Written from under a Wasp's Nest to conserve Time
Like a sickle in a wheat field the clock's pendulum
Side to side, swing side to side
In an endless pattern and tapestry of time;
Should I be stung by a bee I might be poisoned
And worry the neighbor's cat no more
In the backyard of my home,
I realize I'm writing under a wasp-nest.
My allergy to bee-stings is yet undefined; never been stung,
But the reaction'd be severe if I was...
Everyone would panic. Even me, and I'd be dead.
The neighbors moved out middle of last week
For $200 less rent
And maybe because I colored their cat.
A kitty named Snowball
Does not deserve to be white. Sidewalk chalk works miracles.
For am I among the Blue People of the past...
Three years and a couple months now
Watching the ocean go in and out
Faithfully marking the tides of their lives
And everyone looks in different shades of blue, especially in my memory.
Five different lineages in that house in my time,
All of which moved far, far and away...
Four cycles of friends, whose return I await rather futilely
Like a frozen-in-wood Apache Gan with tiny swords in hand,
The gatekeeper monument to those who are Gan with the wind...
Dusky gaps, all that lie ahead in my memory
And behind, when the bees could not sting,
The Apache Immortals danced, though their song could not carry
To reach my deaf ears, so many centuries ago
When the mystery, the falling of the giant pyramid, was still new
I wish bees still couldn't sting... they scare the bejeezus out of me.
A wasp buzzes within ten feet of me,
I turn stiff as a pole, freeze right up,
Can't move if my life depends on it...
Like a deer caught in the deadlights or a butterfly on a truck grill.
The sunset moth, fleet of foot and powdered wing...
Do you remember when, so many seasons ago,
When the bee and the wasp were not foe but friend
And the lone DevilDancer kept the demons at bay
And DevilDanced hand in hand with the Blue People...
Bees and wasps attack each other, I heard somewhere,
Probably on the nature channel... very informative.
They just don't get along, and so say the Apaches in their tales of days-gone-by...
That's always the way with new neighbors, though...
You never know who can be trusted, who can't, 'cept through the test of time.
Back when a butterfly's scales could make you run faster,
Before the vortex was torn apart
By the removal of a sacred rock of your possession
The Gan stands frozen, suffering the blind hatred of betrayal
As he awaits his Blue People's return.
And I wouldn't have to be afraid of beesting,
Let them sit on my wrist and stop to pass the time of day,
And wait for new neighbors together.
Ones with another white cat to torment,
So I'd no longer look like the Lone Gan-man.