Monday, June 15, 2015

Poem: Not the Keeper's Plight

(or, Ballad of the Bees)

Some flowers in a field,
poison is Beauty's yield.
A colony dies at night,
not the keeper's plight.

Not the keeper's plight,
dead nowhere in sight.
Miles from home, alone,
worker lost: dead drone.

Worker lost, dead drone,
no grave carved in stone.
Pollen left to drift about,
lonely flowers, give out.

Lonely flowers give out
no honey, mead or stout.
A trickle, ATM teeters,
no A.M. dinette eaters.

No A.M. dinette eaters
nor trick-or-treaters.
Food is spiritual revival,
necessary for survival.

Necessary for survival
in our crazy ol' carnival:
real seeds and lil' bees
to question our abilities.

To question our abilities,
yet ignore our fragilities,
sets us on self-destruct
another addict fucked.

Another addict fucked
by answers once shucked.
No competing GMO seeds,
stuck with franken-breeds.

Stuck with franken-breeds,
consequence of misdeeds.
Not Monsanto terminators,
need flower impregnators.

Need flower impregnators?
More hives, thus pollinators.
No snake oil sales pranks,
need fewer mountebanks.

Need fewer mountebanks
and more protesting ranks.
Beauty gardens naturally,
using nature as her ally.

Using nature as her ally,
now plants intentionally.
She urges family, friends,
"change before it ends."

Change before it ends,
no dying garten tends
our needs nor frees us
of man-made diseases.

Of man-made diseases,
the little heart seizes,
a colony dies at night,
not the keeper's plight.

Not the keeper's plight,
dead harvest daylight.
Beauty explains it well:
"We thought poison swell."

"We thought poison swell,
saturated hill and dale,
then watched the lands
as grass turned to sands."

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