"stamens" poems - Hello Poetry

Cup your palms around that candle dear lazy Spells to cast to the wombs keep our ghosts outside peering into tent ***** yellowing irises and stamens strangely swaying but nonsense Butte no out there they stalk you dear lazy

0

Aug 3, 2015

Aug 3, 2015 at 12:01 PM UTC

m-eastman

Dear Lazy

Cup your palms around that candle dear lazy Spells to cast to the wombs keep our ghosts outside peering into tent ***** yellowing irises and stamens strangely swaying but nonsense Butte no out there they stalk you dear lazy

11

Blue Monday BY DIANE WAKOSKI Blue of the heaps of beads poured into her breasts and clacking together in her elbows; blue of the silk that covers lily-town at night; blue of her teeth that bite cold toast and shatter on the streets; blue of the dyed flower petals with gold stamens hanging like tongues over the fence of her dress at the opera/opals clasped under her lips and the moon breaking over her head a gush of blood-red lizards. Blue Monday. Monday at 3:00 and Monday at 5. Monday at 7:30 and Monday at 10:00. Monday passed under the rippling California fountain. Monday alone a shark in the cold blue waters. You are dead: wound round like a paisley shawl. I cannot shake you out of the sheets. Your name is still wedged in every corner of the sofa. Monday is the first of the week, and I think of you all week. I beg Monday not to come so that I will not think of you all week. You paint my body blue. On the balcony in the softy muddy night, you paint me with bat wings and the crystal the crystal the crystal the crystal in your arm cuts away the night, folds back ebony whale skin and my face, the blue of new rifles, and my neck, the blue of Egypt, and my ******* the blue of sand, and my arms, bass-blue, and my stomach, arsenic; there is electricity dripping from me like cream; there is love dripping from me I cannot use—like acacia or jacaranda—fallen blue and gold flowers, crushed into the street. Love passed me in a blue business suit and fedora. His glass cane, hollow and filled with sharks and whales ... He wore black patent leather shoes and had a mustache. His hair was so black it was almost blue. “Love,” I said. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “Mr. Love,” I said. “I beg your pardon,” he said. So I saw there was no use bothering him on the street Love passed me on the street in a blue business suit. He was a banker I could tell. So blue trains rush by in my sleep. Blue herons fly overhead. Blue paint cracks in my arteries and sends titanium floating into my bones. Blue liquid pours down my poisoned throat and blue veins rip open my breast. Blue daggers tip and are juggled on my palms. Blue death lives in my fingernails. If I could sing one last song with water bubbling through my lips I would sing with my throat torn open, the blue jugular spouting that black shadow pulse, and on my lips I would balance volcanic rock emptied out of my veins. At last my children strained out of my body. At last my blood solidified and tumbling into the ocean. It is blue. It is blue. It is blue.

0

Apr 13, 2015

Apr 13, 2015 at 7:31 AM UTC

mike-essig

Diane Wakowski

Blue Monday BY DIANE WAKOSKI Blue of the heaps of beads poured into her breasts and clacking together in her elbows; blue of the silk that covers lily-town at night; blue of her teeth that bite cold toast and shatter on the streets; blue of the dyed flower petals with gold stamens hanging like tongues over the fence of her dress at the opera/opals clasped under her lips and the moon breaking over her head a gush of blood-red lizards. Blue Monday. Monday at 3:00 and Monday at 5. Monday at 7:30 and Monday at 10:00. Monday passed under the rippling California fountain. Monday alone a shark in the cold blue waters. You are dead: wound round like a paisley shawl. I cannot shake you out of the sheets. Your name is still wedged in every corner of the sofa. Monday is the first of the week, and I think of you all week. I beg Monday not to come so that I will not think of you all week. You paint my body blue. On the balcony in the softy muddy night, you paint me with bat wings and the crystal the crystal the crystal the crystal in your arm cuts away the night, folds back ebony whale skin and my face, the blue of new rifles, and my neck, the blue of Egypt, and my ******* the blue of sand, and my arms, bass-blue, and my stomach, arsenic; there is electricity dripping from me like cream; there is love dripping from me I cannot use—like acacia or jacaranda—fallen blue and gold flowers, crushed into the street. Love passed me in a blue business suit and fedora. His glass cane, hollow and filled with sharks and whales ... He wore black patent leather shoes and had a mustache. His hair was so black it was almost blue. “Love,” I said. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “Mr. Love,” I said. “I beg your pardon,” he said. So I saw there was no use bothering him on the street Love passed me on the street in a blue business suit. He was a banker I could tell. So blue trains rush by in my sleep. Blue herons fly overhead. Blue paint cracks in my arteries and sends titanium floating into my bones. Blue liquid pours down my poisoned throat and blue veins rip open my breast. Blue daggers tip and are juggled on my palms. Blue death lives in my fingernails. If I could sing one last song with water bubbling through my lips I would sing with my throat torn open, the blue jugular spouting that black shadow pulse, and on my lips I would balance volcanic rock emptied out of my veins. At last my children strained out of my body. At last my blood solidified and tumbling into the ocean. It is blue. It is blue. It is blue.

