"pollen" poems
I want to taste your lips
Laced with your paste
Your flavor I savor with haste
your Amazing Grace graze my face
sweetness of a peach
The fragrance placed a memory
That will remember me the taste
Of your wetness
Your lips drip with
your juice sweet nectar
Ripe fruit with deeperflavor
than it's juice roots
Pedals flush with color
Lips swollen
Attraction potent
Jul 5, 2017
Jul 5, 2017 at 10:27 PM UTC
It was passed from one bird to another,
the whole gift of the day.
The day went from flute to flute,
went dressed in vegetation,
in flights which opened a tunnel
through the wind would pass
to where birds were breaking open
the dense blue air -
and there, night came in.
When I returned from so many journeys,
I stayed suspended and green
between sun and geography -
I saw how wings worked,
how perfumes are transmitted
by feathery telegraph,
and from above I saw the path,
the springs and the roof tiles,
the fishermen at their trades,
the trousers of the foam;
I saw it all from my green sky.
I had no more alphabet
than the swallows in their courses,
the tiny, shining water
of the small bird on fire
which dances out of the pollen.
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It was the twilight of the iguana.
From the rainbow-arch of the battlements,
his long tongue like a lance
sank down in the green leaves,
and a swarm of ants, monks with feet chanting,
crawled off into the jungle,
the guanaco, thin as oxygen
in the wide peaks of cloud,
went along, wearing his shoes of gold,
while the llama opened his honest eyes
on the breakable neatness
of a world full of dew.
The monkeys braided a ******
thread that went on and on
along the shores of dawn,
demolishing walls of pollen
and startling the butterflies of Muzo
into flying violets.
It was the night of the alligators,
the pure night, crawling
with snouts emrging from ooze,
and out the sleepy marshes
the confused noise of scaly plates
returned to the ground where they began.
The jaguar brushed the leaves
with a luminous absence,
the puma runs through the branches
like a forest fire,
while the jungle's drunken eyes
burn from inside him.
The badgers scratch the river's
feet, scenting the nest
whost throbbing delicacy
they attack with red teeth.
And deep in the huge waters
the enormous anaconda lies
like the circle around the earth,
covered with ceremonies of mud,
devouring, religious.
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Dandelions are the most independent flower.
They grow where they want.
No one plants them.
They’re free.
They’re infinite.
I felt infinite picking them in the apple orchard with you.
We were free.
We were infinite.
I couldn't handle my smile watching you,
Rip them out of the earth by the handfuls.
Your face was covered in sunshine and pollen.
It might have been the pollen that resembled sunlight.
Regardless,
You emitted the sun in a way I've never seen before.
I refuse to accept that dandelions are weeds,
Because I want to be a dandelion with you.
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 11:17 PM UTC
Red streaks of thin hair, finely cured,
Sugar-coded skin, sweet yet sticky inside…and then you sniff,
Freshly sliced with soft cries for help, the grass grows,
Dried in the most delightful setting; a miniature shadow of the sun,
The initials share a basketball in one palm-
-The pop from the stereo reflects the ripple of a king-
-----------------------0----------------------------0-------------------------
A complete package within, once the engine has revved- the liftoff-
Find yourself inside of her powers; the majestic magic maneuvers the mind,
Mend many memories and flick the switch on the motionless projector,
Guilty pleasures please the people and protect peaceful guidance,
Keep close the cultivation of a captivating lover-
-She will rise in your soul like helium in the lungs-
--------------------0--------------------0--------------------
She, who I breathe for, calls my name; forever entering the cave,
I broke off a chunk of everything she has grown to be,
Crumbled, chalk-like pollen, piles into mounds of distraction,
I set flame to the lone match and touch the wick- a silent sway-
She burns, her hair still a fiery-ruby blend, but like all living expectation-
-The ash separates and with the wind…she performs flips-
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 3:44 PM UTC
We fall,
and hard,
and in the shadows,
***** ourselves on snags,
that tear our clothes;
grazed and cut,
we stagger on -
Impressions, ideas, fancies!
Of these have we been disabused.
But is this spring,
come again?
