I see Ralph Waldo’s Humble-Bee

As it drifts from coasts to seas

Wiser than the wisest seer

With no callous, vapid fear.

It is worker, with great buzz

It flies all day without a fuss.

To be this welcome humble-bee

Poet, not rebel, to draw honey

From every choice Bulbell

From every draping honeysuckle

From the tulips, and the trees

Sweet fruit and cherry berries.

For to draw from this I would adorn

Epicurean wisdom in its form.

For wise, oh wise, humble-bee

Drawing forth your sweet honey.

To be a humble-bee I confess

Would be something of the best.

To draw from each wise scholar found

A wise enchantment, no chaff unsound.

For is this not the humble-bee

Flying, wiser than you or me?

A poet, lauded for his fame

Working with silent, cheery claim

Upon every bulbous flower stock;

The humble-bee would feed the flock

Of scholars reckless, proud and few

In a time which comes so new.

To collect all wisdom,

None profane,

To ever see a thing

Ere what’s atop a flower stem.

Beautiful golds, whites and reds

Violets and blues and crimson bread

Of nectar to put in hexagonal beds

To make into honey, so sweet and soft.

So the next generation’s wisdom is not lost.

When I work

I get a feeling of satisfaction.

I see the job is getting done.

I am happy that I can do the job.

Then, another sees it

And decides to compete with me.

I undoubtedly fail.

I would enjoy scooping the horse poop

Out of the stables.

I would undoubtedly get sore

Within a few hours of doing it.

I would fail miserably.

Then, I wouldn’t feel worth the dollar I was given.

I would feel useless, and not worth the money paid for the task.

Then I’d slow down,

And another person would come

He or she would do a better job than I could.

I’d feel even less worth my dollar.

I’d get depressed.

I’d quit the job because

I would feel that there is no place for me there.

As it would turn out

All I needed might just be practice.

Practice, but the fact that I would feel worthless

I wouldn’t be able to get the practice in.

Only because it would be a competition.

Only because I would get weak and sore.

Only because I know that I am not doing

A satisfactory job.

This is why I write.

Theodore Marmaduke, a Chamberlain    Chains of Judecca were sentence for his charge.

He was possessed by a perfect choirmaster,    Chosen by God to sing the strongest hymns.

The specter’s voice was perfect pitch     His notes were strong and savory.

His angelic instrument was his pipes     Which sung loud for the nations to hear.

He coveted the stories of Bromdun     To see is they could secure truth.

For no story was good to Marmaduke    Unless it could be made true.

So for fun he set the trap in motion      To make Bromdun’s stories true.

Yet, for metaphor they were,     But for meat of lucid metal, to touch

They were not lucid enough to touch     But rather were truths taught about covetousness

Or murder, or slander, or social ills     When strength would stir and tyrants would still

The populace. For Theodore Marmaduke      Sought to overthrow the Great King,

So with him Bromdun Kratz Nuewfer,     A titular prince with no crown, except one new.

The New Crown one given by Christ     For the worldly sorrows were corundum

To be cracked by the Diamond edge     Of grace’s devoted diadems.

Theodore Marmaduke loved the stories    Of Bromdun’s illustrious bow.

He was brilliant to make stories come to pass      Bright and marveled on the lookingglass.

Theodore Marmaduke could, in fact,      Find words to fill his lute’s forms,

To sing and write, for Theodore Marmaduke      Was wisest of the false gods.

Find not he did his sister’s sex     Nor found he and married her.

Rather, he was the hoary humph      Of a forgotten, ne’er to be hero.

He was not Chief among the saints,      Silly salvo, nor was he perfect in all chosen

Arts of man, to call wise and welcome     By the muses. For he worshiped the muses.

He did, in fact, play with his puppets      And made all men a part of his plans.

He promised Bromdun to prosper nothing     He rather promulgated through witchiness

A woeful regret. To cause Bromdun to speak,     Though it was not Bromdun who spoke.

For Theodore Marmaduke was a cur     Caught in his own web of callousness.

Bromdun thought it was to think otherwise    Yet, Theodore Marmaduke was thoroughly

Invested in idealizing and bearing to fruit    Bromdun’s inventions and ideas.

For secretly was Marmaduke captured by them,    Even the ones so called kitch.

Distant memories has Bromdun of these conversations     He knows not what caused

The false memories to appear,      If not the maligned marring of his masterwork

Did Marmaduke make war upon Bromdun’s     Strong stories, to mortify him

For Bromdun was weak,      So therefore made rubicund one day, and therefore wise.

The Great King found war on his shores     So therefore shod away from Bromdun.

Therefore, in this next book to begin,    Bromdun will bring to bear the battle

That Bromdun must wage with Theodore Marmaduke    And so stop the warsongs

Of his kingdom’s callous cares.    For war is what Bromdun sought to conquer

And not kingdoms.      His only wish was to conquer war.

Bromdun was an evil man.     Evil was he, a man lost

To his desires, when welcome thoughts     Of his wonderful good daunted

On him. He killed a rabbit, raw        With a rifle in six shots.

He was blind by boredom      And so therefore beheld wantonness.

His eyes opened when elucidated       To his past, that he was endangered

Of hellfire, for even a summary offense       But offense it was, therefore rude and hellish.

He was falsely accused.      According the acquittal he thought he would acquiesce

He was rather made into a monster     For a crime all men and women have maligned

Their souls with. Soon he sought     Some comfort, but none would soothe him.

He was not beaten. He was not bruised.     Battered instead by boisterous hatred

He was given a lifetime sentence     For not telling a lie.

He testified before kings that      War should not be touted; to be timid to fight

In wars that could waste all flesh      To wan the flesh—for pallid faces wan

When they see their sin,     And the sure sentence against it.