82

I know the flowers better everyday their twisting stems their curtain petals their floating spice I know the flowers better everyday their capillary roots their plum faces their purple stamens I know the flowers better everyday their shaking seeds their modest thorns their unabashed lust for the sun I know the flowers better everyday I know the sun will rise I know the clouds will rain I know my daughter will laugh I know the flowers better everyday I’ll draw a fence for flowers I’ll draw a muzzle for the sheep I’ll draw a number for the man to crunch I know the flowers better everyday I know how lovely it is to feel grass in between toes the breath of a boa the embrace of home I know the flowers better everyday I am forty I am a mother I love fearlessly

0

Feb 28, 2016

Feb 28, 2016 at 6:10 PM UTC

KingPanda

voice

I know the flowers better everyday their twisting stems their curtain petals their floating spice I know the flowers better everyday their capillary roots their plum faces their purple stamens I know the flowers better everyday their shaking seeds their modest thorns their unabashed lust for the sun I know the flowers better everyday I know the sun will rise I know the clouds will rain I know my daughter will laugh I know the flowers better everyday I’ll draw a fence for flowers I’ll draw a muzzle for the sheep I’ll draw a number for the man to crunch I know the flowers better everyday I know how lovely it is to feel grass in between toes the breath of a boa the embrace of home I know the flowers better everyday I am forty I am a mother I love fearlessly

29

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.

0

Jan 17, 2014

Jan 17, 2014 at 2:03 PM UTC

james-jarrett

The Bee

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.

1

70 “Arcturus” is his other name— I’d rather call him “Star.” It’s very mean of Science To go and interfere! I slew a worm the other day— A “Savant” passing by Murmured “Resurgam”—”Centipede”! “Oh Lord—how frail are we”! I pull a flower from the woods— A monster with a glass Computes the stamens in a breath— And has her in a “class”! Whereas I took the Butterfly Aforetime in my hat— He sits ***** in “Cabinets”— The Clover bells forgot. What once was “Heaven” Is “Zenith” now— Where I proposed to go When Time’s brief masquerade was done Is mapped and charted too. What if the poles should frisk about And stand upon their heads! I hope I’m ready for “the worst”— Whatever prank betides! Perhaps the “Kingdom of Heaven’s” changed— I hope the “Children” there Won’t be “new fashioned” when I come— And laugh at me—and stare— I hope the Father in the skies Will lift his little girl— Old fashioned—naught—everything— Over the stile of “Pearl.”

0

4.8k

Emily Dickinson

Arcturus is his other name

70 “Arcturus” is his other name— I’d rather call him “Star.” It’s very mean of Science To go and interfere! I slew a worm the other day— A “Savant” passing by Murmured “Resurgam”—”Centipede”! “Oh Lord—how frail are we”! I pull a flower from the woods— A monster with a glass Computes the stamens in a breath— And has her in a “class”! Whereas I took the Butterfly Aforetime in my hat— He sits ***** in “Cabinets”— The Clover bells forgot. What once was “Heaven” Is “Zenith” now— Where I proposed to go When Time’s brief masquerade was done Is mapped and charted too. What if the poles should frisk about And stand upon their heads! I hope I’m ready for “the worst”— Whatever prank betides! Perhaps the “Kingdom of Heaven’s” changed— I hope the “Children” there Won’t be “new fashioned” when I come— And laugh at me—and stare— I hope the Father in the skies Will lift his little girl— Old fashioned—naught—everything— Over the stile of “Pearl.”

