by David Jensen
Copyright 2016 by David Jensen
In addition to writing short, and long stories,
I sometimes write poetic verses.
This is the second book with ten short poems.
(Did I ever mention that I’m fascinated with Honey Bees?)
Cover photo is a Lilly from
my wife’s fish pond.
The first two poems are about (naturally) Honey Bees. I find our interaction with them fascinating, and there’s nothing prettier than seeing flowers full of these hard little workers.
I come in your direction where it’s so verdure,
with splotches of Lila, red, orange and blue.
I do my job for my community and as for
your garden, I work there for you too.
Those that know me do not swing and
Try to hurt me or make me go away.
For if I don’t do my job in your garden
you will have a problem, that I say.
Flying with grace from bloom to bloom,
I collect what I need for my own room.
This makes you happy when your plants thrive,
and the nectar I collect is brought to my hive.
The pollen sticks to my legs hairs
to be deposited in the next plants lair.
Let me work and you’ll be astounded,
at harvest time with all abounded.
Our teamwork doesn’t end there, oh no,
in winter you take care for my home.
You keep me warm and very well fed
while I slumber in my winters bed.
Therefore I let you take my honey,
for yourself to eat and to make money.
So do me no harm, and keep me from danger,
for we are different but are not strangers.
In front of the building so still I stand,
observing the in and out-flights at hand.
More flights than even Chicago O’Hare,
as they fly by or err landing in my hair.
The hive is humming and full of life,
so many bees, but never any strife.
They land, bump and push each other,
and all this for the queen, their mother.
In wintertime they cuddle in a puddle
in the hive, the queen centered in the huddle.
So they’re warm until springtime blooms,
as again in droves they leave their room.
As usual next year when they fall in my pool,
I’ll try to save each one, because I’m no fool.
My garden would be useless except for wood,
for without them we would have less food.
While vacationing in Austria, we explored the stream which runs by the town. I was not alone as it says in the poem, but the poem rhymes! :- )
With nary a breeze in the mountain air
and the clouds in the pine boughs hang still,
the rushing sound of mountain water in a
stony stream deafens as it flows with flair.
The birds and cars I see if I so will.
But no sound can penetrate the still,
of the tumultuous sound around me
from the Austrian water clear as a sea.
The cool fresh water streaming down
from the highest pinnacles of the mountain,
is for me more relaxing and splendid
than any I’ve seen, the mid-city fountains.
A calming peacefulness seems to abound,
as I stand here with nature but still alone.
I stare at the water and begin to astound,
at the shapes and sizes of millions of stones.
The next one was written on a day when it was oppressively hot.
(I’m not complaining!)
Damp is the heat, relentless and oppressive.
In the basement so cool and not depressive,
is the place to work on dog days like this.
To end the sweating in the basements cool bliss.
Inward I curse, but outward no pains,
I know winter’s coming so I don’t complain.
The time it will come as it always will,
to don a jacket against the winters chill.
Cuddled in blankets with the heater on full,
I’ll reminisce back to summers heated lull.
And wish that springtime would start tomorrow,
to end the winters cold despair and sorrow.
This was written during the second heat wave we had.
This afternoon a light breeze is calmly blowing,
and the sounds that it brings I’m already knowing.
The sounds of laughter, song and screams,
with your eyes closed it would seem like a dream!
It’s a hot Sunday and the public pools last day,
that’s why all the city people flee the heat that way.
The sounds of dashing, diving boards and thrashing,
mixes with the sounds of continuous splashing.
But that is only on the surface where it’s neat,
for if one was to go and dive down deep,
you would see the hair and dirt from their feet!
It’s down there on the bottom for all to see.
Some go there to sunbathe and some go to swim,
and some women go looking for the right him!
A vast bevy of bodies and near-naked flesh,
would put the best Muslim to the religious test!
By the pools the bodies strewn out in the sun,
looks like a war zone and not at all like fun!
For I’ve got a pool and can swim as I please!
I need not show off and attempt to appease.
If it’s hot at night and my face from the heat is red,
I can hop into my pool so cool then hop into bed.
And my co-workers I tell the next day so zealous,
and can see on their faces their simply so jealous.
All next week they say will be an oppressive heat,
as they weather the swelter I’ll feel cool and neat.
For my pool closes first when I decide and say,
the October brings dark, dreary, gloomy days.
Another poem pertaining to the quirky nuances of having Essential Tremor.
To the fish pond I walked to watch as fish swam,
my incomprehension as to why i am as I am.
My pills, enough sleep and doing it all right,
but this morning my sickness showed its plight.
Another morning when nothing goes well,
I just spilled my coffee all over hell.
If I used sugar my spoon it would rattle,
like the church bell with its constant prattle.
So I watch television and see the Olympics,
my eyes only seeing, I notice no specifics.
And if I calm down and get out of this hype,
my laptop I’ll open and really begin to type.
The words for stories and poems in my brain,
are racing around and it drives me insane.
My pills make remembrance hard you see,
that’s why I can’t wait to start hitting my keys.
This one came after a visit to our long ignored garden plot.
In the garden two enemies destroy my labor,
and if I should partake of leisure awhile,
the garden will get taken over by nature
and start to look wild, like a jungle so vile.
The time works against us you see,
attempting to keep all neat and green.
The flowers bloom and the trees have fruit,
but the weeds and time throw us for a loop.
A sabbatical year but the back of my mind,
pretty much knows the chaos that I’ll find.
An overgrown gate to be trimmed and freed,
the lock so rusted I can barely turn the key.
Where grass once was is weeds and a tree,
and the pathway obscured, not to be seen.
The water barrel of course was ignored,
to be frozen in winter, busted and gored.
Sometimes during my lunch break I’ll be inspired by something, and then grab my notebook of paper and start scribbling away.
The first is about our forklift driver rushing around and trying to deliver things before he takes his lunch break.
Leave that there and take mine instead they say,
all are in a rush and full of hectic all day.
Constantly the forks are moving up and down,
as during his long work day he drives around.
Transporting skids and unloading trucks and
the scrap truck comes and he helps with the junk.
The exhibit truck comes and he loads up their truck,
When the Ecology truck comes he loads up the gunk.
His cell phone constantly rings through the day,
if he cannot answer they just have to wait.
When he calls back, in his ear comes the spate
for fear their skids with the tools will be late!
So to the next station he transports the tools,
and two days later they’re still standing there.
He thinks to himself that they made him a fool,
it’s enough to go crazy and pull out your hair.
Moreover during break times they ring on his phone,
even though they know he works alone.
The people care not as they yell through the phone and
they wonder why he’s happy when he can go home?
The second one was while eating lunch outside and watching all the Hawks circle high above our heads.
Hawks, ducks and geese with charm,
through the air they fly a-plenty.
No frets or fears of ill or harm
For guns in Germany aren’t that many.
Steadfast by the roadway they stay,
as autos drive continuous on their way.
Without a thought of threat or misgiving,
people shoot cameras and like what their seeing.
Rarely a man has a weapon, almost none,
So they enjoy the nature for their fun.
If weapons here were free to be had
It would in time make the majority sad.
While driving along hawks can be observed,
countless numbers on fencepost or in the air.
Flying gracefully on the winds with nary a care,
Or close to the highway, as still as preserved.
But In America it would not be so,
while even small children a gun must own.
In Germany one must go to the range,
So why do Americans find that so strange!
I hope you enjoyed these nine poems as much as I enjoy writing them.
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