Linda Studley

Can't Put the Pen Down…

Archive for the tag “bees”

Say What?

Bees that buzz and cats that purr
and tiny little hummingbirds
apparently forgot the words
to their respective songs.

Bees drone on as if demented
cats purr to show that they’re contented
hummingbirds hum without relenting
as they fly along.

I wonder what they all would say
if words replaced the noises they
generally make all day
instead of mantra mumblings.

I imagine that the bees
would sound much like Yosemite
Sam, in low obscenities,
growling and grumbling.

The cat, I’m seriously willing to bet,
would chant the language of Tibet,
his Zen-like trance enticing pets
from humans passing by.

And, finally, the little hummer
whose wings beat like a manic drummer
would complain that it’s a bummer
to work so hard to fly.

Faerie Nest

Some flowers attract humming birds
and others attract bees
and some attract the airy butterflies.
I’d like to plant a flower bed,
not for aught of these,
but to attract the faeries fluttering by.

What flowers would a faerie like
and would they even grow here?
I’ve searched all my garden books in vain.
But if I were a faerie I’d
prefer the wild pink roses
to peonies all draggled in the rain.

I’d have a cloak of pussy willow,
a dress of coralroot,
and slippers from the wild blue columbine.
I’d not need imported blooms
to make a happy home
a thimbleberry bush would be just fine.

So keep your bees and butterflies
and keep your humming birds.
They’re lovely, but I’m off upon a quest
to find a faerie garden hidden
deep within the woods
and see a faerie’s wild flower nest.




Tall and stately they begin,
row upon row of buds,
cool green with only a blushing hint
of the colours yet to come.

Days grow longer and hotter.
Buds burst upwards in an orgy
of sun worshipping colour.
robin’s egg to midnight,
some with dainty white trim like
gingerbread on the eaves,
and one the colour of chocolate and milky coffee.

Drunk with warm, summer rain,
they gargle bees in their throats and
stagger beneath the weight of their own beauty.
They lean on each other and fall spillikins.
Too late I tie them to their canes

Dry now, their seasonal duty done,
seeds ripen into death rattles
and spill across the pale golden bones,
hollow and brittle.
I collect the remains, inter them
in the compost pile, and wait.
Next spring, when the delphiniums
are born again, I will lay the essence
of their predecessors at their feet.



Post Navigation