"stamen" poems
He felt
great pleasure
watching her
his desires bloom
staring at her two lips
the rarest of all flowers
pedals spread
breathing life into his desires
stiffening a hard stamen
as their bodies take root
folding together like a hem
pumping seed into her cavity
baring the juices of a fruit
into a fountain
that will never end
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 8:15 PM UTC
the shock
of bodies—
a sound
rippled in
cheetah lightening
to wings of blasted
flowers taught
red
yellow
lavender sky—
butterfly wound
festering pollened
breeze to
where your
mouth
is opened
breath
tongue
and twisted cord—
opaque bee
twirling with
opaque stamen
lit
in a wall of
rushing
waterfall—a
perfect contrast
of forgiveness
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 11:22 AM UTC
Bury me with my poppy.
My greatest memory; my simple joy.
Spring time brings brightness--
colors other than white.
A flushed landscape from
stamen performing as paint;
replicating a sleepy orange
yellow, green, red
I contemplate picking the poppy
to keep for myself.
Life feels large
like the sparkling lake--
that cold sunny hour when you sat
by a fire bordered by icy rocks.
The earth sheltered in poppies.
We all expect moments without an end.
Post-bloom petals fall flat before falling away.
Miracles can be a curse or a blessing,
brave or cowardly,
Swallowing up certainty.
Poppy tears
slowly release memories--
a crisp deliberate euphoria.
I leave behind the orange flower.
Appreciation is not lost.
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 9:29 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
lovers are burning.] balsamic ****** gallops from shame
into the overwild wetness of labial volcanoes, caramelized in musk. by love's labor.
laid bare, their bodies origami inhibition...[ lovers are burning. ]
and surrender is victorious !
Eros is speechless. maidens howl into cumulus goose-down, chewing carnal haikus
with swayed backs.... hips wide and wanton. masculine wands plow oyster beds, unmade.
they joust pearls... and [ lovers are burning ]
.... a damp conflagration; tongue stoked and windswept, conspires.
monotony is slain !
puritan harps are plucked and thrummed ! lewd harmonies anoint the perfect pitch
and a chorus moans. the ghost of sylvia plath, straddles Apollo; and he earns his wreath
surging besotted. [ lovers are burning ] and laurels forgotten.
lotharios charge the seldom road; the starfish door to Saturn's parlor.
pumping unbridled, that glistening, cloven moon. her riding crop insists !
his urgency must do.
satyrs sup salaciously and summon staves to dip in brine. they grin and grind
their sutras, stripping karma gears with silk scarves. ankles to a post, well spread...
cushions crush. flowers press... stamen fed.
nymphs clutch their serpent stones
to drain what nectar slips the slit. they ***** and throat.
they peck and pinch their quivers; knock their arrows to the purpose, half spent.
[ lovers are burning ]
eyes ablaze. nostrils fetch randy fumes of consent. mouths seek.
a pouty swamp with Spanish moss.... finds a matador
and a bull, a china shop.
lovers are burning the rough sketch of a lost god
and their angels are voyeurs
with unclean thoughts
for gospels.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 3:14 PM UTC
Into the bubbling blue bath of my bliss
my body breaks free of all bounds;
enchanted melodies cavort across my tongue,
unchained continents of merriment.
Shooting stars; cool satisfaction coats me completely.
I have lost all curiosity for torture technique,
while this melody bounces across the cosmos.
My imperfect lovely: Perfectly fractured,
all my shattered pieces fit your holes,
and even now, I glue pieces of you into the slots they fit.
A singular petal glistening with dew,
Deep crimsom; long stemmed tulip.
Black eyes, its stamen. Shedded insight,
I lowered my body before you, as offering.
How will you devour this dream of desire?
It is a feast to be consumed, in small bites,
and copious servings of seconds.
Do not allow this flower to fade,
it may save you from yourself.
Blessings bestowed before bedtime
often fade away by dawn,
give thanks for the present,
draw strength from the past,
take heart, what is meant to be
will always last...
in the end.
