HAPPY WORLD BEE DAY!

 

At The End Of The World

The crushing knights wore iron fabric,

and sat upon high stallions with clicking lips.

They rode upon torn ships

on a sea of confusion.

They steered their sinking, marbled ferries into oblivion,

this army with no weapons.

They will forever be dead in dreams,

and will convey no more ancient religions.

They left cathedral shells,

spoils of an immense war.

Their absurd heresy,

their breaches recommending funereal forecasts,

now trapped in a web of obscurity.

The ewe withstood the ram,

and the sentient rot

of insurrection and darkness

eventually dissipated.

All that remains is

an intrepid philosopher,

wielding a commonsense impulse, 

standing on an aging banner,

at this,

the end of the world.

 

The real question is not whether life exists after death. The real question is whether you are alive before death.

Anonymous

Covet

They are selfish and they covet that which 

is beyond their reach within their own world 

of desire: fellowship, heart-felt 

and sought after. 

It has long been their fervent wish, this strong 

need that has never come to pass.  To hear

what those now estranged have to say 

and to make themselves understood. 

They do not communicate and share their equal visions: 

Not among their own kind nor each group with 

the other side, still and tacit, 

both large crowds remain,  each in great fear of 

what surrounds, living flesh, or ghosts that haunt dreams 

planning a desperate grab.

For the living and the dead compete 

but should they concur? There will come a time, 

if each bloc wishes to survive,

an unchained meeting of the minds, detente

must take place and all competition must end. 

Until then each is enslaved by the other.

Painted Walls

The first coat of paint in that cozy kitchen 

was a soft yellow that reflected the morning sun. 

They drank their coffee there and ate their bacon

and eggs together at the table. 

Youth and fortuity were on their side, 

that beautiful shirking of what should be done, 

saved for later.

The second coat in that kitchen 

was a shade of coyote brown to hide 

little jellied handprints and the scuffing of shoes. 

With full adulthood upon them, 

they were often steadier and craftier achievers.

The third coat in the kitchen was the hardest to choose. 

They sat there for what seemed like an endless time, 

trying to decide what color would be most welcoming to the new owners. 

Finally, having decided, they picked up their meager belongings, 

and hoped that their once upon a time home would have welcoming walls.

 

 

Thank you so much to Vatsala Radhakesoon and Lydia Chiarelli for publishing my Dylan Thomas poem for this years' Dylan Thomas Day celebration.

https://vatsalaradwritingworld.home.blog/2026/05/12/international-dylan-thomas-day-2026-mauritius/

There's lots of beautiful work in here!

Vibrancy To Gloom

Words, out of time, in the spotlight,
a thunderous and dazzling voice that shook the world.
Reading tours,
bringing forth powerful emotional intelligence,  
imbuing  brilliancy with confidence.
Praise for the poet who brought the glow,
luminosity that moved hearts,
poems read vibrantly in the brightness of the beam,
patterns of syllables ablaze within
the radiant beat and glide of his words.
Lines as lyrics, once sung,
now dimming and newly hushing,
a strong sense of rhythm stilling.
His fighting spirit against that good night sapped,
while the darkness of pneumonia took his voice.

Vivian In Her Dressing Gown

 She weaves across the room,

wearing the shade of lilac, silk,

after a night of flamboyant festivity.

Her larynx chilled and stilled

until she has drunk her coffee before the mirror.

There’s a massive punch of hangover still in her head.

She’s one of the fermentationally advantaged,

with some of the squirmiest kidneys on the block.

She’s feeling faintly ashamed;

as faint as shame can feel without being non existent,

while she slogs through a sloppy compaction of memory.

There’s faint images through that brain fog,

of a good time had by all, 

as they behaved like a rambunctious platoon on leave,

and she with her hair swinging,

like a windblown colt as she danced into the dawn,

while her company tried to pull down the house.

But this morning, she’s still unsold on sobriety,

and she makes no other answer to the challenge 

that perhaps enough is enough,

than to pick up her jolly dust pan,

and sweep up every clue that last night was overdone.

 

The Day Before

I wonder what my mother did

the day before I was born:

I think she went to the movies,

I think she looked at the sky,

I think she ate her favorite lunch,

and chased it down with some pie.

I think she kissed my father,

I think she fed the birds,

I think she sat and pondered on

the clues in her crosswords.

I think she felt me moving,

I think she felt me kick,

I think she was ready to see me,

and wanted to do it quick.

I think she dreamed her dreams,

I think she hoped her hopes,

I think she was wishing the best for me,

and prayed she’d learn the mommy ropes.