33

Cherry blossoms. Working in the paddy We see all their stamens.

0

3.3k

Koi Nagata

Cherry blossoms.

Cherry blossoms. Working in the paddy We see all their stamens.

3

A lone apple blossom clings inside sticky heat. She blooms too late—her petals ache with desires. I press my thigh—her fleeting scent, without mine, incomplete. The mirror knows my hungers, captive by summer briars. She blooms too late—her petals ache with desires. I spread for her—hot breath, the mirror’s caress, skin wet as dew. The mirror knows my hungers, captive by summer briars. Her fingers—stamens—circle—I ache—I view. The mirror knows my hungers, captive by summer briars. Blossom falls—her lace, a pool, straps drift as leaves. Her fingers—stamens—circle—I ache—I view. She wilts in glass—her nectar, wind-blown, grieves. Blossom falls—her lace, a pool, straps drift as leaves. I touch—visions of her caress—her sighs fall as stars. She wilts in glass—her nectar, wind-blown, grieves. Alone, I bloom—my arch of ecstasy, lonely as love’s scars.

0

Jul 9, 2025

Jul 9, 2025 at 6:46 PM UTC

GaiasSoothingHaven

Her Blossom Falls

A lone apple blossom clings inside sticky heat. She blooms too late—her petals ache with desires. I press my thigh—her fleeting scent, without mine, incomplete. The mirror knows my hungers, captive by summer briars. She blooms too late—her petals ache with desires. I spread for her—hot breath, the mirror’s caress, skin wet as dew. The mirror knows my hungers, captive by summer briars. Her fingers—stamens—circle—I ache—I view. The mirror knows my hungers, captive by summer briars. Blossom falls—her lace, a pool, straps drift as leaves. Her fingers—stamens—circle—I ache—I view. She wilts in glass—her nectar, wind-blown, grieves. Blossom falls—her lace, a pool, straps drift as leaves. I touch—visions of her caress—her sighs fall as stars. She wilts in glass—her nectar, wind-blown, grieves. Alone, I bloom—my arch of ecstasy, lonely as love’s scars.

16

Field of sun-flowers overhead: The sparkling yellow grains bursting out of the stamens The wind rises a call to pollinate I tuck myself into a sheet-cocoon fly upwards out of the chrysalis.

0

Aug 13, 2018

Aug 13, 2018 at 10:16 AM UTC

semitone

starlit night in roofless tent

Field of sun-flowers overhead: The sparkling yellow grains bursting out of the stamens The wind rises a call to pollinate I tuck myself into a sheet-cocoon fly upwards out of the chrysalis.

10

I’m more afraid of losing you than I am of losing myself To force one to create; To turn the gears of the mind by force of will Ironic; That the source of creativity has become so artificial, Like plastic flowers in an outdoors garden, Not wrong, Not dangerous, Unsettling; One of these things is not like the other. Something is wrong; This is too familiar, I have been here before. Sometimes I feel like I’ve known you my whole life, Silence is a spirit which haunts me, Hold my tongue, Punching my gut, Every time brave words bloom in my throat, This banshee screams reality in my wind-beaten face. She is subdued by a fraternal bond, a weightless chain, Silence is tamed by the right company, The demon exorcised from my body, I am sanctified in brief lucidity, Clarity, however fleeting still exists, Despite the holes in your brain, The ultimate in body modification. Every ugly duckling is told they’re a swan, So they seek their kind, Unable to set roots, Assured that there is a kindred spirit, You just have to find them. You don’t know what you have until it’s gone, They ugly duckling becomes more shark-like every day, Unable to stop, a flower constantly about to wither, With age comes beauty, The Rhododendron expels an army of stamens, Male in essence, coloured neon pink, ******* objects of desire for the hungry bee, Honey and perfume, Comfort and poison, The children of flowers, Opposing in nature, Twins in function, Sweetening, attracting, saturating, Numbing the tongue, Burning the nose, So sweet I could ***** I want more time and you want more attention, Kind gestures, kind reward, So sweet that I’m sick.

