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254 Posts
Discussion Starter · #1 ·
Hey, where's the big section on this site for haiku and other rhapsodic outbursts? Shall I start? :)

First Hive

I could sit all day
And watch, as the breeze carries
The scent of honey​

Who's next?

206 Posts
I think all the ones I know are a little naughty for posting in a public forum.:D

840 Posts
I don't know about poetry, but does this count as somewhat interesting?

Honey Bee Hollow

I remember the late spring and early summer days of clear blue skies with their wispy white clouds hanging, seeming still.

The light, warm breezes, carrying the scents of nature and pleasant days. Work and worries forgotten in the afternoon wonders of Nature.

Sitting on the old wood bench my Daddy made all those years ago. Rubbed smooth by all the sitting and talking we did since I was old enough to go along with him out here in the honey bee hollow.

That’s what my Daddy always called it, his honey bee hollow, back between the shed and the rolling fields that stretched as far as the eye could see.

It’s a magic place, where the honey bees live, back in honey bee hollow. Smells of honey and sunlight in the air and bees flying, busily going to and fro, curiously knowing from whence they came and where they go.

My Daddy started his hives back there when he was young and the honey bees swept his heart away. Mama always said she knew even then, the bees were his ‘other girls’ and there was no point in standing in the way.

I sit here now, just like I did back then, on this old wood bench watching the bees, buzzing softly, going about their terribly important business as though nothing else exists in the world but flowers and honeycomb.

I spent countless days working in honey bee hollow with my Daddy. He taught me just about anything a person could know about honeybees by those hives and sitting on that bench back in honey bee hollow.

In his late years, my Daddy couldn’t work the bees like we used to. It still gave him so much pleasure to come out and sit on the old wood bench though and listen to the bees, watching them coming and going.

It was out back in honey bee hollow here that my Daddy sat on the wood bench for the last time. He wanted to stay, he said, just a little bit longer. I told him he can stay just as long as he wanted and I went on up to the shed to get some tools. When I came back, my Daddy was gone.

I walked up behind him, calling to him quietly, not wanting to startle him awake. Then, I saw the peace on his face and I knew my Daddy would be in honey bee hollow forever and ever.

Now I come to honey bee hollow and sit on this old wood bench and I listen close to the bees and the breeze. Sometimes, I can still hear my Daddy’s voice, telling me just about all there is to know about honey bees.
just something I doodle with time to time.

Big Bear

4,265 Posts
I would say that prose would need to be included.

Big Bear, if that is a complete creation it's very nice. If it's based on your, and your father's life among the bees, not only is it nice, it's nice that you shared it with us.


840 Posts
I must admit it is purely fiction, though based loosely on the relationship of a friend of mine and his daddy.

If you click on the link, there is more to my dabbling to be read, if one were interested, that is.

Big Bear

16 Posts
This is lovely...the haiku and the honey bee hollow.

Let me see if I can manage a haiku...

Spring warm and early
Bees longing after winter
Come and go with joy

211 Posts

Bees; little beauties
Calm the wanderlust within
I stare in wonder.

The Sting

She landed with grace
I thought she was saying hi
Stinging sensation.

This is fun :) Great job on all of the creative writing!

254 Posts
Discussion Starter · #12 ·
Said the bee with a frown,
As she was swallowed down,
"Of all the horrible lucket!" ;)

Clean enough, eh?

3,711 Posts
There once was a bee from Nantucket

Who mated with a queen bee from Pawtucket

Soon, she produced thousands and thousands of baby bees

The hive became crowded and honey bound

Since the queen's name was Anna

They all swarmed into a big old Linden tree,

By the banks of the Annaquatucket.

The End

224 Posts
Here is one that my son wrote about a year and a half ago in 5th grade. This was an assignment while they were studying honey bees. Pretty impressive for a 10 year old if you ask me- certainly better than I could do.

Honey Bee

Stripes, Stings, Wings,
Seeing golden rings.
Venom come
Come and get some.
They sting and die,
Buzz and sigh.
They make honey
And kick out the sonny.
The royal jelly
Brings a new queen Nelly.
Work hard
Live barred
In honey comb.
They are bold.
Come and see
The Honey bee.

1,964 Posts
I never named this but "Late Winter" would do. You know, that time of year when one knocks on a hive to see if it survived?

Knock, Knock, are you in there?
Give us a buzz
so I can hear.

Winter was a little long.
Did you make ity?
Sing me a song.

I need to know that you're in there,
...full of promise...
to us out here.

We're hoping you will find the spring.
We're waiting too...
for everything.

For buds to burst and grass to grow.
where warm sweet air...
makes roosters crow.

