"this is sixth form poetry, not Keats or Yeats"
Weighed down by the delights of an afternoon’s jumbled scavenging you zigzag drunkenly across the sky; tumbling through monocultures to the wild abandon of your uncultivated home. Squatting in the corner of Farmer John (or was it Giles)’s field, you hear him exclaim: “Those bees will be the end of …
Fleeing down grassy corridors from whirring teeth that hack at your habitat with ill-managed discipline; this rich mossy canvas spat out as loamy clots, to line the limits of your enclosure. Guided by twin suns that cut towards your changing horizon; an oily mirage unveiled at the last, by …
Your recent absences have become More pronounced; The late spring evenings are no longer Alive with the industry of your approach, And the flowers in the hanging baskets On the high street fidget with uncertainty. We know that something is wrong, and So we call a meeting in the public …
When someone’s voice is on repeat, You might begin to tap your feet; As into music, words do change, Sometimes the sounds we hear are strange. Illusions that turn speech to song, A musical phenomenon; It’s a linguistic interchange, Sometimes the sounds we hear are strange. But what …
Your yellow petals shine with amber glow, And glisten in the cool autumnal breeze; Yet whilst I love the golden arcs you throw, It is not me you try so hard to please. Then when the solar light is viewed just so, Your petals spark a ghostly, violet glow; …
The bees effervescently Secreted sweet scents. They smelt smelly feet Then went wherever The sweetest smells went. They neglected the less Sweet smells, Seeded the scene, Then entered the nest. This is a univocalic poem (using only the ’e’ vowel) inspired by recent research that has investigated the extent to …
Emerging from my host now fully grown, I test my twisted wings on freedom short; Then start my search for your sweet pheromone, And spy you bulging like a grotesque wart. You occupy the belly of a bee Cocooned inside and safe from any pain, At least until you copulate …
The nightshade is a plant locked in a war, They keep their pollen under lock and key From pollen thieves who try to hit their score, Committing acts of pollen burglary. Who would have thought this from the humble bee, It’s black and yellow stripes a warning sign That they …
The beekeepers are wondering what to do, Their stock has fallen by forty per cent; They scratch their heads and only wish they knew What the demise of their poor insects meant. For whilst the winter loss rates now were few, The summer losses were on the ascent. Backyard keepers …