E-Chap two-Nancy Scott McBride



by Nancy Scott



  1. Bees in the Cherry Orchard
  2. Over and out
  3. Ecclesiastical Harlot
  4. Hear Wave
  5. Mother’s Day
  6. Lines
  7. Lines



A soon as the blossoms open, bees

come to gather the precious pollen.

They’re all business, the bees,

working the trees from dawn to dusk

until the petals fade and fall.

When my ears worked better, I could

hear the buzzing from the back porch,

fifteen or twenty feet away. Now I wait

for traffic on the road to slow, then walk out,

stand under the nearest tree, and let the sound

envelope and invade me, not so much hearing as feeling it.

It comes inside and takes me over,

the ecstasy of creatures doing the one

single thing they were born to do.

And in the this way, the ritual

becomes a part of me.

I am the singing and the song,

the humming and the honey.



Better than we,

cell phones know


communication between us

is down.


We punch in numbers and are

sent straight to voice-mail.


We’re on the road and

don’t pick up, or

we’re in the shower and

cannot hear.


Machines receive our calls/cries

and record our sad/mad messages.


Our ears are not in service

at this crucial time, or

have been temporarily

dis   connected.



I was sprinkled as a Presbyterian baby,

then became a Catholic when RFK was shot.

Back in the day I played with pagans,

sat with Sufi’s, chanted with hari krishna’s and

danced with dervishes.

Later on I prayed with Pentecostals,

messed around with Methodists,

quaked with Quakers and was

baptized by a one-legged Baptist.

You get the idea. I was faithless.

For years now I’ve been a musician

in a tiny country church, and here’s

what I think of my checkered past:

All those twists and turns in the road

that so shamed ad embarrassed me?

They were really, all of them,

so help me God, signposts showing

the way to Heaven.



Rising before dawn to do a

Walking Meditation,

I try to repeat Green Planet

with every breath I take.

But brown grass underfoot distracts me,

and Global Warming worries keep

interrupting my chant. My thoughts

are more Revelations than Zen.

Is this it then, I keep wondering,

the point of No Return?

Have we gone and done it,

murdered Mother Earth?



Wearing a blue bikini

and whizzing around the yard

on a rusty old riding mower,

she deftly steers with one strong arm

while the other holds her naked baby

boy on her lap.

A modern-day madonna and child,

making circles and figure eights

under the glorious halo of the sun.



banks of the

trash-strewn stream




raising our cabin-

under the stacks of lumber

mice building their nest



Bio: See my first chapbook, “Eight at the Equinox” here on Cavalcade of Stars.


“Bees in the Cherry Orchard”, “Over and Out”, and “Raising Our Cabin” first appeared in The Camel Saloon.

“Daffodils” was published first in the Plum Tavern and “Ecclesiastical Harlot” appeared first in Cavalcade of Stars.

“Heat Wave” was first published in Vox Poetica