Poem

Like a Honeybee

Okay, I admit it, I've been obsessing,
clutching at clichés: wise trees, mystic rain.
I've been waxing poetic, frantically embracing

a pseudo parental Universe, interlacing
holy rays of sun with magical visions; inane.
Oh yes, I admit it. I've been obsessing.

Spiritual messages prance in via angels, promising me
easy death, rebirth, breath turned to wind, no pain.
I've been waxing poetic, carefully caressing

the years since that lump appeared, confessing
my addiction to epiphanies: to seek the Aha! (that drain).
I admit it. For sure, I've been obsessing.

And I've become a photographer too (so surprising!).
Mystery after mystery lurks in my viewfinder. Reborn,
I've been waxing poetic, visually addressing

immortal leaves, fallen armies, mottled, torn, resting
their way through the portal, then bursting into oblivion.
Oh yes, I've been obsessing, and I'm confessing.

Will my fleshy body shift like sand, my cells all nestling
into new formation, millions of grains born yet again?
I admit it, I've been greedily fashion-hungry, dressing

myself up in every color, primping and requesting
solutions to size and hemline problems, petty and vain,
while honeybees are dying in droves, scientists left guessing

as to why. Okay, but I won't give in to obsessing about
this epithet: stage four. The beekeepers are forlorn, it's true,
and yes, we are all disappearing. It's distressing, but still I am
waxing poetic; they require all we've got, these arduous blessings.

Comments

[Jane Underwood]

Thank you, Linda and Jeff!

[Jeff]

Thank you for sharing this – a beautiful and moving poem -- such a unique and intimate description of the ‘inane’ places we find ourselves sometimes when we look for life’s meaning, when maybe there really isn’t one. We live and die like honeybees and are, like scientists, ‘left guessing.' We are all disappearing. And that’s important to remember. I love this poem.

[Linda]

Amazing. Wonderful. Takes my breath away.