Knock, Knock, are you in there?
Give us a buzz,
to start the year.

Dick Marron

10,025 Posts
I am not a poet, but Emily Dickenson was and Sylvia Plath way down the list
BUZZ! goes the bee,
Hour after hour,
BUZZ! goes the bee
From flower to flower.
Sucking out the nectar
Flying it home.
Storing up the nectar
In the honeycomb
BUZZ! goes the bee,
Making honey so sweet.
Bee makes the honey
That I love to eat!
What Do You Suppose
What do you suppose?
A bee sat on my nose.
Then what do you think?
He gave me a wink.
And said, "I beg your pardon,
I thought you were a garden."
I'm A Little Honeybee
(to the tune of "I'm A Little Tea Pot")
I'm a little honeybee
Yellow and black
See me gather
Pollen on my back
What the queen bee tells me
I must do
So I can make sweet honey for you!
Do You Like To Buzz?
(to the tune of "Do Your Ears Hang Low?")
Do you like to buzz,
Are you covered all in fuzz?
Do you call a hive a home
In the Garden where you roam?
Do you know how to make honey,
Are your stripes a little funny?
Do you like to buzz?
Here is the beehive. Where are the bees?
Hidden away where nobody sees.
Soon they will come, creeping out from the hive;
One, two , three, four, five.
Five Busy Bees
Five busy bees on a lovely spring day.
(hold up fingers)
This one said, "Let's fly away.'
(indicate each bee in turn)
This one said "We'll drink some nectar sweet."
This one said, "Let's get pollen on our feet."
This one said "And then we'll make some honey."
This one said "Good thing it's warm and sunny."
So the five busy bees went flying along
(fly hand around while wiggling fingers)
Singing a happy honeybee song.
(Fly your hand behind your back)
Bees that buzz
At my elbows and knees --
No sir, I'm not
Fond of these.
But bees that buzz
Near flowers and stem,
Making honey --
I like them.
The Swarm of Bees
One little honeybee by my window flew;
Soon came another - then there were two.
Two happy honeybees in the apple tree;
One more bee came buzzing up - then there were three.
Three busy honeybees starting to explore
Another bee came to help - then there were four.
Four laden honeybees flying to the hive;
They were joined by one more bee - then there were five.
Five tired honeybees with the others mix;
Now there's a swarm of them - a hundred times six.
Elsa Gorham Baker
This is a "What Am I" by Ricky Fingerz
I travel way over a hundred miles almost every day.
I'm treated like an annoying pest that people quickly shoo away.
I like flying in the daytime when the sun shines bright.
Darkness is dangerous so we don't ever go out at night.
I fly to my job, work hard all day, deliver my goods then I scurry.
I do it without any complaints and I fly back to work in a hurry.
I search for pretty things on my way such as weeds and pretty flowers.
Some days the rains fall so hard we take a break away from the showers.
My cousin is very famous and is well known just by his name Billy.
His picture is on bottles and I think he looks quite silly.
On grocery store shelves he's on almost every golden container.
He's such a celebrity and the thing of it is that it's really a no brainer.
When the sun comes back out to shine I wake up and make a bee line.
I go back to the very spot I left just to save me a little more time.
I don't need any maps because I remember everything I see.
We all have a compound eye; we were blessed we got extra eyes for free.
I can fly forwards, backwards, to the left and to the right.
Upwards, downwards and I can hover right in plain sight.
We carry sacks on our legs to harvest a special dust.
It flows like liquid gold and it costs almost just as much.
There is a secret special ingredient and it is a must to make this pure gold.
There's never a bad day at the shops because everything gets sold.
With our leg pouches full when we're flying away we sure do look funny.
The little dust from the flowers they call pollen is what makes the honey.
I thought by now you would have figured out what the heck I am.
Don't go away angry or confused sir or m’am.
I'm one of the nicer creatures and needs to be left to fly free.
I'm your friend, don't swat at me because I'm just a little honey bee.
The Pedigree of Honey
by: Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

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

The Bee
by: Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

Like trains of cars on tracks of plush
I hear the level bee:
A jar across the flowers goes,
Their velvet masonry

Withstands until the sweet assault
Their chivalry consumes,
While he, victorious, tilts away
To vanquish other blooms.

His feet are shod with gauze,
His helmet is of gold;
His breast, a single onyx
With chrysoprase, inlaid.

His labor is a chant,
His idleness a tune;
Oh, for a bee's experience
Of clovers and of noon!