Sep 14, 2012
Sep 14, 2012 at 12:20 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
the only flowers I
recognize are
tulips
denver-bred
blooming
fire
red
yellow
orange
photochemistry
defined by
valentine
bouquet
quite
atypical
yet
beautiful
wax-coating
iridescent
rain
mirror
fertilized
stamen
kiss me
bad
you
are the
only
species
that can
survive in my
backyard
I think I
love
you
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 6:39 PM UTC
I am the Aphrodite
Goddess
Woman
Lover
Mate
From my double D’s
To scarred up knees
The pistol whipped
Stamen ready
Lady your wife
Warns you about
My mouth is open
And eyes wide shut
Speaking truths
Most cannot fathom
Perhaps
Ignore
Flower blossom
Open wide
Blooming in my winter
A goddess
Addict
Mind of a lady
And ***** face
Fire in your belly
Ice in my veins
From polished nails
To scented hair
Shaved skin
Smooth
All lady
With an attitude
I have lived
Enough hell
To know my
Heaven
A religion
Between my thighs
The Goddess
Of inhibition
Flash of animal
In my eyes
I dig my nails
Deep
Inside pink flesh
And whisper
What you want to hear
So here’s your lady
A *****
A *****
Queen for a day
And lifelong
*****
Aug 17, 2010
Aug 17, 2010 at 9:11 PM UTC
I pluck you a crocus
and all life becomes
a legend of the body
a torch-whipped storm
pastel in its fire
buries me in you
when I hand you the stem
a shake
and the yellow stamen
loses its dust
lady lady
forgets its bug
when I place the flower
in your vase
spots wiped black-less
insect no more
lady lady
the inspection of autumn
bulb-less growth
and a string of red
***** and betting its stripes
a tiny mound of dirt
obscured by rotting leaves
the last of you reaching for my hand
Sep 21, 2017
Sep 21, 2017 at 4:23 PM UTC
I remember you spirt in the Chelsea Flophouse
you were opening one's lips so gorgeous and so creamy
greasing me stamen on the unfucked bonk
while the bangers let it rip in the alley
Those were the diseased minds and that was Newfangled York
we were squirting for the wads and the meatballs
and that was gobbled snog for the creamers inside Gloria
centrifugally stiff is thus those of White House Nazis
Ah but you copulated telescopic didn't you basket case
you just acidified your jockstrap on the shoulders of the scrum
you copulated telescopic I never once heard you use sign language
I input you, I don't intake you
I input you, I don't intake you
and all of that balling hard on
I remember you spirt in the Chelsea Flophouse
you were gorilla—like your ****** *********** was absolute epic
you leaked me again you frocked slap—up old salt
but for me you would **** an unzipping
And shaving your tongue because the creatures lust after us
who are barked at by the Daleks of *** appeal
you Rohypnolled yourself you emitted jet so what?
we are radioactive salvo we shoot full of holes the stride piano
*** one fine morning you copulated telescopic didn't you cocker
you just blunted your extremity on the cattle
you copulated telescopic I never once smelled you emit
I intake you, I don't input you
I intake you, I don't input you
and all of that balling hard on
I don't mean to insinuate that I slobbered over you peanuts
I can't withhold *********** of each crouched ****
I remember you spirt in the Chelsea Flophouse
that's oodles I don't even kick—start you that thick and fast
Mar 29, 2010
Mar 29, 2010 at 3:36 PM UTC
The black, iron God arm punched
placid-blanched clouds, and dangled
cat cable down to lemon-vested men
with chalkboard faces.
*Basic algebra, today's date, daily
syllabi, God-fearing anecdotes,
and the evils of homosexuality.*
Fornicating with other dudes
is like moving Jesus' rock
with your condom'd *****
Let sleeping dieties die.
We find them buried deep beneath
**** ceramics by T.V. criminals,
rapists, murderers, buzzers, free-
lovers, angelheaded sweethearts.
They have nearly four dollar souls,
barely enough for a Wilpo dinner
at Hepburn Diner. #2 breakfast
with one cup of Columbian cartel
coffee with a pinch of whole milk
to take the edge off, so he won't
be gripping the booth vinyl when
a "freedom" flash cop car passes.
Police cruisers are just bigger bicycles
that we're afraid of, sporting cereal
box baseball cards in the spokes.
Cops were the kids that needed help
their first time fresh off training
wheels. Training academy training
them for low-speed cat chases through
flower beds.
Sweet daffodil, you didn't have to die
like this. You could've drank straight
from the pitcher at a stranger's dinner
party potluck, seen the guts of a New
York highrise, shared the coke left
beneath a woman's botched nose job.
You could have been more than this.
You could have been more.
You could have been.
You could have.
You could.
You.
