OM (To Bee or Not?)

In the Meant-to-Be, I believe

bees interweave a dancing net of harmonies,

of vibes and sequenced frequencies,

mating (fornicating) fabricating, tele-communicating,

orchestrating symphonies of praise

for Goddess-Queen All-Together,

antennae tuned to Her beatific hum

of timeless Wisdom---never forget!

Frequenting fragrant blossoms,

nectar ambrosial, harvesting, vagrant,

fancying, they build, rebuild,

(spelled hex of hexagons) a vital village,

waxing strong, concerted, cell-by-cell

(unaided, un-invaded.)

I believe what the bees believe:

communal living, danced, sung,

honors Sweet Mother, nurturing Her young,

guided by jasmine joy, no time to grieve.

Syrup-kissed days, the honeyed hive alive with song,

convivial, convoluted, unpolluted,

stinging the rare last gasp of love

dying in defense of Golden Rule (the only point)

shared breath belying the sting of death,

tending the Burning Bush, a sugar bush of energy:

“I Am: all that I may BE!”

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Disappeared! Missing Melissae! What has become

of your vestal hymns once sung to Her?

(Lost at what cost?)

Abandoned Queen, not abdicated,

deflowered, dis-empowered, cosmic sanity negated.

The honey sours; greed devours, all waxing wanes;

cells isolate; the hives no longer hum,

busyness idle, song struck dumb, and all the feelers numb...

The drones of love in droves are dying.

From monarchy to anarchy,

betrayed by inhuman tyranny!

(How shall we craft democracy?)

Empires and colonies collapse,

disordered, conflict bordered,

walled, caged without integrity, corrupt within.

What saves the slaves from freedom’s lapse?

Caught like a fly in a sticky web,

as all hopes for the future ebb,

do bees believe in global doom?

When our certainties unravel,

our bankrupt world a rent-due room,

needs unmet, our gifts a debt, a liability,

how shall we travel?

Where, disoriented as we roam, shall we call home?

Bee-havior more ancient than time

succumbs to discord, bereft of rhyme or good.

Bees leave empty hives to tell us, in our empty lives:

beware, be wise, be well, behave as Beings should.

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How strange will we insist our lives become

before we hear again Her healing hum of Om?

She is the Flower Fount from which all sweetness flows.

She asks of us: sweet thanks.

We’ve learned and spurned Her organic plan.

Now we must watch Her humble

arrogant man. Grandchildren grieve, 'if only.'

How strange? How lonely? How lost must we become?

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Cell-phones divide by multiplying,

polluting life-line air-waves

(phony colonial babel of greed!

What replicates these hates?)

“Call home!” the cell-phones drone.

Beware! We fly a beeline to despair. (Call 911, Amber Alert!)

Tangling a web of lies,

we foul the home, the honeycomb, we all must share,

the core of Being, Honey-Tree of Life, of Sanity

only our Mother-Queen can own.

We are all alive in one hive,

heart of the One

Being.

Sweet One, Svaha!

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In my deepest heart, I know

there is only one kind of people,

but if there were two

(which would be the death of us)

one kind would think

their own illusions bring hope

while the illusions of others bring despair.

And the other kind? They would know, as I know,

that all despair (even our own) is illusion,

and hope springs reborn,

from diversity, from the courage

to feel and be truthfully,

yet leave some room

for others to be different.

If Reality's not enough to teach us praise,

we'll learn from the coming end of days,

learn to value breath, a while before our death.

What makes us think that now's too soon

to learn to put an end to man-made grief and strife,

to thank Her with non-violence,

to celebrate our life?

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Hold your values clear and few at the core.

Let centered wisdom emanate

in waves of meaning

outward to defuse violence

and to heal brokenness and fear everywhere.

Remember that everything of value

dances within your heart

when you are in tune with the All-Giver,

thankful to Her (believer!)

sharing Her blessings, being one.

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