Dance of the city bees

 On the farm

    they waggle a longing dance

    for that sweet floral hit

    of nourishing protein shake.

Life is hard

    out there in the barren sticks

    where workers scour the orzine beige,

    twerk to allay their distant itch.

Here in easy town

    the affluent trot like foxes,

    gliding across petal laden floors,

    a spring in each blossomed step.

In the urban jungle

    the gardens dazzle like meadows

    once upon a memory for hungry bees,

    who make honey, instead, in the city.

***

I read an article today, research showing that bees in the countryside must travel 50% farther than their city counterparts to find food, i.e. flowers. City gardens are now more varied and diverse than our so-called 'natural' landscapes.

Thanks jggrz (pixabay) for the photo.

Riddled out of Europe

An article in the news lies to me again

as I turn over once more and hit snooze,

phone in hand, head lopped to one side.

A viscous string of drool oozes onto the pillow.

I am incapacitated, not drunk,

merely struck dumb by the insinuation:

deaths in the UK, they say, are comparable.

The graph shows double, at least, to my trained eye.

A singularly stubborn nation breezes into pubs,

sneezing wantonly, coughing masklessly.

The kids are in school now, anyway.

Caution and wind approach a wheezing climax.

I feel silly yet safe, pint in hand, out in the chill,

wondering at these alien beings who laugh, indoors,

blissfully ignorant, or sanguine, I can never tell.

I think, they must have good private health insurance.

Never diminish your fire

There are those who are meek and tick by.

There are those who are weak and don't try.

There are some who always seek better, and cry,

But their fire will burn down the ivory pyre.