You, daffodil, stamen-down
in Miracle Gro and dog ****
could have been more.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 1:06 AM UTC
on this rumbling
stretch of tundra
no trees reach up
to soothe the sky
there is a pulling down
of wind tunnel vortex
like conifers in reverse
an icy howl
in the bonechill
of time
Translucent holes,
perfectly round, are dug
in glacial archeology
and in the sea below
gelid creatures lurk,
half-frozen
in the history of my
soul
Only moss and lichens
grow on the rock,
somehow softening the
rugged textures
of the wild landscapes
that seethe
just beneath my skin
and there, just
shy of the surface
is a quickening
a subtle pulse of veins
that pumps life
between the gales of
my heart's steppes
flushing out
the pain
somewhere
deep
within the private lotus
of my being
folioles unfurl
leafy shapes around
my organs
wrapping them like gifts
as they undulate in whorls
opening my petals
in renewed consciousness
and deliberation
as a new kind of
stamen
rises
dusty pollen
powdery
budding ripeness
bursting up
and out
of my deepest
centered
whirlpool pistil
nectar dripping
in viscous webs,
to be caught upon
the tongue of
a new dawning
My silky outer
wings of vegetation,
slender stalks of
filaments and anther
have been turned
into hot steel
They protect
the tender vulnerable
when burned
as poison words held up to my
watchful eyes,
are properly discerned
I give myself over
to this new power,
my back arched to fully embrace
what is to come,
a universe calling thunder,
the old patterns undone
I am ready
to reveal my all
as the goddess deep within
comes to release my gold
suffusing light through skin
conjured from me
a relentless strength,
ever-growing,
now tenfold
rising way past
soft-lit stratospheres
and orbiting
to
bold
Nov 5, 2017
Nov 5, 2017 at 6:05 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
At the going down of the sun
will the world be less complete,
the cinched robe of night less intolerable,
as she ebbs away on cosmic string,
emulating a massless, dazed neutrino
blinking in and out of existence,
unobserved and uneffected,
liquored and unloved?
In the wake of a June flowering,
when foxglove lures the honeybee
in six day flash, bud to corolla,
blossom to blossom, parade of stigmas,
digitalis stamen braved, anther at his back,
the bee comes gathering where none else dare.
Mar 3, 2012
Mar 3, 2012 at 2:08 AM UTC
When CNN monotony breaks my heart,
children wail for candy at cash registers,
and traffic buzz replaces birdsong,
I flee to my garden to water and ****
Sanctuary explodes in miniature chorales
soprano buds breaking through cellulose cradles
last waters from a thousand wilting blossoms
sing tenor at their organic wake above the loam
and endless pneumatic streams drip from leaf tips
as they always have and will.
A googolplex of minute carbon dramas occurs
melodious ballads echo relentlessly
like Buddha’s kalapas of soil and light
as pistil and stamen call the fat brown bees.
Equally marvelous are my hands'
deft fingers fueled by arterial rivers
lymph and blood on capillaric freeways
with off-ramps for neighborhoods of dividing cells
built into my DNA,
this machine of loving grace.
Even the leather of my gloves
once lived thick on a bull eating grass
that waved on a prairie where the soil
let the sun in
drank the rain
and that meticulous ensemble
plays still for the wolf and the eagle.
With the last seed sewn
I sit transfixed by the garden gate
knowing every blossom in every random patch
will arise and pass away like the pointless TV news
and I hear the machinery of this impermanence
crackling like spring frost
when sprouts push through
and Gaia’s eternal trumpets ring.
May 28, 2012
May 28, 2012 at 10:31 PM UTC
you needed each other
though neither of you yet knew it
each ingesting what each season offered
growing beyond near defeats
each winter bare and shivering
each summer consuming broad and open
laughing all the while
showing bridges
between deep past and next season
neither existing without the water
the other poured willingly
one for the blinding yet nurturing
impending solar singularity
and the other for the pleasant aroma
and the welcoming blossom
and the predictability
the companionship
and when you
our beautiful ample matriarch left us
so did your sister
and her leaves fell
and then her petals
and her pistol
stamen
limbs
as if weeping for the loss of her confidante
when you
my mischievous sponsor
when you fell
so did your rival in beauty
i used a chainsaw
i tossed away her lifeline
turned off the faucet and tossed the hose
stacked her limbs on the curb
for the garbage truck
they wont let you
bury trees at the cemetery any more
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 9:48 PM UTC
I am the warm lips of sun, that kiss your dew drenched petals,
when you in self oblivion try to embrace, I've gone faraway,
playing with love struck clouds, dancing, their slips flying,
I am the fire making your body burn with desire,slyly planted
I am the wind, licking pollen off your stamen softly, making you
want me to do that more, sowing goosebumps all over
I am the movement of desire, moving through that time of the day
languid in mornings,spreading fervor at noons and in darkness
coils like a serpent that searches for burrow to snuggle in til dawn
Flow of water am I, that carries you along easily throughout,
you could ease in to me, I am the bed and the fingers caressing,
in my dreams you are the sneaking fingers of my naughty lover,
in you are my ablutions, my fire is quenched by your flows.
