"pollination" poems
The soil gives birth to beautiful flowers,
Therefore can it be called a "mother" ?
I asked myself this question for hours
But without a ***** it wouldn't bother
It would be lifeless, water is the only thing it devours
Oh mother earth, your beauty fascinates me
Oh dear Sunflower, have you found your special bee ?
Pollination is important, otherwise there wouldn't be flowers
Oh cloud, give us your water, so we can grow, we can see
Until winter arrives we will be filled with glee
~ Umi
Dec 30, 2017
Dec 30, 2017 at 7:52 AM UTC
Pollination drones on like
Eternity, today it's all I
Can do not to succumb
To the pheromones of the bees
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 10:26 PM UTC
tenderness leaves
my eyes in capillary ribbons.
your diamond lips are chalked,
released from rock.
your head, a knot of angel pine—
a dark-brown blooming
sticky and lucked to the back
of my throat.
it is in this moment that
I hear a wisp of rapture
blowing through the oak overhead.
my heart’s motor cranked
like October’s last churning
bumble bee.
*pollination
susurration
be gone…*
you kept looking past me,
your hand on my shoulder.
the precious gauze of your profile
mixed porcelain doll and found a
chisel to perfect your nose.
I feel the love of everything and
you—so unaware of your
beautiful.
Nov 1, 2017
Nov 1, 2017 at 10:46 AM UTC
Watching the beauty of Mother Earth was I
when it vanished in front of my eyes
No more pure are the river and seas
It is like an eternal autumn for the trees
The Beauty of Mother Earth has long gone
Sky is dark and the winds now groan
Morning soil has lost is moist dew
Everyday has become monotonus,no day is new
Ignored by her sons,Mother Earth is dying
disingenous sons are ignoring their mother's crying
The lugubrious situation is the conlusion of the Greed
Pollination of the plants halted and birds awaiting to be freed
Jan 31, 2011
Jan 31, 2011 at 12:07 AM UTC
The listening stopped a while ago.
It’s like the monotonous sounds spewing from your mouth just didn’t meet the qualifications of entering my ears.
It wasn’t always like that, though.
You used to deliver information to my being like you were the great Giving Tree.
And I was a nearby flower.
A delicate, nearby flower.
A flower that went about its normal routines, such as photosynthesis or pollination or other flower things.
Ah, those flower things.
To me they are everything.
This flower would blossom in the spring and wither in the winter.
I would spend my flower days in the summer breathing in the glowing sunlight and living my flower life.
And in the fall, I would spend my flower nights rocking in the breeze, waiting for winter to come and bring me my renewal period.
I would look with my flower eyes toward you, the great Giving Tree.
Tall and ***** like the unstoppable force.
And I, there on the ground, the immovable object.
Your knowledge was so delightful at first.
It lit up my surrounding flower world more than the Sun ever could.
Your knowledge would come at all hours of the day, no matter rain or shine.
I remember once a long time ago when I was a little, tiny flower.
It was raining on my little tiny flower head.
But you knew what to tell me, great Giving Tree.
The rain that would beat pitter-patter on my pedals.
The water that would run down my stem.
You with your knowledge would tell me “Soak up the water my son. You need as much as you can hold.”
And I did just what you said.
Because I knew you were an unstoppable force, and could never be wrong.
And I, as the immovable object, would never let something stop me.
And then there was the time when I was an older, bigger flower.
The Sun was shining on my older, bigger flower head.
And you knew what to tell me, great Giving Tree.
The sunlight that shine zig-zag on my pedals.
The shadow that would cast from my stem.
You with your knowledge would tell me “Soak in the sunlight my son. You need as much as you can hold.”
And I did just what you said.
Because I knew you were an unstoppable force, and could never be wrong.
And I, as the immovable object, would never let something stop me.
But now I am a current, normal flower.
The world is passing by my current, normal flower head.
And you knew what to tell me, great Giving Tree.
You with your knowledge….
Said nothing to me, your son.
I didn’t know what to take in.
So I did just what you didn’t say.
And I just kept watching the world float by you, great Giving Tree.
You, the unstoppable force.
And I just kept watching the world float by me, the delicate flower.
Me, the immovable object.
And for the rest of our days you said nothing to me.
You don’t pass your knowledge to me, your delicate flower son.
Your immovable object.
And I stop listening to you, my great Giving Tree.
My unstoppable force.
The monotonous sounds spewing from your mouth just don’t meet the qualifications of entering my ears anymore.
