bees in the meadow

poems and stories from the in-between

Category: poetry

the burning days

This is the season of burning illuminations: things brought to light.

Into the air, into consciousness.

Perfect strawberries, plump and sharp.

Stacks of books to be read. Things to be done.

Life in motion.

Vintage voices crackling.

Music of nostalgia, music of now.

Red lipstick.

Scrawling in notebooks, drifting in dreams,

and yet being present:

intensity of here.

The days are burning by.

The crackle of fire is warm,

and sparks bring inspiration.

Season of light,

And the days are burning,

Burning by.





you wouldn’t say these things

if you knew.

if you could feel the ripping of my heart,

the breaking of its tender places,

you’d be still at last.

you would not cut me with your eyes

sink me to size

if you felt one pin-prick of my pain.

if you knew, you’d let alone.

you’d dance into the night like a shadow

and sip your own poison

for a change.

the beloved

think of your beloved.

think of the ones who bring sweetness

to your life, who lay blessings

upon your table day

after day

after day.

would you spit these bitter words at them?

the words that run rampant in your head,

filling your mind with fury-fog,

breaking your heart?

would you say to a dear one

you are weak,

unwanted, unworthy?

or would you cradle the weight on their chest,

maybe try to lift

some of it away?

would you, with a gentle word,

remind them of their beauty,

their purpose,

the miracles that brought them here?

think of your beloved.

now turn the mirror

to you.

the flood and the breaking

you are looking for me, but you will

be baseless and white as the moon,

stumped, a stump, a thing to be tripped over.

you will be low as the dust,

and like the dust you will break over

things as nothing but dirt-air,

as something only just enough

to irritate, to color slightly

to disappear with soap and a clean cloth.

you hunt me, but your time

has run dry.

your time has run dry,

and I am the water rising up

from the deepest well,

hidden a thousand years.

I am the flood and the breaking.

I am at your back.

watch how I slide around you

and through your hands,

tearing through the rocks

with my rage,

my long-silent love.



in a world unnamed,

beyond jungles,


and great rivers,

there is a woman

who walks among the jasmine.

beads on her wrists.

tattoos on her eyelids.

crystals hanging from her hips.

she is calling her lover,

and quivering with song.

beckoning him

to steal through the jungles,

conquer the mountains,

cross the great rivers

to find her,

there in her halo of mist,

to find her

as the sun,

each night,

returns to the moon.

smoke of the morning

bring me a song of the barley.

put resin on the bow

and let the notes rise

like smoke of the morning

filling the fields

with plainsong,

with honest soul and your voice,


over pasture and hill,

down to the valley

where I am living

and bringing in the flowers

covering them

in white.

the white flowers

in the deep part of

a distant forest

more dark than light

more fickle than friend,

there is a clearing

of deep green

where the whitest flowers bloom,

their fragrance like a drug

their radiance

 like something holy.

you stumble upon them

and are stunned.

from their midst

comes Death,

in her crown of black.

then you know

why your feet lead you

to this ancient place.

in a sudden rush of understanding

you realize it was She who brought you,

She who will come softly now

to crown you with the white flowers,

(so heady, delicious)

to take you to the Otherworld.