On Hold

Is writing worth it? Do my poems matter?

Will publishing another failure make me sadder?

Why put time into something I love if it never becomes a real thing?

I can keep my head in the water above but my body’s still swimming upstream.

The life I have now is already enough. I won’t die if I give up my dreams.

Adding an accolade would only be fluff when I’m already stretched at the seams.  

Is it really giving up if I never commit?

Is my self published work way too much to omit?

Do you really climb a mountain if you never summit?

When every day life keeps you down; you submit?

At what point does desire transform into action?

You strive and aspire to grow beyond faction.

You’re looking for a buyer, spread of word, and some traction.

But lighting that fire is all but a fraction.

Passion is rarely all it’ll take

And effort can barely preserve what’s at stake.  

You need motivation to keep up the drive.

A little inspiration to keep it alive.

But nobody knows to ask you about You.

Your back burner still is kept hidden from view

Until someone wanders across what you do,

And asks you when they can get something new.

Can you really tell them how it’s all on hold?  

How you wish you were driven but you’ve never been bold.

How your last four projects were all but out sold

How you’re feeling your dream is just childish and old?…

Maybe their intrigue was all that you needed?

Your love for your work may not be conceded

Effort and energy may not be depleted

Take one hint of hope and be not defeated.

Contentment is Learned

Life is as good as you make it.

But those who have it better than us fake it.

Because, good is a matter of perspective.

My life and yours are not respective.

Life is a series of decisions.

But most of us have different visions.

Because choices change by the seasons,

My life and yours are for different reasons.

So don’t get your hopes up, but keep contentment ready.

So when someone cuts your ropes up, your mast can hang in steady.

We’re all just lost at sea, where some of us float better than the rest.

But learning to swim is free, so kick your feet and paddle your best.

I Can’t

If I can’t write you something deep and show you what is right,

How am I to be there when you fall?

If I can’t speak a work, and keep you up at night,

Should I be writing you at all?

 

I want to blow your mind.

Or somehow slow down time.

Point a pen in your direction and make you think your brain is mine.

 

 But I can’t.

 

 I’m missing that spark, that pop star flare.

That light in the dark to make you stare.

I’m just me.

 

I’ll never have the look, that award show given face.

Like a plot hole in a book I’m out of place.

I’m just me.

 

And I can’t.

 

I want to write a page of history,

Be a chapter all alone.

Your favorite part of this story,

Bring in ratings on my own.

 

But I won’t.

Because you don’t know who I am.

 

I’m just me.

 

And I can’t.

Summer of the Bees

It took them three days to infiltrate my bedroom. Or at least thats how long it took me to notice.

One day I came home and there were four. The next day I came home to find roughly a dozen. The day after that, nearly fifty.

Honey Bees.

My room was filling up with honey bees. They were all dying in my room, buzzing at my window sill trying to escape. They had found their way in, and had no way out.

Bees?! 

I fought them for a week.

I found the hole by which they were coming through the wall. It was crawling with bees, but it was small. I couldn’t patch a hole with bees present. I had heard you could smoke them out. I cleared the area of everything flammable, except the wall itself, and set out a candle. Just a few inches from the base of the hole, the bees didn’t leave. Though I’m not surprised, they burned. The hole cleared, as some crawled back into the wall. Most of them fell, sizzling into the hot wax of the candle.

Leaving the candle lit near by, I patched the hole.

Masking Tape and Tin Foil.

Bees?!

From outside my house, they had two holes. Second story roof eaves, swarmed with hundreds of tiny honey bees, clinging to the outer wall of my one hundred and thirty year old house.

Brilliant. 

Thus began the battle of research and questionnaires.

The internet tells me they migrated in from somewhere else, and might migrate again next year, though it’s unlikely.

The internet tells me you can control an entire bee hive, by capturing its queen, though you need professional help.

The professional says, from in a house, you take apart the wall. hunt for the queen, one board at a time. The queen does not want to be found. She burrows into the wall further and further, to avoid being caught. Surprise! Your house is one hundred and thirty years old. There is no “hunt for the queen one board at a time”.

I would no longer have a house.

My Father did his part.

He brought me a can of bee killing spray.

