settled policy arose-
Any "stingers" would be blighted,
Before they could oppose.
How do you explain things that sting,
When you planned to do them no harm?
After suffering the pain they bring,
Man, and Nature, both lose their charm.
Then there's the greatest sting of all,
That follows our dying breath.
Forever in that captive thrall,
Is the sting of sin and death.
How do I blight death's sin-sting,
And avoid death's Sheol-swallow,
Find purpose in my suffering,
And an example in which to follow?
He swallows the sting for all of them,
Once your eyes are opened to see.
Salvation was secured by Him,
Read Isaiah fifty-three.
They had a sense in being right
Listened to those explain their plight
Docked inside the sailing ports
Going into battle wearing a shirt, socks and shorts
On a battlefield called sports
Saints giving a Southampton name
European football was the game
Granted no championship this year
Relegation not even a fear
Watford teetering keeping a high profile
Enjoying the buzz while being wild
Time did come
To find out where the hornets were coming from
Raid the worker bees
Taking the nectar not even saying please
Plotting the invasion
Inquisition question started raisin
Having a nice sweet product
Saints all knowing where they got it
A defenseless flower
With peaceful beauty power
Before the clock minutes left the teens
Saints put one on the board for their team
And after the break
Another one Saints did take
Reading two to nil
Forgiveness put on the bill
And own goal was credited
Spiritual bug in the match netted it
Suddenly a lightning power surge
Thundered back ending the Saints purge
Pulling the stingers out of the hive
Black and yellow creatures barely alive
There was no change on the table
Four still able
To claim survival
And not be taken down by a rival
Born of Autumn, hair like wheat, honeymoon babe - right on time.
Mom and Dad underneath the limbo pole - winners-on-high.
In descending gondola, my birth had no notion of lovers.
Sparkle of snowflakes against window pane; my reflection.
A copper penny tossed in air; will it freeze, or will bus steal show?
The scent of snow; the kick of flakes; I’m racing my shadow.
Honeysuckle ascent and bees are buzzing; sometimes annoying.
The stingers you want - paired up; besides, I’m a wallflower.
“I remember you,” a confession at a reunion.
Becoming a dark-brunette; in the heat, the length shortened.
Summer fun seventy-seven; Sun In yields red highlights.
Sooner than later a sailor will find seasons of Aloha.