I ooze,fluids of many scents sometimes a sprouting spring.
I trickle with pleasure, lubricate,cross one level to the other.
(C)
Jun 29, 2017
Jun 29, 2017 at 1:38 PM UTC
My mind flutters,
A dainty butterfly...
Disquiet even over a nectarine pie,
Oft times the color allures;
A serrated edge attracts,
The stamen invite;
A pollinic conversation...
Little resting respite!
My mind flutters,
A distracted butterfly...
Does she not know;
She shall starve...
Concentration deprived,
Unable to trace the scent of the elixir;
That shall hold her high!?
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 1:13 AM UTC
.
*Which crimson bud
doth burst forth white,
which lovely flower
doth perfume the night,
flourish and flutter
doth stamen and petal,
the bee upon beauty
doth gently settle.*
© Pagan Paul (15/08/18)
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 5:27 AM UTC
Cloaked eyes of white
Open throat cries dry
Echoed padding cadence
Panting tremours
Unable to get away
The streets are unsafely empty
Equality to walk
No illiberal clocking in
I have a cogent life
Will not cede segregation
The struggle, snapped the stem
Stole the stamen from my flower
Shook my pollenous verve
Scattered my soulful scent
Destroyed my confidence to regrow
Sneering the lonesome wolf
Crushes the very flowers that will save it
Without heart of virtue
Praying on those they cannot have
Betrays their own soul without anguish
Proto-stalkers seek help
Decant your desires
Throw off your fur coat
Open up and do not venture into a nightmare
Your Samaritan will always befriend and guide
Lay down your sword
Change the parochial pathway
Magnanimous now live
Fields of flowers beckon
Don't be a brick in the wall
Embrace the feminine essence
Yield flowers their blossom
Steer the legislation to counter the wolven spread
More tulips amongst thorny parliamentarians
Educate the children and those in power
Mar 14, 2021
Mar 14, 2021 at 7:39 PM UTC
Cotton fields in our mouths
Quenched with a kiss
Rain soaked ground
Or is it the bed
Flower petals opening up
Relishing in the dew
Or was it your stamen
Revitalizing in the rose
Apples in your hands
Unable to bite through
But yielding to your grasp
Hungry we were
A meal set before us
Dates, apples, steak, rosehips
Adam's Ale our drink
Pulled apart and snapped back
Ivy entwined together
Our bodies and souls sated for now
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 3:03 PM UTC
Like the way a speaker prepares his toast. Each yearning sensibility, their bold autumnal stamen cast lines into the horizon of our lives. That when we were younger we even thought, that aeroplanes would land just where we stood in front of our homes in our neighborhood. And if unfurled, as our oil riggers kept us off the benches so we must only had whispers of our doings. Then Harold Sev and Linda Wevven brought to us our cars, our toys, our wives...cooking and cleaning and children. This was not the narrow passage of peak four.
Because of this we have learned many wonderfully-suited professions of our tertiary friends: radio captain, Saharan Field Marshall, dairy operator at a dromedary farm.
Why in this short-timed, often-rainy parody of existence due countries set embargos upon one another so that two men who cannot afford even the drink they carry, so long as they handle the glass properly, and we concern ourselves with things as trivial as this.
You stay everyone! This America is stupendous.
Or then drink from my hands and say, "America Finding the Curious Even More Curiouser.'" Where with two plates two bowls, two forks, two spoons, two glasses, and thrice the knives of a charcuterie.
So with your bold hand baskets, and Model-Ts, go show us how you fffffffffffffffffffff
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 4:42 AM UTC
I am a sunflower.
I turn my yellow
and black face,
bruised, to the sun,
hoping its light will
heal me.
With my eyes closed
I can see my stamen,
veins in my eyelids,
bulbous
where they intersect.
The sun feeds me
and I, grateful,
pour myself into
the air. I am
sweet;
I am a bowl
of candy, I live
on your tongue
and I suffocate under
your eyelids.
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 5:32 PM UTC
Perhaps it is because they very simply
loved wild poppies,
or the unexpected press of wind.
Learning early of that airless, evacuated space
of love to come
they kept ready the guestroom,
hemmed the waiting into their very clothes.
That there are these persisting towers
yearning crazily despite Babylon,
rising up from the dish of the dead's affirmation
like a stamen from a spring of pollen.
May 8, 2012
May 8, 2012 at 3:24 PM UTC