Poetry:

The Bees: A Poem by Edgar AllanPooh*
As told to Kelly McCullough
This poem first appeared in Tales of the Unanticipated, (Issue #26)

I

Hear the humming of the hive with the bees—
Busy bees
Leading lives of toil flitting among the flowers and the trees
They thrum thrum thrum
In the quiet afternoon
Tumbling and bumbling they come
To the gladiola and the mum
Mumbling their hummy little tune
Hovering above, ‘bove, ‘bove
The flowers in their love
With their wings softly birthing a warming breeze
From the bees, bees, bees, bees
Bees, bees, bees—
Hanging in the air dancing here and there are the bees

II

Here the harried hurry of the bees
Working bees
Must be making honey to face the winter's freeze
The summer sun is dimming
So pack the combs to brimming
How their charming little buzz
Fill a bear's dreams
With visions that he loves
Of sticky sweetness poured in golden streams
And floating in the breeze
Their airborne harmonies
Sting and tempt and tease
A bears heart to fervid pleas
Of the bees, bees, bees
Of the bees, bees, bees, bees
Bees, bees, bees—
Flying over flowering fields of clover come the bees

*A bear of very little brain but of much mystery and imagination.

Cry Werewolf
This poem first appeared inWeird Tales, Spring 2001 (Issue #323)

Don’t you pity the werewolf’s plight?
A man by day, a beast by night.
Alone in his office cube he waits,
Cursing heaven and the fates.
For they’ve decreed the full moon’s rise,
When he must don his lupine guise,
Is of a month of nights but one.
And it’s only then he’s free to run.
For the office worker’s oft neglected,
While wolves are all by law protected.

The Mourning After the Night of the Living Dead,
Or: Sometimes It Sucks To Be A Vampire
This poem first appeared in Weird Tales, Fall 2002 (Issue #329)

Eternal life ain’t all fun and glory,
Far too often it’s dark and gory.
For I’ve a habit I’ll never lose,
A drinking problem worse than booze.
Many times I’ve tried to quit,
Said, never again, this is it.

But sadly, then I pause and think,
There’s no harm in one final drink.
And all too quickly I’m in trouble,
As my single becomes a double.
In my casket after, I’ll turn and toss,
With dreams of garlic, stake, and cross.

Later, aching head and bloodshot eye
Will leave me wishing that I might die.
But for me, it’s never dust to dust,
For with night’s return, then rise I must,
And fight against my dreadful thirst,
Knowing blood hangovers are the worst.

Poems Copyright © Kelly McCullough 2001-2005. May not be reproduced without the author's permission.