Bee Ridge Bees

Benjamin McFadden
was a man who loved bees
But they didn't like New Jersey
with six months of deep freeze

So he stayed in his room
out on cold highway three
and by flashlight and candle
read his beloved books on Bees

He read and he dreamed,
through storms and through snow
bare blankets and blizzards,
the grey and the cold

On days the sun showed
which was really hardly never
it was frosty and thin
like no sun whatever

If I stay here, he thought,
I might get psychotic
Or run in to my neighbors
and need antibiotics

I'll freeze like a mole,
if I don't get out of here soon
By horse or by cart,
by foot or balloon

He was sick of the slush,
grey snow and salt powder
A New England world
with naught but clam chowder

He searched all his books
seeking locations
A prisoner escape
to a new destination

He found an old drawing
by a scribe named Mercator
A map of the tropics,
down near the equator

The Spanish had found it
el oro and more
With tall ships they landed
on sandy-beached shores

He saw a town on the map
named for the daughter
Of Soto, the soldier
in turquoise blue waters

And bees, oh the bees,
feasting for hours
on grapefruits and oranges
and lemon citrus flowers

So he bundled his books
into a sack
Blew out his candle and looked toward the tracks
fled out the door and never came back

He jumped from the train
near I-seventy-five
and started his search
for bees and bee hives

Under El Sol,
Benjamin's condition
healed and improved
in the Bee expedition

He worked and he toiled
And learned from the farmers
Of queens and their workers
And Conquistador armor

On the palmetto
across the savannah
Benji McFadden
soaked his bandana

In scrub and in sawgrass
he baked and he steamed
And he scrimped and he saved
for his bee dream

Now, high on a ridge,
overlooking a lake
With citrus and scrub
and sky blue opaque

Stands Benjamin with boxes,
vertical and dripping
With sweet sticky honey,
which he soon will be shipping

Back to the north,
a reverse of his trip
Back on the rails,
squeaky and slick

A black iron beast
A snow pirate ship
Would transport his honey
All in one trip

But he would stay here,
up on Bee Ridge
With his books and his bees
And his bright honey tins

And he'd thank them all here
Calusas and Spanish
for holding this paradise
without which he'd vanish

Then, on the soft citrus breeze
in the place of his dreams
he'd sit and he'd listen
to his beloved Bee Ridge bees

*****