Lovely,
yesterday,
in the bright sunlight,
to see you,
felt green hat in among the photo clouds,
apple suedes on the gallery's dank floor.
Melvyn,
and I,
merrily circling with you the light cloud images,
my nostrils full of pollen spikes.
The pictures:
wisps of trailing dreams churning in ‘scapes of infinite blue;
dark clouds,
in amongst them,
too.
Photographs in two time places
caught;
at once, all:
the other and t'other.
So excitement swells,
and everything besides us quells,
because the knowing of itself,
knows,
and dares beyond the frames;
to skirt knowingly the unsaid;
to want beyond the wounded past,
to pull things,
once again,
inside out.
In whimsy’s currents flow these thoughts,
these feelings,
these drives;
swirling in eddies,
so that as you sit,
on a summer’s day,
it moves,
a mirror to everything above.
The wavelets on the surface,
hammered into shape,
burn, bite and dazzle;
the sun’s flames leaping and dancing on ripples.
In the basement,
on the concrete,
your Y proneness shifts,
releasing knees on black-clad thighs;
two pendulums swinging,
brushing;
yawing metronomes in the cool,
coolness of my desultory thoughts.
Oh, what am I saying?
Feelings like reveries walk along these silver lips straying languorously.
These myths are too soon made,
carried one to the next,
one-on-one,
until contained no longer,
become new truths.
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 8:40 PM UTC
you
not the flower but
the bee kissing
rosebuds, making
living things
bloom
you
no sunrise on
mountains but
the sun
herself, every
flame burning fierce
sploding gainst
the sky
you
not an ocean but
a stream softly
babbling
and rescuing
us,
the lonely
the lost
you
not forever
but tragically
temporary
and every
moment
you are here
i will be
what i am -
the pollen,
the planets,
the wanderer,
the poet -
dedicated to
loving
you
Dec 8, 2019
Dec 8, 2019 at 12:54 PM UTC
Through the country paths, I lazily loitered,
watching Nature in its changing hue
straying farther into the interiors,
sundry and sublime vistas came into view.
in response to zephyr’s warm embrace,
the silvery leaves joyously fluttered.
the bees busied themselves collecting pollen
and birds on tree tops merrily chattered
it was the *** end of verdant spring.
summer’s sun stood behind my head.
bleat of sheep was heard from far.
‘Good day to you’….. Someone said.
There stood on the hill, a boy around fifteen
obviously he was of tribal breed.
with a beaming smile, he greeted me
but on walking to him, he ran like a steed
I saw him disappear behind the trees
and enter into a hut tiny as a nest
he lived in the lap of Mother Nature,
far from the city and its sooty dust
being coaxed, he hesitantly came out.
my tone of assurance and pleasing smile,
seemed to have won his confidence
as to a friend, he shared his eventful tale.
pointing to the sheep grazing in the slope,
he said, he earned a living caring the flock.
he stayed in the woods all day long,
feeding and tending his master’s sheep.
from dawn to dusk, through woods and meads,
he leads his sheep, calling them by their name.
un vexed, with simple pleasures he is content
and with a nomad’s life, he seems to be tame
he said, at home he has his invalid mother.
bringing her back to health is his mission in life
on referring to his mother, I watched his eyes glitter
nothing other than her illness posed to him a strife
from every utterance, I could sense his filial love.
even in abundance, while shadows line many faces,
on his visage, hope lingered as a dancing flame
to me he seemed above many, rich in other graces!
While parting, I handed him a little money
pausing unbelievably, with moist eyes
he accepted it, when a breeze passed caressing us
as if over a kind gesture, Nature seemed to rejoice!
May 29, 2018
May 29, 2018 at 9:23 AM UTC
Two girls there are : within the house
One sits; the other, without.
Daylong a duet of shade and light
Plays between these.
In her dark wainscoted room
The first works problems on
A mathematical machine.
Dry ticks mark time
As she calculates each sum.
At this barren enterprise
Rat-shrewd go her squint eyes,
Root-pale her meager frame.
Bronzed as earth, the second lies,
Hearing ticks blown gold
Like pollen on bright air. Lulled
Near a bed of poppies,
She sees how their red silk flare
Of petaled blood
Burns open to the sun's blade.
