To the Queen Bee
THESE are sonnets directly from the beehive,
Searching for the whereabouts of its queen.
These are songs on which the soldier bees thrive,
Fighting enemies outside and within.
O Queen, my pen sings of your majesty,
The sweetness of the honey from your comb.
When you smile I tingle with ecstasy,
Hungering for the honey dripping from your womb.
Your presence is the beauty of morning,
Your absence is the birth of happy songs,
For I can never doubt your returning
And with your hive is where my soul belongs.
I give you all: my heart and affliction,
And my love, which is a joyful addiction.
FOR I’m aware you respect my passion,
And that respect propels my heart more,
Making me transform your hive into a mansion
In deeds and action, but my words prove more;
For you don’t disdain me like past lovers
Nor try to change me to suit your intent,
You’ve looked into me, beyond my covers,
Others scratched the surface and were content.
I shall sing your praise and glowing beauty:
I shall write songs about your honey skin,
Refined, and lacking of impurity
While you sit on your throne, my muse and queen.
For these songs are straight from the honeycomb,
Undecayed, like embalmed bodies in a tomb.
STARING at you while you read your poetry,
For my muse is a poet, a better one.
Your lips roll out words in righteous coquetry,
Listening to you, my restlessness is gone.
You are magic enclosed in a body,
A flower that buds into the juiciest fruit;
I long for you and all you embody
And in your bosom I long to take root.
You write and your words have a life of their own,
You speak and your voice is lyrical honey
That lingers on my tongue, then sinks into my bone;
Your voice takes me on a poetic journey.
The crowd welcomes you with awesome applause,
Still, in my heart, you sing on without pause.
Image by Tracy Booth via Flickr.
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