Fifties Music

by Leslie Monsour

While women sip their daiquiries by the pool,
and men blow smoke into the jacarandas,
the radio plays "Fly Me to the Moon."

A child nearby, on finding a dead bee,
conducts its funeral in petunia beds,
as ants are trying to amputate a wing.

But even thought the bee is dead, it stings
her fiercely on the palm, and dies again.
She studies her small hand in disbelief.

Some fathers offer ice cubes from their highballs,
the station plays "Volare," and the bee
swings up to heaven on its single wing.


  1. Ooh, do tell. Are you one of those blondies in the picture? All are adorable.

    My mother absolutely was ga-ga over Dean Martin. It used to make my step-father kinda mad when she'd swoon over Martin's TV show. This clip is a classic; thanks!

  2. What an interesting photographic/poetic image of a time lost in history.

  3. Love the Deanster's voice--so smooth, and of course, love these songs from the background of my childhood.

    The photo is not of me. Couldn't find any credits for it. I do have some great old photographs/Polaroids:>) in albums and boxes, but don't know how to get them onto my site. I desperately need a tutorial from HoneyHaired. Maybe I can barter for her expertise--shoes for information!

  4. What a strong visual that poem creates. You always manage to get me so excited about poetry.

  5. I loved the original Rat Pack. Dean Martin could sing a song, couldn't he? My favorite was Blue Eyes, but Dean was pretty special.

  6. I was there - with the bee - in the petunias.

    Catching up and I am at a loss for words over the poetry and visuals you have put out here.

    The loss of your neighbour makes me think of my own mortality. I don't know what to say really. I guess just the truth of it is all.

  7. My grandparents loved Dean Martin, and I think in many ways he is the most intriguing member of the rat pack. Great poem!

  8. Well, this is a coincidence...I have a link to Dino singing "That's Amore" on one of my recent posts. This Blogosphere realm is almost incestuous! Maybe we can bring back poodle skirts while we're at it. Sorry if I'm a bit incoherent, it's martini time.

  9. Cringe . . . Mr. B tells tales of his parents hosting parties just like in the poem. He couldn't sleep the nights before big football games with all the racket and smoke. There must have been some of that going on in my abode as well. I am so rat packish it's pathetic. That's basically all I listen to on when I'm working.

  10. Ahhhhh.. I love the melancholy of memory. This post has it all, in huge dollops.... !... cheers!


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