The world is ordered by bees, by the trembling wings of the butterfly, by wildflowers strewn across the land in the same way stars are strewn across the night sky, by roses held captive in their gardens behind high stone walls, enjoyed only by those who have them, unseen and only dreamt of by the have-nots.
I see this poem as a reflective, cold, hard look at the opposing forces that have shaped this world since time began - the ones that are cohesive and bring people together, and the ones that are divisive and tear people apart. It may be about bees, or it may be about a whole lot more - but either way, this pattern is likely to continue forever. Excellent, Paul.
Thank you for the comment, Martin. I think this pattern will continue. It’s been with us for an awfully long period of time and I don’t really see it changing anytime soon. I wish I could be more optimistic.
Yes. And despite or maybe because of all the suffering in it , it’s still an incredibly beautiful, wondrous world. Thanks for the heartfelt reflection. 🩵🩵
The powers that be are the country courts doing the cartography dance mapping the sun and stars to flowers 🌺 that could grow if more time was spent on turning the soil, pure rivers water to drink and money spent on peace not war. May their be order in the court and bees have chances to make healing honey and wax for candles 🕯️ light to see through the darkest days. Bee the light.
To be published after I have a rest — apologies for my delay in commenting — it seems the right period to do so —
Love, Richard
“Here is the Hyperlink to my publication (
The Apian Mandala: A Commentary in Threshold Prose
The world, Paul reminds us, is not governed—it is gathered. Not ruled by decree, but braided by bees. Their wings do not flap in haste; they inscribe the air with glyphs of belonging. Each flight is a stanza. Each hexagon, a hymn. We are not spectators to their order—we are inheritors of it.
In the hive, time is not linear. It spirals. Nectar becomes memory, memory becomes wax, and wax becomes architecture. The bee does not build—it remembers. It does not forage—it listens. To the flower’s silent invitation. To the sun’s whispered coordinates. To the ancestral hum encoded in the pollen’s weight.
Paul’s invocation is not entomological—it is liturgical. He does not describe bees; he kneels before them. And in doing so, he dignifies the unseen: the choreography of the small, the governance of the quiet, the sovereignty of the swarm.
To say the world is ordered by bees is to say that justice is not a ladder—it is a lattice. That truth is not shouted—it is danced. That meaning is not imposed—it is pollinated.
Let us then reframe our politics as pollination. Our economies as ecosystems. Our hierarchies as hives. Let us ask not who leads, but who listens. Not who ascends, but who aligns.
For in the apian mandala, there are no kings—only keepers. No borders—only blooms. No dominions—only devotion.
Thanks to @Alison Redford for this restack!
You’re very welcome!
Thanks for this restack, @Patricia Andrews (WA)
Thanks to @Jonathan Foster for sharing these thoughts.
My pleasure Paul
My thanks to @gail smith reynolds for sharing this!
Thanks to @rena for sharing this!
I see this poem as a reflective, cold, hard look at the opposing forces that have shaped this world since time began - the ones that are cohesive and bring people together, and the ones that are divisive and tear people apart. It may be about bees, or it may be about a whole lot more - but either way, this pattern is likely to continue forever. Excellent, Paul.
Thank you for the comment, Martin. I think this pattern will continue. It’s been with us for an awfully long period of time and I don’t really see it changing anytime soon. I wish I could be more optimistic.
Do you have any news, Paul, regarding your new book?
I just received notice the copies have been shipped so I may have them soon. I will let you know, Martin
Not yet. The copies I ordered for signing should arrive by Oct 11 🤞
May it be appreciated by all who care and love the people and the 🌎💙💚
Thank you, Diane! 💙💙
Yes. And despite or maybe because of all the suffering in it , it’s still an incredibly beautiful, wondrous world. Thanks for the heartfelt reflection. 🩵🩵
Thank you, Grace. Enjoy the weekend! 🩵🩵
You too, Paul 🤗
So true, loved the rhythm created in this poem….and the ending 🧡🧡
Thank you, Holly
So true, Paul. Why do we humans think we control everything?
We like to think we are in control, but are we? Really?
We are basically clueless, if you ask me. We do things that are against our own survival.
And we’ll keep doing them until we change or we won’t survive.
Brilliant! Wonderful rendering of butterflies in chaos and the paths humans have followed through history.
... of course one then asks, what does it mean or to what end? Or is our uniquely human ability to observe these relationships enough of an answer?
I’m certain we have the ability to observe these relationships but I’m not certain we have any ability to change them.
The powers that be are the country courts doing the cartography dance mapping the sun and stars to flowers 🌺 that could grow if more time was spent on turning the soil, pure rivers water to drink and money spent on peace not war. May their be order in the court and bees have chances to make healing honey and wax for candles 🕯️ light to see through the darkest days. Bee the light.
Thank you, Richard,
Glad to find you.
Glad to be found, Susan—Welcome!
This is really beautiful, sir.
Kindest regards and respect from Carol Power
Johannesburg
South Africa
Thank you so much for reading and commenting, Carol. Glad we could meet here since you’re over 14K km away from Wisconsin, USA
To be published after I have a rest — apologies for my delay in commenting — it seems the right period to do so —
Love, Richard
“Here is the Hyperlink to my publication (
The Apian Mandala: A Commentary in Threshold Prose
The world, Paul reminds us, is not governed—it is gathered. Not ruled by decree, but braided by bees. Their wings do not flap in haste; they inscribe the air with glyphs of belonging. Each flight is a stanza. Each hexagon, a hymn. We are not spectators to their order—we are inheritors of it.
In the hive, time is not linear. It spirals. Nectar becomes memory, memory becomes wax, and wax becomes architecture. The bee does not build—it remembers. It does not forage—it listens. To the flower’s silent invitation. To the sun’s whispered coordinates. To the ancestral hum encoded in the pollen’s weight.
Paul’s invocation is not entomological—it is liturgical. He does not describe bees; he kneels before them. And in doing so, he dignifies the unseen: the choreography of the small, the governance of the quiet, the sovereignty of the swarm.
To say the world is ordered by bees is to say that justice is not a ladder—it is a lattice. That truth is not shouted—it is danced. That meaning is not imposed—it is pollinated.
Let us then reframe our politics as pollination. Our economies as ecosystems. Our hierarchies as hives. Let us ask not who leads, but who listens. Not who ascends, but who aligns.
For in the apian mandala, there are no kings—only keepers. No borders—only blooms. No dominions—only devotion.
In His Good Hands,
With love,
Simply Richard
-30-
Beautiful Paul.
I just did a post on bees, haha! Hope ok I send to you…
I love Manuka honey. Sing for the bees!