Sonnet Dare: A Dote Upon The Honeycomb

Geometry is with us ev'rywhere.

We've need for order bred into our bones.

Nor are we near the only ones who care,

As witness hymenopt'ran honeycombs.

Small hexagons in wax, so tightly packed

As to make structures of surprising strength

Within which grubs mature, safe and intact --

And other stuff is stored there, too, at length:

Sweet honey and raw pollen. Dizziness

Must sure confront one, wandering among

These structures -- but the builders always guess

Just what is where; the food and fed, the young

And old maternal queen. What's more: surprise!

The cells are viewed therein with compound eyes.

For Bug Week: A Hymn To Be'gotcidi

Son of the Sun and trickster of our souls,

Be'gotcidi is Lord of the Insects,

A dirty god, as James Hillman extols

When he talks "Going Bugs" and the effects

These creatures have, in life and in our dreams.

Like these, his creatures, Be'gotcidi lands

Where'er he will, just to elicit screams --

Through us is how he souts -- as with his hands

He grabs at us to make us sing. Valery

In L'abeille knows this too, as he

Finds in a deadly, delicate small sting

Administered in warning by a bee

A "gold alarm" that is a wake-up call

To pay attention to the great and small.

The Feast Day of the Patron Saint of Beekeepers, With An Excursis On Colony Collapse And A Possible Cause Thereof

I must admit I fail to comprehend
What's up with all the fuss and flow'rs and hearts
When hives and screened-in hats would better send
The message as we celebrate the arts
Of apiculture. Honey, it's the day
To laud the work of those who keep the bees,
Much harder work these days, to our dismay.
It could be an endemic bee disease,
It could just be some mites or pathogens,
We still don't know where blame is to be put
For colony collapse that leaves these dens
Bereft of bees. A mystery's afoot!
But I submit: perhaps it's Valentine
The saint of plagues and keepers, who's malign.