On that green alter
Freely become sun's bride, the latter
Grows quick with seed.
Grass-couched in her labor's pride,
She bears a king. Turned bitter
And sallow as any lemon,
The other, wry ****** to the last,
Goes graveward with flesh laid waste,
Worm-husbanded, yet no woman.
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Smell of lilacs bloom
to no end—a nebulous glow of
purple, perfect, and unperturbed—your
poem of lilies with caution tape
snug in my backpack—
your pollen hundreds of miles
away—a firebrick orange
sung again and again. A cotton
blow unlike anything colorful
—a white puff of dandruff before
the rain—a bouquet for
your spring stitched
stem by stem.
Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 2:07 PM UTC
Breathless
You leave me
On a fine day
In the hot summer
Craving
Yearning for
A cool breeze
You’re majestic
A flower petal
Beautiful and sweet
The nectar
The pollen
In the summers heat
In the yard
Sunbathing
Soaking in the sun
Lemonade
And ice
Dancing on my tongue
Birds chirping
Bees buzzing
Bright and green
And blue
Heat wave
On a Sunday afternoon
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 4:37 AM UTC
She had hung it up from the mantelpiece in her bedroom, so when he entered the room there it was. It was suddenly lovely and he immediately imagined her body flowing into it, flowing from it. Standing close to the dress he brought his fingers to the fabric, touched gently, stroking then, as though it already held her form and substance.
Stepping past thoughts of her that so stirred his body he entered the pattern of the dress. It was a meadow in southern Ontario. July, when already the sun had bleached the profusion of grasses: water chestnut and papyrus sedge. He had stepped from the untidy veranda, past the pond, and down the rough track between the fields unmown, uncut, left fallow. As he entered the breaks of woodland between these swathes of grassland, deciduous leaves, dry and brittle from the summer's heat, were strewn on the path, and between the trees clumps of bramble bushes with berries of red and blue, black and purple.
There was no wind. The only sounds an underlay of crickets, his footfall, and the sharp mournful cries of geese on the now distant pond.
He saw her like an apparition standing motionless at the woodland’s boundary; her dress at one with all that surrounded her. When he came close and placed his hand on her shoulder he could smell the sweet dry earth mingling with her body's sweat, a hint of her *** as he placed his cheek against the shower of printed pollen amongst the leaves on her back.
Back in the late afternoon bedroom he heard her move about in the kitchen, and the spell broken, he turned away and went downstairs.
Several days later, as they prepared for bed, she slipped the dress on. As she stood in the lamplight smoothing it against her flanks, adjusting its fall across her ******* he felt himself faint that such a thing of beauty could be a joy forever . . . and beyond.
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 4:55 AM UTC
Wake me when spring has sprung
when the cold is gone,
and skies no longer gray.
Rouse me with the cries of birds
a warm wind blown my way
and a green light in the shade.
Dress me in the blooming buds,
Let butterflies be my lips,
And raindrops as my eyes.
Replace my heart with a shining star
And fill my head with a soft white cloud.
Drip the shine of morning in my veins
And I'll have the fresh green grass for my hair.
Take my bones for branches.
Make my tears have a honey-suckle taste.
My breath would be the pollen sifting through the air.
Take me from my sleeping ground
And lay me in the fresh cold stream.
Wake me when spring is sprung,
But until then, I'm going to sleep.
Dec 17, 2012
Dec 17, 2012 at 10:50 AM UTC
pressed against a gentle river of bedsheets
falling loose from the mattress with every wave
to finally intertwine in the rythym of our heartbeats
i cannot help being depraved, as each motion makes me crave
"adore me, adore me, all that much, and more"
i plead, i cry, and his hands overwhelm mine
"a pretty little thing, obedient and kind, perfect for a *****
as long as he gives me attention, all will be fine
all he's ever shown is the blushing red of kisses and bites
and all he's ever known is a cruel kind of rational
but even with all the flowers he gives, he never seems to fight
and it all seems to decay into something entirely foul
im done with the suffocating scent of amaryllis that i let fill my arteries
the sweet sticky pollen that tightens my throat so i can no longer breathe
Jan 3, 2023
Jan 3, 2023 at 9:19 PM UTC
What did you say to me?
