Archive for the ‘Postcard Poetry Project’ Category:

Postcard Poetry Project: Drones

This one goes out to Michelle Castleberry, and is best understood as a response to her fabulous poem, “The Gift.”


The night you stole the hives,

We had gone out—

A thousand of us guys—

One last rollick on the town

Before sampling the delights of our virgin queen.


The girls had fed us ambrosia for days

As they gazed into our compound eyes

And exclaimed at the size of our mandibles.


The queen could hardly wait, they sighed,

Assuring us that every man would have his turn

At ecstasy.


That night, mustered just beyond the apiary,

We boasted how we’d dive like comets

Over her—each one of us was sure

He’d be the first and best to rock her world.


But flying home, a little drunk,

We found the bee house carted off,

The homestead vanished,

Our drowsy queen

An adolescent dream.


And now there’s not a wing

To prove we’ve not imagined our own race—

No buzz in rhododendrons, no

Dancing grace notes on the wind,

Not one sweet treasure left on earth.


Unless it’s true the night you

Spanned the globe and made off

With a million honeyed palaces

You found some best-forgotten mercy

And left a scent the drones could follow.


It’s said that a year’s walk from the horizon

Where lone and level sands stretch far away

A solitary storehouse thrums with bees.


And so we wander,

Stingerless and hungry

For the sight of her—

A thousand consorts, who sweep the barren land

And mourn the kings we might have been.


© Katherine Grace Bond



Postcard Poetry Project: “Frogging”

This month I join a slew of poets who will send a postcard a day with an original poem written on it. This one goes to Lenora Good. The card had a frog on it, so here’s what emerged:


Torpor is another

of the frog’s proficiencies—

that pond-bottom state where

respiration slows and the heart calms.


The work is not yet complete.

Best to dream of a bow pulled

frog to tip and back in two long notes,

so that the frog is both the finish and the start.


Or dream of greatcoats

with knotted rows of fasteners.

Or rue the months of knitting tugged apart,

so that “frogging” is both

attachment and unraveling.


The frog knows this as she burrows deeper—

quiet, so quiet she can hear minnows

gliding above her,

so still she can feel the thrum

of her own story—

a yarn, worthy of beginning again.


© Katherine Grace Bond