0

Dec 19, 2013

Dec 19, 2013 at 8:07 PM UTC

LaraLewis

Sweet

I’m more afraid of losing you than I am of losing myself To force one to create; To turn the gears of the mind by force of will Ironic; That the source of creativity has become so artificial, Like plastic flowers in an outdoors garden, Not wrong, Not dangerous, Unsettling; One of these things is not like the other. Something is wrong; This is too familiar, I have been here before. Sometimes I feel like I’ve known you my whole life, Silence is a spirit which haunts me, Hold my tongue, Punching my gut, Every time brave words bloom in my throat, This banshee screams reality in my wind-beaten face. She is subdued by a fraternal bond, a weightless chain, Silence is tamed by the right company, The demon exorcised from my body, I am sanctified in brief lucidity, Clarity, however fleeting still exists, Despite the holes in your brain, The ultimate in body modification. Every ugly duckling is told they’re a swan, So they seek their kind, Unable to set roots, Assured that there is a kindred spirit, You just have to find them. You don’t know what you have until it’s gone, They ugly duckling becomes more shark-like every day, Unable to stop, a flower constantly about to wither, With age comes beauty, The Rhododendron expels an army of stamens, Male in essence, coloured neon pink, ******* objects of desire for the hungry bee, Honey and perfume, Comfort and poison, The children of flowers, Opposing in nature, Twins in function, Sweetening, attracting, saturating, Numbing the tongue, Burning the nose, So sweet I could ***** I want more time and you want more attention, Kind gestures, kind reward, So sweet that I’m sick.

50

pluck not the light that blooms tucked away in roses which illuminate the caverns of the heart for the petals glow with phosphorus the stamens spark embers embracing eons the stems are entwined in the fingers of the age old dreams of enlightenment the thorns draw the blood of angels and demons alike pluck not the light of the blossom which heals wounds wound 'round the soul touch not the graceful flower from an alternate gravity it is not ours to hold it's roots reach down to STARS SoulSurvivor (C) 9/4/2016

0

Sep 4, 2016

Sep 4, 2016 at 12:20 PM UTC

SoulSurvivor

light rose

pluck not the light that blooms tucked away in roses which illuminate the caverns of the heart for the petals glow with phosphorus the stamens spark embers embracing eons the stems are entwined in the fingers of the age old dreams of enlightenment the thorns draw the blood of angels and demons alike pluck not the light of the blossom which heals wounds wound 'round the soul touch not the graceful flower from an alternate gravity it is not ours to hold it's roots reach down to STARS SoulSurvivor (C) 9/4/2016

40

In the coolness of the evening Beside a glowing Sapphire Stream Slept a nest of fairies In the midst of fairy dreams. The night breeds dreams in the village Brought with the fairies' enchanting dust. Now they make the flowers their bedding. Exhausted and spent, but fairies do what fairies must. When the first light of day filters through the trees You can hear the beginnings of an enchanting tune, As the fairies wake and spread their wings Bringing on their morning new. They pollinate the stamens, dance around the stems. They giggle and play in the most dazzling way, Fluttering through the flowers and ferns, Hidden in the deepness of woods in private display. In the very center of the forest Stands a clearing void of trees. The epicenter of forever after; The High Court of the Fairy Queen. The Queen showers the Fairy Kingdom With magic to make them only appear To those who believe in mystery, To those who choose to hear.

0

Feb 15, 2014

Feb 15, 2014 at 7:35 PM UTC

amy-bells

Fairies at Sunrise

In the coolness of the evening Beside a glowing Sapphire Stream Slept a nest of fairies In the midst of fairy dreams. The night breeds dreams in the village Brought with the fairies' enchanting dust. Now they make the flowers their bedding. Exhausted and spent, but fairies do what fairies must. When the first light of day filters through the trees You can hear the beginnings of an enchanting tune, As the fairies wake and spread their wings Bringing on their morning new. They pollinate the stamens, dance around the stems. They giggle and play in the most dazzling way, Fluttering through the flowers and ferns, Hidden in the deepness of woods in private display. In the very center of the forest Stands a clearing void of trees. The epicenter of forever after; The High Court of the Fairy Queen. The Queen showers the Fairy Kingdom With magic to make them only appear To those who believe in mystery, To those who choose to hear.

