Don't Listen To The Chorus Of A Swarm Of Bees Poem by Sarah Mkhonza

Don't listen to the chorus of bees
For the notes are not as distinct as
Their sting for their pianoforte is
A flapping of wings that foretells
That the spectacle they are as they
Get within earshot is a suicidal feat
For those who do not know that the
Sting is deadly even to the bees
Themselves.

They say when the buzz comes
It does so with a zing above
Your head. You look up at a
A risk of getting stung right
Above the right eye and when
You turn your neck to get away
Another sting gets you on your
Left.You walk away swollen your
Eyes swollen and tender like those
Of a doll created with mud that
Has a tint of baking powder that
Was carried as pollen and landed
In the wrong place.

The dance tune you hear above you
Announced the end to this
Army on a flight that leaves
Nothing untouched not even a hand
You can use to rub your eyes for
Bees engulf their prey like a
Mummy and render it ready only for
The embalming chamber where one by
One the stings can be pickef
Out at the end of the life of
The mummy you have become.

They call it getting ready to dance
The dance of fools when you start to
Listen to the music of a disc
Jockey on wings. For you never
Live to dance to the stokvel on
Wings. You may call it fate this
Having an uninvited following
That patronises like the age old
Paparazzi. But others call failure
To heed the wisdom of the elders.