Photo source: Insect hotel in France
Prompt: “Let’s take a leaf from Shelley’s book, and write poems in which mysterious and magical things occur. Your poem could take the form of a spell, for example, or simply describe an event that can’t be understood literally. Feel free to incorporate crystal balls, fauns, lightning storms, or whatever seems fierce and free and strange. Poetry is like that (at least when you’ve been reading Shelley!) If you’re in search of inspiration, maybe you’ll find it in this poem by Louis Untermeyer, or this one by Kathleen Graber. Happy writing!”
Falling Asleep With Carpenter Bees
The walls are thin, transparent. Angels stand
at right angles. If I close my eyes, I see
the bees breaking and entering. Honeycomb
dipped in sorrow. Grapes rolling like eyeballs
on my palm. I see a handful of pennies fallen
through the grate. Shallow sludge,
the refuse of a city refusing sleep.
Locally, it’s sunset. In the fringes, unlaced
thoughts burst out of their shoes.
Every moment, someone flies out of a dream
and into a barrel of laughs. It rolls downhill,
crushing everything in its path. This
is the time to bend matter into thought.
Things would be simpler if all I had
were dusty yarn on a broken loom.
You, who whispers. There, in the corner.
Approach me invisibly on high heels.
Barefoot, even. Just be. Here, next to me.
I want to forget this place where joy
is a three-day cold and sadness the flu.
Here’s a look at what’s no longer possible.
Words without fear. Anger without loss.
In their wake, dreaming becomes obsolete.
Quit staring, we say, keep walking, hold on
to your children. So many of you
won’t make it. We know and do nothing.
What could we, possibly? We feel.
Deeply, while dodging the ghost
of tomorrow. You see, it, too, needs a pass
to travel. Not linearly, but hopping from town
to town, hoping someone would take it in.