Pollinated and Picked… (or Pap)

It’s not just that I’m a Bee,
that gives my life a bit of
buzz. But being a Bee is me,
so you being a being and
being here once suited all of us.

I’m buzzing about here being my
planet, and sharing this planet’s
space with an all seeing human being.
I pollinate he or she picks it’s one of
life’s little tricks, he and she being
the beings all seeing.

your poem reminds me of
the rose that I once was

who ever tried to prick me wrongly
I pushed ahead my thorn

whosoever loved me
I lay bare all with which I was born

my petals
no resistance
till another rose like me was born

The guys went forlorn
as many came over to my fertilizing lawn..
when many more colourful roses were born
morn after morn

sad so many continued to be torn
mans world they say
why were you a gal born?

while cruising through the tunnel of dead
at lightning speed but not in haste
before reaching the point I dread
I thought of taking a much needed rest

because it was a sort of final chance
to get my sonnet rhyming rhythmic right
I paused to take an appreciative glance
before moving from the darkness to light

Undemocratic Glare Looks Yonder….
( ok then - ugly)

This is number ten donation street,
on Britain’s benefit to rich people square.
Where men of greed so often meet,
hidden, from democracy’s glare.

A street where all our billions flow,
to men of wealth, title or influence.
Blown to foreign accounts like snow,
without worry or mere consequence.

People on this street always blame,
shirkers for taking our cash.
But their chums have no shame,
they’ve just got a bigger stash.