The relationship we had has faded away.
But I had a feeling neither of us would win when we first met.
“Because you know what happens when the unstoppable force meets the immovable object.”
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 10:11 PM UTC
She is a flower
And I am a honeybee
Nuzzling her petals
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 10:25 PM UTC
The most ****** colors
exist in flowers.
In orange lily
and white crocus petals,
colors that arouse insects
into an ecstasy of pollination.
Have you ever seen a bee
make love to the pistil
and stamen,
or see a bee dance on anthers
as light as it's buzz?
I once saw a field of sun flowers
never take their eyes off the sun
while a weightless hummingbird
kissed each one on the stigma
with eyes fixed on the yellow
of the flower it loved
for just a moment.
Oct 11, 2010
Oct 11, 2010 at 9:10 PM UTC
Heat
Calcification
Incalescence
Swelter
Suffocation
Arctic circle above 32 degrees Fahrenheit in December
Leaking lakes of Methane gas in Siberia
Scientific data to price
Changing 2 degrees
has caused mass extinction
Melting glaciers
Oceans 7 centimeters higher
Drought in the Amazon
Changes in migration
Disruption in pollination
Heatwaves:
high death tolls
Decreased plant growth
Zika in Florida
Ignorance from the government
Refusal of proof
Nonbelievers in the White House
Dec 16, 2016
Dec 16, 2016 at 12:12 PM UTC
Crimson maple buds magically pucker
under brightening skies
Lenten rose reluctantly unfolds
absolving the shadowed snow,
stemming the wintertide
Spring's impending bloom
mystically stirs the delicate human heart
soothing from outside its sheltering shell
A converging pleasantness
of a sunshine sown awakening
cleanses each morning breath drawn
to sate an urgent restrained longing
The wilderness carpet comes alive
with a burgeoning salient sweetness
drawing out a glimmer of gladness
from stale suffocating darkness’
wallowing in the winter ennui
Another kind of poignant balm sinks
from the tall mountain willow tree
touching the sprouting blue sky
Furry fragrant catkins blossom sweetly
like the remnants of a love once known
softly brushing against a fading memory
of unerasable stains begrudgingly beget
Like fawning flowers falling fallow
in a passing season’s pollination breeze
Manipulating frayed heartstrings,
unhealed as the deer peeled scars
and rubbed bark of a mountain willow,
scarred from another season past
Some protective shell ― never grows back
when benign heartwood is brought to light
harlon rivers ... Spring 2018
Mar 18, 2018
Mar 18, 2018 at 11:59 AM UTC
Take egg, invite *****
Mix for five minutes to two hours
Dependant on assistant
Feed at about body temperature
After 9 months or a little sooner if needed
Your childling will be ready to *** out
Decorate in nice new clothes and feed
After 5 years place in greenhouse with others
Come back in about 12 years
It will be totally unrecognizable to what you started with
Now dependant upon cross pollination in greenhouse environment
You may have unwanted seedlings of its own popping up!!!
So choice of greenhouse at an early stage is essential
If that doesn't present a blight they are now hardy enough to plant out!!!
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 5:05 PM UTC
The bad seed :: takes root :: roots extend :: in the head :: A constant branching :: budding bursting :: away :: and away :: and away :: roots branch and extend :: The Holy Schism :: Mother's breast :: bisected :: salt and milk :: curdle :: then settle :: into the nine creamy layers of Hell :: roots extend :: bury into Her pith :: bisected :: a honeysuckle rut :: Mother screams :: a poisonous :: foam :: spraying Her wither around :: killing :: the sacred cow :: :: :: there :: there She is :: the pretty blight :: the slit :: in the stem pursed tight :: down lower :: over two hills :: to a black and blue lagoon :: Mother in bloom :: Her putrid flower :: slaps open sloppy :: wide :: open :: for osmosis :: for curdled spore spew :: sucking flaccid :: with lips and teeth
Oct 29, 2011
Oct 29, 2011 at 7:55 PM UTC
......
The silver moon
Alone
With the southern wind
The papers of poetry,
Songs
Wandering with thousands
of unspoken words,
Stanza
Resonance in the sky,
In the wind and mind
but grew pollination in the pen and the poetry
This glorious night
The poet
Very lonely
With the mystic brightness of light
Only speaks the antiquity
...