The Bee Meeting by Sylvia Plath
Who are these people at the bridge to meet me? They are the
The rector, the midwife, the sexton, the agent for bees.
In my sleeveless summery dress I have no protection,
And they are all gloved and covered, why did nobody tell me?
They are smiling and taking out veils tacked to ancient hats.
I am nude as a chicken neck, does nobody love me?
Yes, here is the secretary of bees with her white shop smock,
Buttoning the cuffs at my wrists and the slit from my neck to my knees.
Now I am milkweed silk, the bees will not notice.
Thev will not smell my fear, my fear, my fear.
Which is the rector now, is it that man in black?
Which is the midwife, is that her blue coat?
Everybody is nodding a square black head, they are knights in visors,
Breastplates of cheesecloth knotted under the armpits.
Their smiles and their voices are changing. I am led through a beanfield.
Strips of tinfoil winking like people,
Feather dusters fanning their hands in a sea of bean flowers,
Creamy bean flowers with black eyes and leaves like bored hearts.
Is it blood clots the tendrils are dragging up that string?
No, no, it is scarlet flowers that will one day be edible.
Now they are giving me a fashionable white straw Italian hat
And a black veil that molds to my face, they are making me one of them.
They are leading me to the shorn grove, the circle of hives.
Is it the hawthorn that smells so sick?
The barren body of hawthorn, etherizing its children.
Is it some operation that is taking place?
It is the surgeon my neighbors are waiting for,
This apparition in a green helmet,
Shining gloves and white suit.
Is it the butcher, the grocer, the postman, someone I know?
I cannot run, I am rooted, and the gorse hurts me
With its yellow purses, its spiky armory.
I could not run without having to run forever.
The white hive is snug as a virgin,
Sealing off her brood cells, her honey, and quietly humming.
Sylvia Plath - The Arrival Of The Bee Box
I ordered this, clean wood box
Square as a chair and almost too heavy to lift.
I would say it was the coffin of a midget
Or a square baby
Were there not such a din in it.

The box is locked, it is dangerous.
I have to live with it overnight
And I can't keep away from it.
There are no windows, so I can't see what is in there.
There is only a little grid, no exit.

I put my eye to the grid.
It is dark, dark,
With the swarmy feeling of African hands
Minute and shrunk for export,
Black on black, angrily clambering.

How can I let them out?
It is the noise that appalls me most of all,
The unintelligible syllables.
It is like a Roman mob,
Small, taken one by one, but my god, together!

I lay my ear to furious Latin.
I am not a Caesar.
I have simply ordered a box of maniacs.
They can be sent back.
They can die, I need feed them nothing, I am the owner.

I wonder how hungry they are.
I wonder if they would forget me
If I just undid the locks and stood back and turned into a tree.
There is the laburnum, its blond colonnades,
And the petticoats of the cherry.

They might ignore me immediately
In my moon suit and funeral veil.
I am no source of honey
So why should they turn on me?
Tomorrow I will be sweet God, I will set them free.

The box is only temporary.

Sylvia Plath - Stings
Bare-handed, I hand the combs.
The man in white smiles, bare-handed,
Our cheesecloth gauntlets neat and sweet,
The throats of our wrists brave lilies.
He and I

Have a thousand clean cells between us,
Eight combs of yellow cups,
And the hive itself a teacup,
White with pink flowers on it,
With excessive love I enameled it

Thinking 'Sweetness, sweetness.'
Brood cells gray as the fossils of shells
Terrify me, they seem so old.
What am I buying, wormy mahogany?
Is there any queen at all in it?

If there is, she is old,
Her wings torn shawls, her long body
Rubbed of its plush ----
Poor and bare and unqueenly and even shameful.
I stand in a column

Of winged, unmiraculous women,
I am no drudge
Though for years I have eaten dust
And dried plates with my dense hair.

And seen my strangeness evaporate,
Blue dew from dangerous skin.
Will they hate me,
These women who only scurry,
Whose news is the open cherry, the open clover?

It is almost over.
I am in control.
Here is my honey-machine,
It will work without thinking,
Opening, in spring, like an industrious virgin

To scour the creaming crests
As the moon, for its ivory powders, scours the sea.
A third person is watching.
He has nothing to do with the bee-seller or with me.
Now he is gone

In eight great bounds, a great scapegoat.
Here is his slipper, here is another,
And here the square of white linen
He wore instead of a hat.
He was sweet,

The sweat of his efforts a rain
Tugging the world to fruit.
The bees found him out,
Molding onto his lips like lies,
Complicating his features.

They thought death was worth it, but I
Have a self to recover, a queen.
Is she dead, is she sleeping?
Where has she been,
With her lion-red body, her wings of glass?

Now she is flying
More terrible than she ever was, red
Scar in the sky, red comet
Over the engine that killed her ----
The mausoleum, the wax house.
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