6/2/2026
Tristan Jones
I Should Have Told the Bees
I should have told the bees,
like the old wise women whispering in days of yore,
I should have stated to them in plain English the direness of the situation,
The direct line of mistakes and calamities caused by human greed
That will bring Hell to Earth.
In encounters past I have told the bees about my peaceful intentions,
My personal ambitions and philosophies to not bring harm.
Well, that was all quite useless as I should have relayed stark warnings of catastrophe.
Those poor little guys, we really don’t stand a chance, do we?
I will say, it does bring me satisfaction to hear when bees chase and sting humans.
Including myself, when I get stung I probably deserved it-
A little subcutaneous fire as a reminder of my failures.
I used to tell the bees about us, about our shared love of garden flowers and reading by sunlit windows,
The way you laughed at my jokes over a cup of tea.
A lot of good that did them, buzzing along ignorant of how bad it’s going to be.
No, the bees do not need mild introspection, gossip, or chatterings of gratitude for friendship,
As much as they love listening to those things,
A wake-up call would be best for everyone involved.
6/1/2026
Trevor
Second Summer
The second summer arrived and I was full anachronism to myself.
I was on the wrong side of things lately, and I was foolishly
waiting on a third summer. In my great waiting, I am waiting
on perfection giving ground to peace, I am waiting on surrounding
myself with what must be music. A pale pound of sunlight
illuminates the half-dark of seeing past your own eyes,
and why should solitude be a solution to loneliness?
6/1/2026
Trevor
Hammer & Tongs,
it doesn’t take long, for the warm-up bulletin of cardiac epiphanies
and tectonic seizures to once again help me in becoming a ghost.
By which I mean, I was in the medium oblivion of taking landscapes
for granted, and adopted a neutered logic I’d gleaned from others.
The camera catches the animal and in its quantum eye
the animal catches it right back. That was what I was after.
I had gold fever, but in lieu of gold it was seeking sensory
addiction, like being sun-kissed, shots of adrenaline through
confrontations, small acts of stupidity. We’re stuck in this
century, graded on god’s highest curve,
in my American zapoi, the wildflowers raze their own
symbolism, they are full tilt remedies for more mediocre
confusions.
badlands poetry 