How did you say to be?
Scent of the flowers sweet,
I fell off the path; the beat.
Metamorphoses buzzing creep.
Bumblebee, Bumblebee
Nectar pollen and wiggle-dance,
Tear off the shirt and pants,
Without it I’m incomplete,
Rotting in self-defeat,
Awashed in a wild sea,
Bumblebee, Bumblebee
Buzzin’ so high and flyin’
Honeycomb drunken Mayan,
Falling west, rising east,
The party will not surcease,
While I am the Bumble-beast!
Bumblebee, Bumblebee
I am the Bumblebee,
Bumblebee, Bumblebee
I am the Bumblebee
The flight it takes off and from,
As flowers of life become,
Praying up to the Sun,
What am I imagining? (image-gen-nun)
August vino de lum
Bumblebee, Bumblebee
Bumblebee, Bumblebee
I am the Bumblebee,
Bumblebee, Bumblebee
I am the Bumblebee
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 5:07 PM UTC
The scent of the pollen allured her, hanging in the still air of the morning. She would stop in her travel and visit each flower that she found. The precious nectar oozed from deep within the petals and she would thirstily drink at each one. She would gently land in the scented shade of each blossom and coax the precious nourishment from it. She never gorged, but rather drank from each flower what it was willing to give. Some were full and over ripe and bursting with the honeyed juice. Others had a smaller treasure, but she would drink lovingly of their gift leaving them an offering of pollen as a thanks. Her small, delicate tongue would gently lick and probe the recesses of the flower hunting the sweetness inside. The pollen on her coat would touch with the very deepest innards of the bloom and enter its very core. Her gift, as she suckled each part, was imparted into the scented womb of the softly petaled blossom. Each flower awaited her coming and spread wide it’s scented opening for her to enter. Their swollen pistils would be gorged with the potential for life and their gently glistening stamens would tempt her to feed on their sticky juices. The soft buzzing of her wings caressed the delicate parts of the fragrant blooms with a gentle breeze as she drank her sustenance. She sheltered in the colored shade of petals, hung round her like colored sheets, as she took what each one had to offer. When she was done she would move on to the next, slowly and deliberately milking the juice of life from each one. Every flower needed her and each one did what it could to tempt her in. Some threw heavy fragrance into the air so she could catch their scent while others bared their large and swollen glands so she could see their abundance. She traveled from bloom to bloom, sometimes enticed by the shaded shelter, and other times the sight of glistening pollen. But she fed on each one, large and small, and in each one she left her gift. The pollen that she carried would be imparted on each ***** stamen as she fed. The glistening end of the shaft was soft and sticky and waiting for the pollen that would carry on its life. While she fed each day, there was a gardener who tended to her plants. He took gentle care of them, weeding and pruning and tending to their needs. The flowers that she fed on were his future sustenance and he tended her as well. He would follow her sometimes through his garden and watch as she gently buzzed from plant to plant. She was used to his watchful eyes as he watched her drink from each bloom. He knew that his crop depended on her and he would peer into the bedding of petals as she caressed the sweetness from each one with her tongue. Her long tongue would probe deep into the recesses of the fragrant flower and find every drop of nectar. The gardener watched as she carried on the cycle of life for him and would wait for days to see the swollen fruits of her labor burgeoning from his plants. When she left each flower satisfied with their delicious treat, she would fly off to the next, not knowing that a seed would be swelling in the gorged pistil that she just left. And so it went as the bee buzzed her life away every day. The gardener would be there among his carefully tended crops, watching and waiting as she moved among the flowers. His gaze would follow her as she traveled through the foliage and landed amongst the blooms. Every day he would watch as she coaxed the sweet nectar from each one and left her gift in return.