24

Am I to be an anemone, with florescent blue petals, chalky stamens hid inside, dwelt within my calyx, I have waited impatiently to break free, dusted in vibrant blue. I digress, for I am not an anemone, Find my only friendship in bees, stripy buzzing vested bees, For I am a lady locked up, I am beginning to gush. (C) Livvi

0

Jun 5, 2014

Jun 5, 2014 at 7:53 AM UTC

olivia-kent

Budding

Am I to be an anemone, with florescent blue petals, chalky stamens hid inside, dwelt within my calyx, I have waited impatiently to break free, dusted in vibrant blue. I digress, for I am not an anemone, Find my only friendship in bees, stripy buzzing vested bees, For I am a lady locked up, I am beginning to gush. (C) Livvi

12

Last night's Wim Wenders film Wings of Desire, not starring Adam Sandler, great in the great tradition of Metropolis, Fellini, Children of Paradise, Ikiru, Open City. This is not comedy though it can be funny overhearing people thinking, the randomness of thought, data dots, circles with dots, sadness and silliness, silly sadness, confusion, rarely a clear thought, not one logical lucid progression. Deep art. I'd like to do better than my best so far, write something with hydroxyapatite that won't gather dust then become dust a neuron of sweetness, an early morning bicyclist, a lost ghost or fallen angel any form from which death might abstain or forego appetite. Appearing to meander from subject to subject is my practice. Looking for solutions to the equations. Learning the changes then forgetting them. The expressions emanating from mortal minds are broken stamens, sticky stigmas. Striving for immortality, some Spanish philosopher (who looks like Don Quixote) says he understands and it's alright. I will read what he wrote and probably agree but is he immortal? Not his body, but his thoughts. True, I say, but this also: Not his mind, but his thoughts. Unchanging and finite. Put them in a hatbox and pass them on as heirlooms. To overhear the secret thoughts of others. Sharing and unsharing electrons, disrobing and bathing. That is the purpose of poetry. Gargoyle twice. Did Wim give each thought its own voice or use the same voice for all thoughts, every whim.

0

Aug 11, 2015

Aug 11, 2015 at 4:50 PM UTC

robert-ronnow

Wings of Desire

Last night's Wim Wenders film Wings of Desire, not starring Adam Sandler, great in the great tradition of Metropolis, Fellini, Children of Paradise, Ikiru, Open City. This is not comedy though it can be funny overhearing people thinking, the randomness of thought, data dots, circles with dots, sadness and silliness, silly sadness, confusion, rarely a clear thought, not one logical lucid progression. Deep art. I'd like to do better than my best so far, write something with hydroxyapatite that won't gather dust then become dust a neuron of sweetness, an early morning bicyclist, a lost ghost or fallen angel any form from which death might abstain or forego appetite. Appearing to meander from subject to subject is my practice. Looking for solutions to the equations. Learning the changes then forgetting them. The expressions emanating from mortal minds are broken stamens, sticky stigmas. Striving for immortality, some Spanish philosopher (who looks like Don Quixote) says he understands and it's alright. I will read what he wrote and probably agree but is he immortal? Not his body, but his thoughts. True, I say, but this also: Not his mind, but his thoughts. Unchanging and finite. Put them in a hatbox and pass them on as heirlooms. To overhear the secret thoughts of others. Sharing and unsharing electrons, disrobing and bathing. That is the purpose of poetry. Gargoyle twice. Did Wim give each thought its own voice or use the same voice for all thoughts, every whim.

32

Magenta gown - flares in the stream of a August breeze. Petals aflow in the grove that looms on the edge of the seas. Sweet oleander and the starshine of unease. Nerium spawn - wade in the flames of afterlight. Leaves aflow in the grove where bewitching toxins invite sweet Pythia and the citadel of night. Still wandering upon pathways of doom where the laurel of madness is first to bloom. Magenta gown - stills in the dark of a dawning sun. Stamens aflow in the grove as the shadows of memory are overrun. Sweet island, the sacred threads are undone.

0

Jul 7, 2023

Jul 7, 2023 at 8:34 PM UTC

getinthecarpls

Oleander

Magenta gown - flares in the stream of a August breeze. Petals aflow in the grove that looms on the edge of the seas. Sweet oleander and the starshine of unease. Nerium spawn - wade in the flames of afterlight. Leaves aflow in the grove where bewitching toxins invite sweet Pythia and the citadel of night. Still wandering upon pathways of doom where the laurel of madness is first to bloom. Magenta gown - stills in the dark of a dawning sun. Stamens aflow in the grove as the shadows of memory are overrun. Sweet island, the sacred threads are undone.

