Worker Bee Poems - Poems about Worker Bee

Chuck has rules for his children for his house, truck and wife his rules are inflexible staunch edicts in his life a rule for eating, for putting things away a rule for gardening and swimming in the bay Chuck’s rules are obsessive, some are silly too But since none of them are working, what else can his family do?...

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The energetic hyper crazy worker bee saws a stem For the prickly green thorns give him pause, annoying him The rose looks more like a daisy anyway Another reason he feels he can fool around and play I watch from the safety of my lovely garden floral seat Enjoying bee, who flies to another blossom to repeat...

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Sailing in the air as a worker with no name Trailing the air to find liquid gold that sun and earth did birth Prevailing and seeing gold guarded by bright coloured cushions all the same Unfailing is the emerald pillar that has this bed sit above the earth Unfailing, I go back to the home...

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Around three AM, he is awake Uphill, upon a solitaire game Loving the heat of his sweat The distance whispers of his honey queen The nearness of the morning howls The mistakes and lazy gaze at the paining finger The smiling mirror in his fuming eyes The smiling lips in his coupled mirrors The worker bee is dividing his blood One for his sweat...

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I used to be a worker bee, And as far as I could ever see, Would never have the sunshine time, To sing a song, to pen a rhyme. I longed so for a day I would be free, To paint a picture, to watch TV, That day came with new ways to live, Bones got stiff, mind like a sieve. Adapting to...

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Caught in the hidden trap of normality Where the weird little freak inside can never be free Are we really any better in this society? With every unusual act we judge the worker bee For daring to be different instead of the same Wishing to be free of this copycat chain With hears that vibrate and bodies refusing to resonate When a...

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To drone, I have in a world filled with prospered humanity. Like a worker bee I ready the honey in which my society cares for; I have grown tired of the strains born upon my labor; although the smells I love, it is never enough. And the satisfaction returned is forgotten, for fire always triumphs the solace that defeats the situation. The hares that cower and stare at this worker bee...

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