The Monastery of the Honeybees

In robes of golden brown and black,
We rise at very early hours,
To praise the day the Lord has made,
And pay our visits to the flowers.

You’ll find us working cheerfully,
Both in the fields and at home,
And from each tiny devotee,
You’ll hear our constant mantra: Aum.

When the bells of vespers call
We return with all our neighbors,
And in our apis apsidal
We lay the fruits of all our labors.

And there within our sacred nave
All our toils are transformed,
And with the sweetness we have made,
Our souls’ devotion is adorned.

Submission

“Joyful submission, indeed, is the way to pay off
one’s karmic debts without incurring any new ones.”
—Swami Kriyananda, The Promise of Immortality

Do we have any choice but
to submit to the will of God?
What else can possibly happen?
But within our submission itself is a choice:
a choice between giving up—and offering up.

I respectfully submit my résumé,
which will thoroughly enumerate
my more than adequate qualifications
for anything You might throw at me,
as well as my clear promotional potential.

I submit to the ladies and gentlemen of the jury
Exhibits A through Infinity, demonstrating,
beyond a shadow of a doubt, the fact
that it is our very trials that have given us
the strength to become who we are today.

I submit myself, joyfully, to every opportunity.

I'm Okay, You're Okay

I want to reassure
the neighbors
I pass, “It’s okay—
nothing can get in,
or out.”
Gloved and masked,
sunglassed, and
bike helmeted,
I peer out through
my swaddling
like the invisible man,
and I realize
the only thing
left to do
is learn to smile
through my ears.

Villainous Nell and Her Villanelle

Oh, there ne’er was a villain like Villainous Nell,
iniquitous poet, and quick to offend,
and all that she loved was her villanelle.

Her poetry grates like a banshee’s yell,
and no one could like it, nor even pretend,
for there ne’er was a poet like Villainous Nell.

The rhymes and the rhythms seemed tortured in hell,
but beautiful sonnets could never contend,
for all that she loved was her villanelle.

The townsfolk all plotted how best to expel
this fiendish reciter, or how to defend
their poor, suffering ears from that Villainous Nell.

When at last they arrested this cruel damoiselle,
she clutched to her breast the foul ode she had penned,
for all that she loved was her villanelle.

So now she just waits, all locked up in her cell,
scrawling more poems, awaiting her end,
for there ne’er was a villain like Villainous Nell,
and all that she loved was her villanelle.

Things to Do If You Are a Cup of Tea

Say good morning.
Be warm and comforting.
Share cookies.
Cool down when you need to.
Exalt yourself in ceremonies.
Tell a fortune.
Energize, and relax.
Bring out the best in whatever you are given.
Say good afternoon.
Mix in a little something sweet.
Be at home in a fine china cup or a clay pot.
Say good night.

Downhill

As April inclines towards May
my poems, too, begin to slip
and I wonder which meaning
of “it’s all downhill from here”
I should expect.

Eyes of Light

If thine eye be single,
thy whole body shall be full of light.
—Matthew 6:22

Looking into the camera lens
I draw my own focus
to a matching single eye
and feel the light rising,
filling, flowing over and out,
to all eyes of light,
where all I’s are one.