14

Spring paled in the glow of soul-light, where She opened, awaiting the incoming tide, reaching for completion, A moment stalled between the intake of breath, A satin tangled sigh, lost, beneath prayers, burning desolate hours..... Lost shadows, fold into echoes, breathing the essence of lullabies, softly whispering, Rainbows beyond colours of ache; where sculpted passion, Spreads petals of dew dampened rose, beckoning the sun; and Stillness clings to tear stained glisten, awakening the fragile kiss of unborn tomorrows.... She begs morning from a whisper-moon, heartbeats, filling sighs dripped from her lips; Her strength brailed-sutures, silence the scars beneath corners of her dream; Dreams...the granules of heart's truth, the myths of her longing, Cradled in the pause of unspoken crave.... Southerly winds carry pounding rhythms that mock her heartbeat, So fragile, aching to touch the light in the distance, A flame of trust ignited by matchstick whisper-sparks; Pulled close, becoming airborne, flying through winds of chance; To find his heartbeat racing beneath her own..... Love sways in ripples of the river's embrace, beneath a canopy of night-tide, Soft, the hush of unspoken, understanding, becomes The inhalation of a kiss, exchanged in the ache of lips whispering, "Sweet dreams, I love you" So many miles between my pillow and his...... A wall of distance, steals touch from dreams, She traces the peripherals of night, resting her heart upon his pillow, Softly drowning in this unmade bed she lies draped in roses, Spilling soundless as pink stamens sleep, brushed delicate in, Timeless moments between the breath of night.......

0

Aug 1, 2012

Aug 1, 2012 at 5:01 AM UTC

janette

Beyond Dreams:

Spring paled in the glow of soul-light, where She opened, awaiting the incoming tide, reaching for completion, A moment stalled between the intake of breath, A satin tangled sigh, lost, beneath prayers, burning desolate hours..... Lost shadows, fold into echoes, breathing the essence of lullabies, softly whispering, Rainbows beyond colours of ache; where sculpted passion, Spreads petals of dew dampened rose, beckoning the sun; and Stillness clings to tear stained glisten, awakening the fragile kiss of unborn tomorrows.... She begs morning from a whisper-moon, heartbeats, filling sighs dripped from her lips; Her strength brailed-sutures, silence the scars beneath corners of her dream; Dreams...the granules of heart's truth, the myths of her longing, Cradled in the pause of unspoken crave.... Southerly winds carry pounding rhythms that mock her heartbeat, So fragile, aching to touch the light in the distance, A flame of trust ignited by matchstick whisper-sparks; Pulled close, becoming airborne, flying through winds of chance; To find his heartbeat racing beneath her own..... Love sways in ripples of the river's embrace, beneath a canopy of night-tide, Soft, the hush of unspoken, understanding, becomes The inhalation of a kiss, exchanged in the ache of lips whispering, "Sweet dreams, I love you" So many miles between my pillow and his...... A wall of distance, steals touch from dreams, She traces the peripherals of night, resting her heart upon his pillow, Softly drowning in this unmade bed she lies draped in roses, Spilling soundless as pink stamens sleep, brushed delicate in, Timeless moments between the breath of night.......

27

Hummingbird-hawk-moth and honeysuckle Dewey aroma wafts, whilst luscious colors lure Tubes of flower half full with nectar buckle Furred insect cares not posy’s thoughts impure Yet lured, yes lured, to stamens ***** quite more Fancied moth puts out its long filigreed tongue Anthers reaching for coveted wings to dust Objectifying prey, tempting juices corolla young Wild waltzing flight circulating pollen in lust Honeysuckle’s sweet sensual seduction a must Qualities as these voluptuous encounters Reveal to mind complex ****** intricacy Flower employing moth as vehicle mounter Carrying to other blossoms pistol’s ecstasy Nature’s chance romantic dance of delicacy

0

Apr 29, 2016

Apr 29, 2016 at 9:44 AM UTC

pj-poesy

Pimps And Posies

Hummingbird-hawk-moth and honeysuckle Dewey aroma wafts, whilst luscious colors lure Tubes of flower half full with nectar buckle Furred insect cares not posy’s thoughts impure Yet lured, yes lured, to stamens ***** quite more Fancied moth puts out its long filigreed tongue Anthers reaching for coveted wings to dust Objectifying prey, tempting juices corolla young Wild waltzing flight circulating pollen in lust Honeysuckle’s sweet sensual seduction a must Qualities as these voluptuous encounters Reveal to mind complex ****** intricacy Flower employing moth as vehicle mounter Carrying to other blossoms pistol’s ecstasy Nature’s chance romantic dance of delicacy

