the religion of bees

sun, it cuts holes in ominous

clouds with

school scissors, traces

parochial fingers

along dirty sills,

shines through smudged

crosses on stain

glass and

window cleaner,


tiny, biting black flies stick

to swamp creek stink

like nuns with


and one inch thick


birds fall into crowded

trees and



muddy water mouth takes

a gulp, brushes aside

children with

uncleaned playground

faces from

a fountain, pools with


bottoms wet double

knotted buster

browns and


shoe polish,


white combs and sweet honey

drip onto pebbled


and teacups

with cracked saucers and

silver spoons,

fairy tales are read

in clover fields

and unfolded blankets,

innocent looks

blow dandelion seeds

into shallow


and memories,


bees dream at night of nectar

and pollen,

of flying in cluttered

garages looking

for heaven,

stone written tablets in

educational systems are made

of plastic and

finger crossed



bees collect hexagonal shapes

and move them under

tin roof overhangs

and pinging sounds of

wetness from

clouds with scissored edges,

they fly to seek



me, in faded jeans

and no breeze happened

upon and ‘clicked’,

its humbleness

spoke through my

soul, it

was a pure poetic



Copyright © 06/21/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®


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