"pollinates" poems
From my mute mouth pours the emotions and exaggerated feelings of a once precious time constraint love. From the peddle touch of your masculine being evokes the insurmountable lust to be touched more and more like the tease of a honey bee that passionately ***** and pollinates the delicate flower bud until it screams in the wave of the wind, but now left not so naïve and innocent I like the flower am left to bud and bloom without my once precious time constraint loved…
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 11:51 PM UTC
My heart yearns for an adventure
For a strange and rare venture
Oblivious of the tons of dangers
For in adventures I ain’t a stranger
For I would relieve childhood years
That I spent with my little peers.
An adventure in distant lands
Where the children play with wet sands.
And dolphins jump out of water
When the noon sun makes the ocean hotter.
Where the fisherman yaw his boat
To capture all the salmon afloat.
An adventure by the oasis in the Sahara desert
Where Tuaregs sit by the cactus to eat dessert.
And watch as scorpions prey on lizards
To feast on their gizzards.
I want day sun to warm my smooth skin
And the night cold to shiver my crude chin.
An adventure cuddling cold snow on my hand
Where the icy pillars in their majesty stand.
And make a cave of snow
Strong to stand when wind blow.
Then I will scare the polar bear
That my cave like a paper wants to tear.
An adventure on the corn field
When in summer the flowers yield
When the butterflies pollinates the corns
And the farmer weeds out the thorns
I want to watch the corn spring to life
When the early rain is rife
An adventure across the sky in a plane
And watch as daylight slowly wane.
I want to leave a route on the sky
That in the future I would still ply.
Then immortalize my name in the cloud
That dark clouds in their anger cannot shroud.
An adventure deep in the amazon woods
When the purple squirrel burrow for food.
Where the monkey sway their tails
And red roses litter narrow trails.
I want to watch the ants builds their mounds
As the ripe mangoes fall on the ground.
An adventure that will lead to places
Leaving on all its paths my traces.
Permanents prints that will last
Even when my life like history is past.
And my adventure would be told as a tale
That like time will not stale.
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 8:04 AM UTC
Mornings are wet
sun peaks behind dark clouds
harsh winds blow
tree leaves sing
bees pollinates nature
flowers blossom free
frozen petals question Spring
why Winter refuses to leave
It holds the seasons hostage
with warm days and cold nights
and the earth caught in between
~Butterfly εїз 2014©
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 8:21 AM UTC
These words are like
flower petals strewn across
a forgotten floor.
A contrast in a desolate space,
but chew them,
examine them, love them
and see their origins
birthed in poison.
They escape from their captor's
skin through long trailing tendrils
of ink
much in the way
the ***** pollinates the flower
and is never seen again,
much in the way the words are warped
by alliteration and savagely
captive in metaphors
like they belong in a simile
like they belong under the skin
the way a past made up of
a universe
can never quite make
anything whole again.
They don't quite belong in a
barren place such as this,
but can never move,
for their venomous
cover would surely taint
all that is green and
full of life.
And if a wind, a breeze,
should lift them from
their resting place upon the floor,
they would surely float and dance
along,
in all normality,
in all the ways they should,
and will wither
and shed their toxic pieces
along the way
to cause coughing, sneezing,
and noses ****** like the watering can
that sprouted these
heinous flowers.
And they will fall
again.
Apr 12, 2017
Apr 12, 2017 at 10:20 PM UTC
I have created this fire flower,
blue, just for your visual pleasure.
It sprouts from the cloth ground,
electric stems reach out to touch
a vacant sky.
For you, my dear
this flower pollinates
the cloth soil with small
blue flames where more
fire flowers will sprout,
all of their electric stems
reaching for the sky.
Soon, my dear
their smoke will
combine, forming clouds
in the sky,
shaped like rabbits chasing tigers.
And for you, my dear,
these clouds run
into a cave, at the edge
of this wondrous burning garden
where a single pearl dwells.
But this is no ordinary pearl,
nay, this round, virtuous gem
knows everything;
secrets to all worlds from the smallest
of atoms inspired by your eyes
to the ancient languages
first known to this world’s civilizations
where I learned words
that mean more than just
“beauty,” “magnificent”
& “vibrant”
just for you,
my dear.