15

Nothing nears perfection like your smile; it is believed to be the make- up worn by angels, Your face; ethereally lovely; perpetually graced with the touches of angels. Your breath- taking beauty walled the template of my thought; enough not to forget how Heaven glows in your radiance, Life in its erratic form makes perfect sense in the ambiance of your presence. You are such that the planet is created around your meticulous tenderness, Waxing strong at your ambiance; such to believe in its ineffable gift of weakness. When you talk, no bird sings in the planet; every living entity stops to pay attention, The earth rotates in congruence to the luxuriant wave of your voice; dancing to its sublime perfection. Your laughter reverberate in such a melodic tune that the angels dance to its rhythm, Joyfully bonded in congruence with its flow; adoring every tune of its appealing beat like the psalmist hymn. Your lips deposits sweetness like pollen on stamens and pistils of my lips, Enough sweetness to inundate my worries and fears at a glimpse. You look at me with your serene but yet decipherable eyes and mitigates the stillness of loneliness in my opaque heart, As a lady, you are an ideal sample of perfection; as a human, you are the integral part of Gods finest art. I just can’t get enough of you; your love blooms with such sweetness like a long fermented wine, I can drink and drown in its taste of breathtaking sweetness; get tipsy and still feel absolutely fine. Your allure is offbeat; as indefinable as the coefficient of your inexhaustible beauty, You are attention calling, extremely attractive to the dense bones of my cardiac cavity. I love you and every unspoken word that you’ve ever thought of and every inch of flesh that is yours, Your kiss is life to my cells; no such lips multiply cells in a single touch like yours. My love for you is as indefinite as the sea; as vast as the galaxy of existence, My love for you continues to grow just like root of plant grows beneath the soil with sublime resilience. Like a Heron on fire; like a creeping mountain magma; my love blaze with such realness and sincerity, And can never seize to end; be conquered by life’s challenges or drown in the depth of eternity. Am stuck on you forever; forever bonded and inseparable like the Siamese twin for real, Because baby; my love is forever; always have; and always will be.

0

Dec 29, 2016

Dec 29, 2016 at 4:01 AM UTC

oguh-stanley

BEAUTY SONG

Nothing nears perfection like your smile; it is believed to be the make- up worn by angels, Your face; ethereally lovely; perpetually graced with the touches of angels. Your breath- taking beauty walled the template of my thought; enough not to forget how Heaven glows in your radiance, Life in its erratic form makes perfect sense in the ambiance of your presence. You are such that the planet is created around your meticulous tenderness, Waxing strong at your ambiance; such to believe in its ineffable gift of weakness. When you talk, no bird sings in the planet; every living entity stops to pay attention, The earth rotates in congruence to the luxuriant wave of your voice; dancing to its sublime perfection. Your laughter reverberate in such a melodic tune that the angels dance to its rhythm, Joyfully bonded in congruence with its flow; adoring every tune of its appealing beat like the psalmist hymn. Your lips deposits sweetness like pollen on stamens and pistils of my lips, Enough sweetness to inundate my worries and fears at a glimpse. You look at me with your serene but yet decipherable eyes and mitigates the stillness of loneliness in my opaque heart, As a lady, you are an ideal sample of perfection; as a human, you are the integral part of Gods finest art. I just can’t get enough of you; your love blooms with such sweetness like a long fermented wine, I can drink and drown in its taste of breathtaking sweetness; get tipsy and still feel absolutely fine. Your allure is offbeat; as indefinable as the coefficient of your inexhaustible beauty, You are attention calling, extremely attractive to the dense bones of my cardiac cavity. I love you and every unspoken word that you’ve ever thought of and every inch of flesh that is yours, Your kiss is life to my cells; no such lips multiply cells in a single touch like yours. My love for you is as indefinite as the sea; as vast as the galaxy of existence, My love for you continues to grow just like root of plant grows beneath the soil with sublime resilience. Like a Heron on fire; like a creeping mountain magma; my love blaze with such realness and sincerity, And can never seize to end; be conquered by life’s challenges or drown in the depth of eternity. Am stuck on you forever; forever bonded and inseparable like the Siamese twin for real, Because baby; my love is forever; always have; and always will be.

