...it's not dark yet, but it's gettin' there...

June 19, 2005

Sunday Poetry Bee

The pedigree of honey
Does not concern the bee;
A clover, any time, to him
Is aristocracy.



Where the bee sucks, there suck I:
In a cowslip's bell I lie;
There I couch when owls do cry.
On the bat's back I do fly
After summer merrily:
     Merrily, merrily, shall I live now,
     Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.


Burly, dozing humble-bee,
Where thou art is clime for me.
Let them sail for Porto Rique,
Far-off heats through seas to seek;
I will follow thee alone,
Thou animated torrid-zone!
Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer,
Let me chase thy waving lines;
Keep me nearer, me thy hearer,
Singing over shrubs and vines.


Posted by annika, Jun. 19, 2005 |
Rubric: Poetry


Ode to Jim Hahn:

Fame is a bee.
It has a song --
It has a sting --
Ah, too, it has a wing.

Emily Dickinson

Posted by: shelly on Jun. 20, 2005

Unbelievers get stung by bees?

This is one weird fucking religion, annika.

Posted by: Victor on Jun. 20, 2005

Here's to the man who fills the glass.
The bees make the honey.
The bedbugs all crawl up your ass,
And the bartender rakes in the money!

Posted by: Casca on Jun. 20, 2005