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 2:03 PM UTC
At dusk I hang up
a worn blue work
shirt that smells
strongly of love
of dirt of the earth
melancholy, sweat
yesterday's brews
the blues, regret
twenty cigarettes
black breath
of the bone moth
old blood, moon dust
spring pollen, summer
grass, Autumnal ****
winter's cold blast
sea salt and pine needles
mountain laurel, desert air
my dog's hair, I swear
I can't bear the thought
of washing or throwing away
all the stains, the growing pains
the laughter, the sorrows
these history lessons I need
to get me through tomorrow.
Jul 29, 2017
Jul 29, 2017 at 7:58 AM UTC
The fairys laugh in their play-
letting the sugary pollen flutter onto pale lashes,
with their pixie dust drifting into the darkest of ashes.
I'm going to lay back down,
Amongst the fleeting flowers.
For I swore I saw the remedy,
Hidden with in your golden heart.
Alast, I could have it wrong.
Was it not you, who dare to tell me, "be brave".
But is it not your spent heart,
at her feet as the blackest of ashes.
Glittering fairy dust, could not hide the ruins.
For evils wicked had already been undone.
A curse; a curse, upon your wretch soul.
Sweep the cinders in a coffer-
Lock them under key,
Cover your tracks.
Hide the way.
I forgive thee:
I do, I really do.
But please, my love.
Leave.
For if not, she will find ye--
And it will hurt only me.
Hurry forth now, The witch sends her huntsman.
The howls, I hear them dancing on the winds.
Run.
Do not look back.
But please, my dearest of dears, forget me.
As I have forgiven you--
Now go: A thousands I loves you.
Leave me be.
Sep 26, 2012
Sep 26, 2012 at 8:59 PM UTC
Amnesia like leaky faucets swollen drain ventilates vapid powdered portrait
At least smiled.
Blood slightly warmed manicure and smiled in forgotten garden
Such lovely font. All wanted
Mini clouds surrounding shrines backlit green in ritual.
Smiles speak but of the wet smell of pollen and the sweat collecting in his hand behind the small of her uncrushed spine.
Curing chlamydia the straight—A fairytale. Conned alive, clumsily and bitter.
Nurtured cotton uprooted attempt. Scrubbed stains to shreds
Not even the green light merely aftermath so of course when shaking egg shells sheltering in “cold hands warm heart” chests receive the song I sing but never knew
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 4:40 PM UTC
Goodbye wasps
Goodbye bees
Goodbye pollen from the trees
Goodbye midges
Goodbye flies
Goodbye scorching cloudless skies
Goodbye seagulls
Goodbye ants
Goodbye sunbathers in tiny pants
Goodbye sunburn
Goodbye oiled skin
Goodbye iced drinks laced with gin
Goodbye tourists
Goodbye throngs
Goodbye men wearing sarongs
Goodbye hosepipe
Goodbye lawn mower
Welcome to the noisy leaf blower
Hello Autumn
Hello cool bright day
Hello rolling around in the hay
Hello harvest
Hello fruits
Hello hiking in hiking boots
Hello warm colours
Hello warm hearts
Good riddance Summer
Autumn starts
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 4:07 AM UTC
In beauty may I walk.
All day long may I walk.
Through the returning seasons may I walk.
Beautifully will I possess again.
Beautifully birds . . .
Beautifully joyful birds
On the trail marked with pollen may I walk.
With grasshoppers about my feet may I walk.
With dew about my feet may I walk.
With beauty may I walk.
With beauty before me, may I walk.
With beauty behind me, may I walk.
With beauty above me, may I walk.
With beauty below me, may I walk.
With beauty all around me, may I walk.
In old age wandering on a trail of beauty, lively, may I walk.
In old age wandering on a trail of beauty, living again, may I walk.
It is finished in beauty.
It is finished in beauty.
