Uncategorized

Let’s Talk Honey

Hey, muppet, how you doin?

It’s hard.
All this fear that I’m not doing my best
and that everybody else feels
hell-bent on doing their worst
to thwart my needs as wants right now.

Let’s build a new-old story together,
my lovely honey-bee.
A story of honeyed health and bees
who worship in nutritionally bountiful hives
homes and families midst a cornucopia of tribes
regenerating
recreating
co-gravitating
co-arising purpose in love with ecohoneyed becoming.

Might this story begin with an angry
and fear-filled bee,
feeling alien from her egocentric
and too-crowded
competing and calculating
and sometimes rabidly critical climate
beehive of a not-so-peaceful home-body?

Yes, very good.
I believe this story starts
as Time unfolds humming syntax
sounding and smelling of healthy honey development,
yet also,
another not-so-sweet angry swarming dissonant noise
upon climatic disruption-fear of losing honeyed treasure
when God reaches in to threaten death
and decay to all our busy bees.

Angry Bee hums climatic prophecies
like the boy who called “Wolf!”
but all day and night fearful Angry
chronically stresses her addictive need
for reassurance that death emerges
no more and yet no less dynamic
than embryonic birthing memories of promise
and healthy progress developing rich co-honeyed time.

Angry Bee needs a more cooperative nappy
dreaming elational honey-strings
spinning neutral-acidic bifolding fractal syntax
revolutions of EcoPresent honeyed fairies co-arising Time.

Meanwhile,
Angry Bee’s family and cousins
and Earth
and all Her many Tribes,
slumber cooperative economies
of divinely bicameral-bilateral honey-incubators
growing double-fractal octave-resonant co-buzzing systems,
landscape structures of dynamic eco-paradigms,
co-arising Earth’s consciousness of light/dark Time,
preparing once again
to find tomorrow’s honey together,
less angrifying fear
of both living and dying alone.

In her dream
Angry Bee learns to see
Safe Hands reach back and into Ego buzzing body’s
Anger and Fear Memory,
breathing a copresence pause,
palms up and out rather than struggling
down and in Others’ personal spaces and habitats,
while Kind Honey-Bearing Hands
reach out and forward
rubbing Others’ shoulders
with healthy life as honey-coredemptive love.

Is that how our story ends, muppet?

Well, maybe,
at least on Sesame Street it does.

Can you show me Safe Hands?
Good job.
Now, can we show each other some Kind Hands?

A little higher, please.
Could you do my neck too?
How about my feet,
could you spread some honey on my feet?

All in ripe honeyed BiLateral Time.
Patience is a virtue.

So is more cooperative honey.

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Uncategorized

Hiking Home

His thick-soled hiking shoes
tread too loudly
to celebrate time’s homing invitation
to hear and see, feel and smell resonantly hidden diversity
within spirit’s wooded ridge.

He stops to break from sacrilegious pounding
plodding echoes
reiterating through ears attuned for inside voices,
languaged listening and recreation,
amusements excluded from wild nature’s cathedral voices,
receiving impassioned pauses for mutual gratitude,
co-listening,
warning of mindless human natured steps
taken to conjoin this wise-rooted ridge,
enfolding time’s whisper shy adventure
into naturally placing
pacing space.

A darker cloud asks
“What did you and your kids eat today?”

Well, let’s see,
organic honey on pita bread…

“How do you know it was organic?”

It said so right on the glass,
not plastic,
bottle.

“How do they know if the honey is organic or not?
Do they interview or breathalyze each bee returning home?
Do they ask each bee
each time
who this bee has been with?
In that intimate being kinda way,
playing with whose pollen, exactly?
Did the bee stay within her orthodox organic certified playground,
or did she wander off the farm
and free range right into your toxic neighbor’s chemically condomed hydrangea,
or maybe the always too enticing hybiscus,
flaunting her ample skanky wares?”

Well, I don’t know,
I just took the bottles’ word.
I wouldn’t begin to know how to respond to your issues,
about breathalyzing slutty bees
addicted to poison.

“OK, so what else did you feed on today?”

Well, I showed my kids I love them.
I used my please and thank yous
and you’re welcome,
and namaste.

I wished them peace before their baths
and before turning out the light
at night
so they could see stars
and moon slivering through dark.

The neighbors provided birdsong,
especially those mourning doves
calling out their resonate alto fractal coo,
their rhythm and courtship bun-dance.

I fed them massaging back rubs
and hugs
and shoulder squeezes,
gentle taps on knees and elbows.
I stroked their drifting drowsy heads
from frontal lobes toward brain stem.
My fingers rubbed between each totem
in their forceful flowing chi-spines.

I fed them sad and silly songs
and mindful ho-ke-po-ke.

We fed each other love stories
of romance,
sadness and despair,
fear and anger,
passion and grace;
absorbant synergetic stories,
well told and worn
from dawn’s redress
through dark’s red-blooded thumping night.

We are what we absorb,
both before our days
and after all.

His thinner-sole shoes
retread more softly
celebrating home’s invitation.

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