Friday, September 17, 2010


I found this poem on thee BEE-L mailing list
and tried to contact the author to ask if it had been published anywhere
but never got a reply.

I feel this poem resonates with the theme of this blog.


Our abode is modest—small wooden boxes
painted cloister-white, scattered upon a
sunny hill.  There we sustain our meager
existence on eager diet of water, honey, and
pollen we gather in the wild.

We are all filial piety.  We cluster around
our Mother Superior, who bore us into our
existence.  We will defend her, our abode, and
our way of worship to death.  Kamikaze runs
in our veins, and we each carry a dagger.

Daily we divide our simple chores: baby-sitters,
maintenance crews, guards, and hunter-gatherers.
Practicing Puritan work-ethic, we trod miles to
collect nectar, our bread and butter.  Unsung
environmentalists, we live in perfect harmony.

We seldom talk, never balk, for we know talk
is cheap.  We communicate in silence and a few
body-languages.  We respect tranquility—-our
modus operandi.  We do have a few men around
for emergency.  Like most men, they wax their
one-track minded thoughts day in day out.

Large mouths, they consume three times as much,
and when they are around, they call too much
attention to themselves.  They are expendable.
At the first sign of frost, we abandon them, for
they are big and fat and lazy and stupid.

We rise to work at the first hint of dawn; we
toil the natural soil till Vespers, the sixth of
the seven canonical hours.  Throughout our
hard lives none of us whine—-we are content.
When our body can no longer house our soul,
we know the time has come.

Quietly we leave our humble abode behind
to meet the face of our maker, alone.


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