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 3:43 AM UTC
Oh God!, How She Can Be That Good
For One Look, You Should Ask Time To Hold
To Find Yourself Traveling Along, I Stood
I Looked At Her So Long As Far As I Could
How Mad I Was, And She Changed My Mood
Just One Of The Kind, Stands On The Ladyhood
Then Took Another Look, As Just As Fair As It Would
To Fall In Such Amazing Chill, And Froze My Blood
Something I Can't Deny But I Really Understood
Such Perfection Is A Creation Of The Hands Of God
A Beautiful Rose More Sweetly Than Our Rhyme:
Words Won't Be Fair, They're Just That Lame
Even The Words Got Jealous, What A Shame
That Rose Is A Diffirent Level , Just A Sublime
She Leaves Her Footprints On The Field Of Time
As Great Goes The Heaven, She Does The Same
The One Second Of Staring Goes On Overtime
Goes Wild On The Clock, And Hard To Tame
She's That Much Of Love And Fire aflame
Such Green Blows Hope On The Eyes
A Beauty Perfume Cuddle The Skies
As Symmetry World, Keeps You Free
To Keep You Around And Never Flee
Hold It So Soft, If You Really Dare?
In Such Open World, Hearts aspire
Such Soft Skin, Is Not To Share
She Threw Her Thorns If You Care
Looking At Different Shooting Stars
I Think The World Will Keep It Live
Her Pollen Falling On The Town
One Blink To Fall On It Now
I Should Hold On My Beats
Breaking Down Over My Knees
In Our World Submit The Mind
To Move Smoothly With The Wind
She Said She Will Tear Us Apart
To Change World And All The Fate
Just Go Straight With The Light
Through The Shadow And The Night
Is That A Dream Or Something Clear
It Feels Like Something Heavens Wear
On Our Shallow Fulminatory Souls
Swallow Us In Red Romantic Cords
To Drop Some Tiny Drops On The Sea
Something We Had To Pay As A Fee
Another Drop From The Blood
For Another Chance We Can't Hold
To Breath The Lungs As We Could
She Is That Pretty And That Good
She Spread Her Joy And So Much Of Love
WIth One Message Of Peace With A Dove
Author : Aladdin Aures Hamdi
Please click on + below and add the poem in your collections
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 5:58 PM UTC
When we were far
and very young, in a place with no roads to follow
only a winding path, a branch to grasp
a place to fill the hollow
Blue the summer, with drowsy daisies came
petals, petals, we drew circles round the sun
gold spun, our halo heads of pollen
gold the bees of sleepy flowers
amid clover grass heaven
Days we lived deep in hills
we were endless green, in unmapped countries
stretching past the farms afield, in other worlds
too far to see, we lived beyond the gray of days
and we were free, in the shining silver
of our hallowed hills of ever.
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 12:27 PM UTC
"How does a flower move"
When wind does not blow,
Stalk
Petals
Pollen
Released, sprinkled
Upon the ground below,
Does it dance for the sun
Energy
Food
Nourishment
From above and below
People ask
"How does a flower move"
"When wind does not blow"
"Simple"
Its worms tickling its
Gentle roots, many tickling in one go,
Its pollen falling is its laughter
Seeding the floor below
So when you see
Trees
Bushes
Flowers
Gyrating, moving with out wind,
Know its those naughty playful worms
Slithering, tickling there sensitive roots below..
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 11:10 AM UTC
When the tale of the kite wraps itself around your neck,
And yet continues to fly, freely
You should now know that freedom to one comes at a cost to the other.
But you must wonder, as Jupiter and Zeus watch this storm,
that leaves nothing more than dust in their eyes;
It's funny how kites are a symbol of freedom when they are actually tied to a glass-coated cotton string.
The same cotton, that another boy who looks directly into your eyes could have worn.
It's funny how when one side of the coin is painted in platinum
and the other side struggles to know whether it's still a coin with value as it is being corroded.
Yes, they were one coin. Once.
The tulip blooms fade before the foliage dies,
every flower that dies is not reborn
But on the land it does, is.
When the flower is no more,
the green stem still remains.
But did the flower die from the wasp
that stung its nectar and perhaps even the pollen
or did it die from the feet that stepped upon
because they were inside the duststorm that disallows them to look at the ground.
Do all flowers that die are reborn?
How many flowers can one wasp even sting?
How many times can you stomp over one flower until it has no petals but only your footprints?
As you wonder,
The tail of the kite has been detached from its throne,
You look, as you wonder, if this is freedom or that was.
And another Hassan chases it yet again.
Aug 16, 2021
Aug 16, 2021 at 3:16 PM UTC