Bee’s Ballad (Inspired by Sylvia Plath’s ‘The Bee Meeting’) The burning rhythms of bees, the hot honey sweetness, passionate lavas tease, swirling in motions around my dress, the sticky sweet caress. A dangerous warning sound, the distant hum to express the burning rhythms that pound. The gathering voice agrees, a women to possess. A quiver of unease. A unity to confess, a forward momentum progress, in one direction bound, an onward press, that the burning rhythms pound. Mistaken for a flower to seize, as petals to undress, a discovery to displease, an ardour to suppress, smoky fires infest. The quiet sounds resound, drumming heat does impress, the burning rhythms that pound. A battle unless the bees a flower find, surround, a pollen to molest, so burning rhythms onward pound.
	A room that owns me The room in the house where only I have full access, the only room I own, a part of me, my expression. A room where I belong. It pulls me back in its soft blanketing grasp. The room in the house that looks at me like a reflection is it me? That room in the house, is it my extension? Not of glass or bricks, but of me, like an arm. a ring I’ve worn for ten years and not taken off, like a new skin I’ve grown. It feels like a bubble, a serene world, inside a world that is my home, inside another world, the real world. Bound Shells sleep within their own sounds, drown as they long for the distant sea, wishing to be surrounded by resounding waves. Shells that contain the sounds of home that pound in their ears and gives them no rest. I long to be found, round, coiling inside my own circle, bound.
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