Clarifying my Stance on Bees

Happy Saturday to anybody who might read this, and if you read this on a day which isn’t Saturday…then happy whatever day it is! I haven’t made a post on here in a little while, but I figured I’d break the mold a little bit and write something. I finished my first novel about a month ago, so on top of a completed novel written in verse and one more traditional one done in prose, I’ve been trying to navigate the unpleasant world of agents and publishing and whathaveyou. In the meantime, however, I’ve written a little bit more in the way of poetry, on days when such a whim strikes my fancy.

Regarding the title here, it bears mentioning that my greatest fear in life is a deep-seated, pathological dislike for bees. A game of hide-and-seek played on a ground-hornet’s nest when I was little led to what has been a lifelong fear toward anything that buzzes. In spite of my recognizing that irrationality, still the problem persists! Well, there are worse lots in life, I suppose, but I do like to poke fun at the fear every now and again. A few weeks back I was in a particularly playful mood and chose to write a poem (which is in no way exaggerated, of course) expounding on my feeling toward bees, which I wanted to share here. This poem, without further ado, is simply titled, “My Feelings on Bees.”

My Feelings on Bees

When I step out the door and prepare to explore
The unparalleled world known as Earth
I get body-wide tingles! My heart jumps and jingles
And I praise the Lord for my birth!

My ear catches sight of a bird most polite
Who is singing the sweetest of songs
And my smile in turn is as big as the stern
Of a ship bearing gladness along! 

My eyes hear the sound of the greens which abound
With such vividness as to express
The thought that to hide from the sunlight inside
Sure as Sunday will leave me depressed. 

And depression, I say, is a surefire way 
To miss out on the splendorous world!
To miss out on the sights bringing earlobes delight
And the sounds to my eyeballs unfurled!

So, I prance out the door to experience more
Of the beauty of nature and stuff!
I run and I caper and see that my maker
Has made all things good, sure enough!

The hues of the blues put a pep to my shoes
And I spin like a top just because!
Then I stop in my tracks, peering forward and back
Hearing something which looked like a ‘buzz.’

All the birds turn to vultures; the trees become sculptures
Of scariest, nastiest make.
And before so sincere, now the sun wears a sneer
And my skin starts to boil and bake. 

The buzzing gets closer and meaner moreover.
My legs are gelatinous goo. 
Of black and of yellow the devil’s own cello
Is buzzing its way into view.

He drinks from a chalice of impurest malice.
He's Cerberus given two wings.
Instructed by hell, it's my fear which impels
Him to seek out this victim to string. 

“I just want a flower!” he says as I cower
And quiver and cover my eyes.  
“No, really, my goal is to torment your soul!”
I interpret behind all his lies. 

With capable cowardice, feeling quite powerless 
Screaming I hastily flee.
While sprinting I turn and in horror discern 
That the demon is hot after me. 

He’s hot on my trail! Each malignant detail 
Of his form so grotesque racks my brain:
That weird bulbous body which—wait, oh my god, he
Got faster, he’s starting to gain!

Now sprinting top speed, a small duckling impedes 
This the path which I’ve chosen to tread.
“Sorry there buddy,” I say, launching ducky
To orbit as I dash ahead. 

A gaggle of goslings bedraggled and wobbling
Wobble their way toward my route.
It pains me to do it, but now I say, “Screw it,” 
And crying I give them the boot. 

Again, I turn back, and now hot on my track
Is a vengeful and bloodthirsty goose
But I pay her no mind for just inches behind
Is the bee (who’s now tying a noose!)

As he sharpens his sickle, bemoaning this pickle
I notice my house is in sight! 
Before which a parade has set up to blockade
The last of my perilous flight!

The parade is of orphans and those with misfortunes
Like terminal cancer and plague
And as well wartime woundees—if I don’t slow down these
Could see me in breach of the Hague. 

But consider the Hague! That convention was vague
And it never accounted for this:
A demoniac bee with a hunger for me.
If I slowed, I’d be frankly remiss.

So, ignoring the quarrels I have with my morals
I lower my shoulder and run:
With veterans flying and orphans now crying
My pyrrhic escape is but won. 

I get to my door and collapse to the floor
As I go in and shut out the noise.
And a question springs up in my soul quite abrupt, 
“Was this worth all the lives you destroyed?”

The moral I guess of this tale of distress
Is that nothing is worse than a bee.
The sins of mankind are a trifle when shined
In the same light as such devilry. 

The evil which lurks in the night, in the murk, 
Takes the form of a bee, leaving hell,
And if they are outside then it’s better I hide.
Forget liberty—I choose the shell.