@Musfiq us shaleheen
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 4:53 PM UTC
*In splendid repose
One blooming rose lies gleaming
Hummingbirds kiss her
The wind whispers their secrets
As the pollen keeps drifting*
May 22, 2017
May 22, 2017 at 1:38 PM UTC
***** of echoes, the virile resonance quaking lust -
Throbbing caverns shudder to ****** inciting vestal musk
Entranced of nocturnal bedevilment - barefaced in galactic greens,
Spores ethereal yet concealed to the Queen
Sumptuous omphalos; her ecstatic womb engulfing the bloom,
Carnal reckonings devoid of Mosaic release as panting creatures swoon
Vigorous pollination morphing the nectarean sheath
Roused stamen shrivel in an animus induced retreat
Again we'll rise to salute our idol
In burning continuance:
Fertility extolled
With pleasure recompensed.
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 7:51 PM UTC
'All nature seems at work ... The bees are stirring—birds are on the wing ... and I the while, the sole unbusy thing, not honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.'
My fingers can’t trace the origin of the age old euphemism
Its roots planted firmly in childhood paired with sitcom cliches
A conversation never had with my mother
I learned the moment he touched me
My mind buzzed as the sweetest nectar kissed my lips
Arms turned to wings and we flew away
The age of fourteen
A baby learning where babies come from
Innocence poured out like an overfilled glass of milk
When he left I was a hummingbird
Heart at 1260 beats per minute
Fading in and out of anxiety
He was the bee
Flew to the next delicate flower
and ****** her dry like a parasitic insect
Always told to be weary of disguised villains
Old women with apples
Wolves dressed like grandmothers
Never of the natural behavior of pollination
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 2:28 PM UTC
Anchor
Blindly walk away carelessly forming a separate destiny
What heart hasn’t been broken from loss?
Nothing but these remain a certainty
Transitory lives and times
This tension ever exists
Security rock solid always will be buffeted by change
Fate continuously at odds with calm calculated reason always set to resist
Dark doubts the heart will pierce
Fear puts able thoughts in chains
The mind enslaved death enshrined
Who hasn’t known this cruel master’s reign?
Held fast as by a strait jacket useless to fight
Heartless people consumed by deadness
In the midst of laughter lies a specter
Decency and safety shifts treachery always at readiness
Impossible innocence shocked blood covers the land
There is no freedom dealt by mortal man
This race and special gift angels sift
Divine pollination needed for character unchecked
Grace everywhere at once without a trace of its origin
The face noble the heart captured perfect gladness
The rock of offence removed
Stiff necked pillar of rebellion finally moved
Paths now sweet a life hid discreet
The waters calm the breeze a balm
Thoughts unbridled burning intense
Arrows of gold feathers of silver
Blessed be the nation who finds God to be their anchor
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 10:38 PM UTC
Bouncing, boundless butterflies,
Bouncing in the balmy breeze,
Bouncing in the boundless skies,
Bounce between the brown-barked trees,
Bounce on by the bumble bees.
Buzzing, zipping bumble bees,
Buzzing in the zesty skies,
Buzzing in the zesty breeze,
Buzz into the butterflies—
Bumping—making butterbees.
^ ^
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 2:02 PM UTC
and so life makes life.
the strange beauty
of pollination.
flowers allowing insects
to mediate, relegate, perpetrate
and consummate their ancient ritual,
their sacred act of reproduction.
A third party multispecies **** of sorts.
But the bees never get off.
still,
truly takes the task a touch further
than the innumerable sea animals
who mate in mass,
whole schools of fish
releasing egg and *****
anonymously
in a surging swarm of ***
generating the next generation.
and so life makes life.
Apr 12, 2010
Apr 12, 2010 at 5:27 AM UTC
Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’
by Michael R. Burch
Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’
the bees rise
in a dizzy circle of two.
Oh, when I’m with you,
I feel like kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ too!
Keywords/Tags: bees, kissing, buzzing, dizzy, circle, two, couples, coupling, attraction, *** nectar, pollen, pollination
Apr 6, 2020
Apr 6, 2020 at 5:10 AM UTC
this combo presents itself
inexplicably demanding a
poem~all~its~own by gum, (1)
though the brain refrains from
providing any clues where/what
might be inside the intersection of
the Ven diagrams of cross pollination and enervation
but as an only love poet,
he thinks he is brilliant,
and visualizes the intersexual
excitement of two insects (bees)
recombinant/\recumbent after the stimulation
of cross pollination as most
enervating
<>
said the Queen bee to a worker bee:
"*Honey, be a dear and pass me a cigarette,
all that pollinating and wing flapping is
just so enervating, I think I'll just die*"(2)
Jul 27, 2025
Jul 27, 2025 at 7:47 AM UTC
On the river's bank - discarded waders
dropped there, cast aside the day before. A
little yellow orchid drooping, damsel-
head in danger, wanting fellow flowers,
wanting pollination, hoping summer's
kindly fingers touch upon the shadows.