Dec 14, 2011
Dec 14, 2011 at 7:19 PM UTC
Heart break is the seed that
pollinates from chest to chest.
So it should not come as a surprise when
a crimson rose blossoms behind the sternum
with a wealth of thorns surrounding it.
Evolution has dictated that
If anyone comes too close,
they will get pricked in the process.
A subtle form of protection, but also a warning.
A "Come no further than this."
---
The thing about roses is that
they are capable of self pollinating.
Sometimes we just do this to ourselves.
We get off to our own misery,
and as crude as that sounds,
for a lot of us,
that has been the truth.
A broken heart can only protect itself
the best way it knows how, but
when did protection become repression?
It is too easy for the same thorns that defend the rose
to become its own enemy, choking the flower
out of the nutrients it needs.
We can justify all we want that
if somebody truly wanted to pick us first
to put us first,
then they should be able to withstand
a little pain to reach us...
And some do,
but should that be the standard,
to hurt someone and see if they stay?
That is how cross pollination occurs.
We **** around and hurt people
by refusing vulnerability
that is owed to them.
And after all the ********
the other person can heal
and grow stronger from the experience,
or the rose they have wilts
and a new one blooms in its place,
one that contains undesirable characteristics
that would not have existed if
we had just loved openly in the first place.
Heart break should not beget heart break...
Why do roses symbolize love anyway?
Apr 1, 2018
Apr 1, 2018 at 4:54 PM UTC
For whom do bees flutter?
Wandering aimlessly,
Pollinates every flower,
To keep the hive by the hour.
For whom do lions hunt?
Prowling beneath the green,
With life and limb to risk,
To feed the cubs who frisk.
For whom do oxen stand firm?
Cirlcing 'round their young,
Horns on steady grounds,
Fending off Arctic hounds.
But with one heed to pay,
A thorough observation,
Can thus prove the claim,
Humans are all the same.
For in our humble longing,
Our quest for knowing,
With one deep gasp,
Do we eagerly ask:
For whom do our hearts ache?
We take the leap of faith,
We weather the heavy rain,
All for the ones worth our pain.
Sep 7, 2016
Sep 7, 2016 at 12:04 PM UTC
Why have love,
when there's heartbreak?
Is a brief moment of love worth,
A life with a broken heart?
The words I speak have puzzled
Most of the world.
Two feelings more intense
Than death itself.
Love controls your life
It is the puppet master,
And you are the puppet.
It brings light as radiant as the sun
And darkness like midnight.
I'd rather had love and loss love,
Than never loved at all.
It is a sensation compared
With ones heart beating.
Knowing love and having loved
Is the beauty of life.
It pollinates the flowers
That brings happiness.
Love brings one happiness.
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 5:26 PM UTC
(After Cavafy)
The sun flattens your vision
to a wavering point.
You search for a different sun.
There is no other.
The wind stymies your breathing
to an asthmatic wheeze.
You search for a different wind.
There is no other.
The sea shortens your journey
to an anonymous port.
You search for a different sea.
There is no other.
The sky opens its vistas,
vast, beyond your reach.
You search for a different sky.
There is no other.
The city blots your horizon
with soot, smoke and ash.
You search for a different city.
There is no other.
The day dissolves in hours
without number or name.
You search for a different day.
There is no other.
Beauty upholds its ideal
like a statue without wings.
You search for a different Beauty.
There is no other.
The word pollinates the page
with a frail, feeble sense.
You search for a different word.
There is no other.
The self mirrors the cosmos,
a contracting black hole.
You search for a different self.
There is no other.
The poem laughs at your yearning
for Art’s Eternal Form.
You search for a different poem.
There is no other.
So you write the same poem
from the same shrinking self,
with the same weakling words,
seeking the same ideal Beauty,
On the same day after day,
in the same ***** city,
under the same endless sky,
beside the same aimless sea,
Into the same stifling wind,
blinded by the same soulless sun.
And you call it a different life.
But there is no other.
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 12:06 PM UTC
yellow butterfly
pollinates for sweet nectar
purple lavender.
Shell ✨🐚
Jul 12, 2021
Jul 12, 2021 at 9:38 PM UTC