Like I’m supposed to stand outside my house, on the roof of my front porch, and shoot bees with a poisonous squirt gun, until i think i have killed them all. And then go outside and do it again the next day.

First off,

No.

Secondly,

I don’t even like killing things, insects or not.

so Thirdly,

No.

::Parallel Story::

I arrive at my parents country home and park in the dirt alongside their steep driveway. Running up the retired railway tie staircase toward their front door, I realize I left something in my car.

Turning around I run back down. I get into my car, find what i was missing, and return over the stairs a third time.

Bees?!

From the ground beneath the old shaky wooden staircase, swarm a large number of bees.

Yellow Jackets, to be precise.

Quickly realizing: I’m being assaulted! I run. Luckily, I make it inside the front door, having only been stung three times.

A welt the size of my open hand begins to form instantly on my inner thigh, as i am dismayed to find two yellow jackets still buzzing in my obnoxiously thick dark hair.

Twice more.

My mother, bless her heart, laughed.

They were dance moves she had never seen before.

I am not allergic, and I have a high pain tolerance. So the next week was nothing more than strenuous itching, and a massive headache. A swollen leg, and four large knots on the two sides of my aching skull.

Yellow Jackets.

I got home that day in extreme pain, looking up at the second story eave of my own home.

Honey Bees.

::Back to the Bees::

Weeks went by with no more bees inside my room. On the outside however, they were numerous. My neighbor, a very polite, middle-aged man, whom i have nothing in common with, made a point to knock on my door and tell me, in short:

“Hey, umm. Bees”.

Bees?!

Yes. A very astute observation, Tony, thank you.

I grew attached to these bees, as I made no effort to get rid of them.

Like, maybe by some miracle, they will just leave; or somehow cease to exist.

My only thought and prayer was as follows:

I don’t want to kill these bees. I believe You have given me the spirit within me, to not want to kill these bees. However, I cannot have them here. They cannot stay. Please, do something about them, for I myself, will not make any effort at harming them.

Sometimes,

the craziest things happen,

when you just Ask.

Three days later. Bees. In the room down the hall. My roommate tried to tell me, like I didn’t already know.

“Yes. I know. They were in my room too. They’re honey bees, they’re in the wall. They have been there for weeks.”

“No, I know about the honey bees. These are wasps, I promise you”.

Two days later, they were in my room too.

Wasps.

Or hornets? Yellow jackets? Large, scary, evil-looking, yellow striped, flying insects that like to sting you? I don’t know the technical term, but now my house has two bee problems. Honey bees in the wall, and somewhere in the ceiling (I suppose) a large group of wasps have decided to set up camp.

Or so I thought.

Yellow Jackets.

Yellow Jackets are carnivorous. They do not create honey, they eat meat. They are technically speaking, not bees. They are wasps.

Yellow Jackets are those annoying little buggers, that like to eat the chicken off your plate at the park, when you gather for your friends barbecue.

Yellow Jackets swarm the dead animal in the field, as its prepared for the worms, and eventually the soil.

Yellow Jackets get stuck in your hair, after you run across their nest, and leave their mark, for weeks to come, as you fight off the migraine that never ends.

Yellow Jackets… eat Honey Bees.

Yes, it’s true.

Summer turns to fall, and animals go dormant. Humans pack up their family picnics, and the neighbors’ cat is kept inside for much longer periods of time.

Yellow Jackets eat Honey Bees!

Bees finish up their farming for the summer, and begin to pack up. Wasps run out of meat and scraps to scavenge, so they steal. They invade a hive, kill the bees, kidnap the larvae, and eat the nest.

They leave nothing behind.

The Yellow Jackets were in my house for a week, before leaving, and they have not returned since. The Honey Bees have not shown their face since the Wasps came through, and I don’t think winter has anything to do with their silence.

Yellow Jackets eat Honey Bees.

I had no logical way of dealing with the bees. I had no desire to kill the bees.

I made my request known, I had faith, and the problem was dealt with.

Now, months later, I am left with nothing more than a gaping hole in the wall, behind the boards that make up my bedroom.

But luckily for me, it was already there..

Seeing how my house, is one hundred and thirty years old.