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 11:52 AM UTC
Life's Predispositions
In the chapel of his soul
and in the steeple of his mind
votive candles burn,
bright and iridescent,
perpetual,
red, yellow, green
and blue.
He sits in there,
a chapel for one,
in a mist
of confusion,
in a mess,
searching for answers,
as his life is waning,
escaping,
like an Autumn wind
blowing the pages of his life
... stillness,
of bookmarks,
still on page one,
he hatched, once.
All around him,
dark,
and cold,
like a winter chill,
snow banks withdrawing,
his sad existence.
Still he looks up
to Jesus on the cross.
Warmth.
In the chapel of his soul
and in the steeple of his mind
votive candles burn,
large,
bright and iridescent,
perpetual,
another rainbow stretching
it's arcs for him.
He backs away.
He bemoans life,
small,
it's endowments on him.
His parent's mistake
on a dark, eerie
loveless night...
and their cutting words
"You were a mistake,"
words
that grew on him,
like barnacles
clinging to him,
eating away his buoyancy,
like a ship sinking.
In the birth of another spring,
flowers blossoms,
rivers gushing down
mountains and mountains
of pollination,
life,
he has a lone branch
waiting ... somewhere.
Such stillness.
Such stigmatization
from his parents
loveless past.
A mistake they conceded.
It had an effect on him,
darker than the blackest sheep
that he was.
What predispositions.
When the summer harvests
arrive,
fields smiling their wares,
he scowled
he scowled the corn,
subsistence,
life,
the changing seasons,
his short change
of life.
Rainbows.
Why are the birds
singing to me?
Why?
The voices
in his head
chirping,
continuing.
What message thou
bring to an orphan?
Still he looks up
to Jesus on the cross.
Warmth.
His eyes squint.
Dad, mom.
And whispers words
that don't need
to be said,
closure.
Logan Robertson
6/01/17
Jun 1, 2017
Jun 1, 2017 at 4:16 PM UTC
Somewhere there is a bee
Excellent at pollination
If a little aggressive.
Someday this bee will sting
And will find out the irony
That he is allergic to me.
Apr 9, 2012
Apr 9, 2012 at 4:43 PM UTC
Power of a Picture
Little girl from a place far away in the world do you know that you are a part of forever you stare so intently does it mean you are one who sees beyond the common bonds of your home. The field is small the house barely marks the world you hold a emblem of wood covered with art from your culture it is in the form of a cross is this meant as a grave marker to one that you have lost. Or is it the touch stone you use to contact the Great Spirit that lives in the mountains and valleys. They speak of such places on the earth where the raw power exerts such force as you open yourself mystery and reality come into focus its only a deep valley a barren land a high mountain but in these climes as in no other the vestiges of the long forgotten seep into the curious mind fertile pollination lightly brushes inquisitive petals from this small impetus ever wider do the rings expand from just the single tossing of a small stone.
The wise know a road that seems to wound aimlessly through the heather across the moors its reach spans the globe it is home in the Gobie as well as the great cultured cities that as diamonds shine with brightest thoughts words to ignite the mind of the seekers. To all who make a purposeful sojourn from humble villages to the ends of the earth? The mind has no equal problems its meat with digestion then the course altered it is fixed it answers only those who believe there is rich and soulful meaning to the world no matter how cold and brutal the abrasive veneer may appear can this life be less than the total of the wonders to be found in every vale and sun drenched corner that has had the greatest evidence of the divine because there is found the foot prints of man. Whether Redeemed or not together the world and man are intertwined by glorious holy design.
What a great world you are part of we would be incomplete without you, a small unknown stream somewhere will join the great Euphrates or the unending Amazon or the sweet tender flow of the Brazos but all are an integral part of a larger whole dust was thought to be nothing then the dust bowl happened Steinbeck immortalized this tragic upheaval in the Grapes Of Wrath. So thanks little one you speak a lot with your eyes of innocence.
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 1:47 PM UTC