Ought they blush, bold and rubicund     Rather than wan badly.

For wan faces are ones about to wane;     But rubicund faces are ones about to win.

For Bromdun might have done more,     He will not make the claim that he is innocent.

Rather, he does not know, what more,      The malignity made of his brow.

He loves his country and President,     Pride swells in him for patriotic shores.

Rather, a mistake he would regret       Is the Patriot way relegated to regiments

Sent to sands of distant satraps’ sovereignties.     For sorrow would inhabit all faces then.

Bromdun merely wishes to be won by grace.      For the battles are wishful mental

Eyes. He fears the Ravens in the Woods      Might ravage him, for Theodore Marmaduke

Had sent ravens to ravish Bromdun.      Theodore Marmaduke sought to sortie

Against the Great King, after his failure      Fought fraught, and fortuitous for

Theodore Marmaduke.

Theodore Marmaduke wished to imprison Bromdun

For making his name known      Pekah Avram Ephraim, the merry marauder

Who marred the kingdoms,       Who made the nations tremble with care

To not offend him, Great Liege Athena.     Yet, one greater worse than Marmaduke

Lie at the helm of the wars wasting      The faces to wan. That is Maddok’s woe

Who wishes to whip the kingdoms      Into hellfury, and therefore weltch

The world of its weapons     To bring all the living ones to woe.

Theodore Marmaduke, who was death’s        Puppet, caused a Prince to pause

At his false female form.      The Prince foresaw that Marmaduke was fit

And had good, graceful character     To create a sense of gaudy gluttony.

This Prince was an Egyptian Imam       Who had great Emeritus in his kingdom.

Theodore had sinned,      With murderous slander

When he captivated the Imam.      The Prince “consoled” Marmaduke

And so therefore took him into        The towering kingdoms of golden steeples.

For, Theodore Marmaduke was under      Assault by a Great King, unaware

That the Imam’s palaces would pour      Down their golden palisades into clear, streams

When the Great King      Killed his kingdom’s crews.

Theodore Marmaduke had tried     To kill the Great King’s friend, Bromdun

So the Great King embarked on an emissary     To draw Marmaduke out of the castle.

The Great King sent word,      “Give me Theodore Marmaduke, and I will spare thise.”

But the Imam did not, but rather sent shafts     Shot down, skewering the front ranks.

The Great King, knowing this meant war,      Took siege engines of brass and knocked

Upon the golden palisades of the Imam’s walls.     Great fires poured from the dropped

Gates of the siege towers, turning    The golden palisades to rainbow torrents

Of clear, streaming golden waters.     Men on the palisades waked through the mortar

Their flesh melting from the streams     Of liquid gold molten, flowing to the streets

Where men, as it cooled     Could be seen, arms mixed in like straw.

The war of the American revolution      Retained its great and hearty revolt

But now Bromdun had an ally     Unknown to him, for all was going well.

The Imam heard word that his walls were      Wallowing in their golden streamed wakes

That his men, in the cooled gold      Were but fleshstraw in hardened gold mortar.

The Great King took the Capital of the city,      Looked for Marmaduke that crass

Cutthroat killer, but could find     Him not. Yet, armies held on the hills

For a reserve force hidden in the hills     Ran in with great rain of cavalries’ hooves

For the Imam’s glory. Horsemen glade      Over the hill country, and into river gullies.

The Great King withdrew his halberds     So forced his general to haul into enemy spears

On a small number of horsemen.     Horrified, the Great King made a retreat

For the rustic palaces were taken,     The women in the kingdom ravaged

But the Great King had wasted his     Force at the gates, when the hooves harrowed

Great and numerous foes’ foray      By the feet of burnished cavalry.

The Great King lost general and crew       So withdrew in great retreat, languishing.

He held in the barracks, broken       As Theodore Marmaduke escaped boldly.

For, Bromdun was not Beowulf,     But was good nonetheless. Brazen

He thought himself a prophet,     But proved to be only a man persuaded

By his love for peace and prosperity.     Every word Bromdun spoke was for peace

To prevent war, yet the Great King provoked     Conflict at Egypt’s walls, wasted

Were the forces spent, stark naked were they     When they strode off into the sticks.

Theodore Marmaduke was giddy with glee      When the Great King’s forces gave way

To the Numidian Calvary in great numbers      Gnawing away at the Phalanx of America.

For, if they had not engaged the general     Against the Phalanxes of Numidian enclave

The general’s horses would not have waned     In battle to flight, so therefore jut him

Off his steed. His steed broken and bloody.       Bruised, the forces fled golden palisades.

There was an Emerald king,

Who deceived himself to claim,

“I am the seated God.”

Tyre’s prince besought one worthy for himself

To destroy. He searched roaming like a lion.

Word has reached a prophet of the LORD

That Tyrus speaks to consume that Emerald king.

To, to consume,—therefore, LORD

I beseech Thee, cause the little one to repent before

He becomes the so aforementioned King.

LORD, Tyre’s king seeks a consort

And Tyre’s Prince a concubine.

LORD, a righteous man speaks

With words, to a King of ashes and dung:—

Repent, O’ Barren of one of words.

For a desert land shall you be cast

If you do not repent.

It amazes me how history defied

Every good idea a thinker had.

Where there was a priceless gem

We cast it away for the slag.

Where there was a pearl

We kept the seashell.

Where there was meat

We kept the nutshell.

Where there was food

We took the box.

Perhaps philosophers

Like any other orator

Found a certain vanity

Popular among their audiences.

I imagine that is the curse of fame

And the curse of an audience.

What is us—

And therefore good—

Others will defy.

So all that’s left is what history

Will inevitably remember.