I’ve started a new project: writing poems about interesting local/regional businesses. I think an important and yet underutilized function of art is to shed light on all the wonderful entrepreneurs and business owners we have in the region. A poem is an exercise in creative publicity, a small way to help keep a door open, because without these people and places, Western New York would be a lot less inspirational. Remember, we’re in this together.
Located in Lancaster, I was blown away by LIlly Belle Meads when I stumbled upon it last month. Owned and operated by Patricia and Joe Marshall, Lilly Belle has an intimate tasting room with great vibes, different meads, honey inspired cocktails, and small food plates. Live music on Fridays. They use only WNY honey to make their meads. Check out their website, www.lillybellemeads.com, and enjoy the poem.
Poem for Lilly Belle Meads I’m alone in Lancaster on a Saturday night waiting for nunsense or nonsense, it doesn’t matter whenever you break your habits and start singing I got Lyfted here too quickly though a driver too concerned with fuel efficiency now I gotta kill some time before a musical at the Opera House so I aimlessly turn the corner from Central to W Main and come across Lilly Belle Meads I light up a cigarette and stare at the storefront I’m not an expert, but I know that mead is made by fermenting honey with water, the drink of the gods in Greek mythology given to warriors after a fight to heal their injuries, and I think about how crazy the last couple of years have been, how every one of us is healing from something, and we need all the help we can get bodhisattvas and honeybees teaching us how to taste sweetness again I’m getting good vibes, so I head in it’s cozy, couples having dinner as I sidle up to the bar the bartender has kind eyes, hives of empathy buzzing for a better world sometimes I get ahead of myself, it’s the poet in me so I order a Red Wedding, it’s the Game of Thrones fanatic in me how sometimes a massacre has to happen in order to get the narrative moving what I’m saying is that the bad times don’t last apparently tonight is karaoke night, love songs only it’s funny how things work out the Red Wedding goes down smooth I strike up a conversation with the older gentleman next to me he talks about his divorce, how he plans on singing “Love Stinks” by J. Geils Band, how you love her, but she loves him and he loves somebody else, you just can’t win I order another massacre, 2021 keeps on getting better more safe spaces so everybody keeps on telling their stories suddenly I feel myself floating, as if I’m riding a giant honeybee like something out of Honey, I Shrunk the Kids we’re flying through the sky above Lancaster pollinating all the parked cars with sweetness and tender words so when people get inside, there are tiny uplifting poems taped to the steering wheels, because no matter where you’re going you have to go there with an open heart, the smell of mead as you extend your mouth and talk to all of Western New York maybe I won’t make it to the Opera House tonight