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Back to Issue 3 - Fall/Spring 2013

The Bees Don't Sing No More
Judith Pelser

Down the lane by the great red barn,
I lost the trust of my elfin lily sprout.
Her wide set eyes with stars on her nose.
The beast inside my chest took control
no pointy ears to hear her tweet another deceiving plea.

The windmill cracks and takes me away
to that day I placed a simple request.
She was asked to clean up her mess, but instead
she chose to rest on the telephone receiver.

A zinging in my ears,
yellow and black,
invades these red walls.
The sound overwhelming, the swoosh of a fist.
I see my lily floating and then falling.
The bees, swarming, take her away.

Alone I stand, she fled away.
An elfin lily sprout no more
for she will go tweeting through the village.
I will be the singing talk of the town
when the town hears about what happened
at the great red barn.

These youngsters sure have it easy.
I remember the day my daddy went up to the cantina.
A youngster myself was I, my daddy’s elfin sprout.
He would get so drunk, his head spinning.
I was a mere 8 years old on the outside,
but this sprout had to grow up quickly,
a designated driver.

Back in my day, there was something called respect.
No bees to spread the sound, like a disease.
For bees were meant to make the flowers bloom
right next to the red barn, like music to our ears.
And children were meant to be little, sprouts
with respect for a man like me.