26

I have been living on a diet of cigarettes and digestive biscuits. My bowels empty into the System and my hunger concedes to the supermarket glow; bigger names under surgical lights. The operation was not successful. You can see it in the grey faces, upturned collars; that manic headphone stare. The lone smoker skulks a bus-stop like angry eczema on a bride's upper lip. I see it for myself now. How crowds congregate by light, stamens of fat and sachets of salt, then separate as sadness cuts through the delusion; working poverty and panic attacks on the hard kitchen floor. The ache of anxiety caught up with you again. Self-imposed catastrophes pile up as you find yourself walking against the grain of lunatics passing your way. The pupae gather and slaver at their freedom; you broke through The Promise. I followed the path of your recovery.

0

Feb 24, 2015

Feb 24, 2015 at 6:27 PM UTC

Edward-Coles

Recovery II

I have been living on a diet of cigarettes and digestive biscuits. My bowels empty into the System and my hunger concedes to the supermarket glow; bigger names under surgical lights. The operation was not successful. You can see it in the grey faces, upturned collars; that manic headphone stare. The lone smoker skulks a bus-stop like angry eczema on a bride's upper lip. I see it for myself now. How crowds congregate by light, stamens of fat and sachets of salt, then separate as sadness cuts through the delusion; working poverty and panic attacks on the hard kitchen floor. The ache of anxiety caught up with you again. Self-imposed catastrophes pile up as you find yourself walking against the grain of lunatics passing your way. The pupae gather and slaver at their freedom; you broke through The Promise. I followed the path of your recovery.

30

Perly Sunflower Everyone likes flowers, I mean why not?, they're pretty to look at, and smell really good, they come in all different colors, sizes, and shapes, I may be wrong, but I think they're even on grapes Red, White, Blue, Yellow and Pink, big leaves, small leaves, thorns, pistils and stamens, bees really love them, Bumble's, sweats and honey, the magnificent butterfly, and sometimes a bunny they're good to chew on and they smell fantastic, at least the bunnies and beetles think so, It's really hard to pick out a really special flower, you can run it through your mind for over an hour but there is one special one, that I've become quite fond of, It's yellow and brown and reaches out to the sun, basking in the brilliance of the morning sunlight, she really stands out, she's such a beautiful sight I had not paid very much attention to her previously, It took me a while to really notice, mixed in like that, then she grabbed my leg one day as I walked by, I looked at her more closely, she caught my eye we had a longer conversation that particular day, we chatted about this and that and everything in between, there was something special about this one with leaves so curly, and I decided to name her my Sunflower Perly we've become much closer over the last few days, not sure why exactly, just seems to be a connection, I make sure I stop by everyday to see how she feels, and she smiles up at me my Perly so real Gomer LePoet... - From Rhymes or Reasons Vol I

0

Dec 2, 2013

Dec 2, 2013 at 11:10 PM UTC

david-nelson

Perly Sunflower

Perly Sunflower Everyone likes flowers, I mean why not?, they're pretty to look at, and smell really good, they come in all different colors, sizes, and shapes, I may be wrong, but I think they're even on grapes Red, White, Blue, Yellow and Pink, big leaves, small leaves, thorns, pistils and stamens, bees really love them, Bumble's, sweats and honey, the magnificent butterfly, and sometimes a bunny they're good to chew on and they smell fantastic, at least the bunnies and beetles think so, It's really hard to pick out a really special flower, you can run it through your mind for over an hour but there is one special one, that I've become quite fond of, It's yellow and brown and reaches out to the sun, basking in the brilliance of the morning sunlight, she really stands out, she's such a beautiful sight I had not paid very much attention to her previously, It took me a while to really notice, mixed in like that, then she grabbed my leg one day as I walked by, I looked at her more closely, she caught my eye we had a longer conversation that particular day, we chatted about this and that and everything in between, there was something special about this one with leaves so curly, and I decided to name her my Sunflower Perly we've become much closer over the last few days, not sure why exactly, just seems to be a connection, I make sure I stop by everyday to see how she feels, and she smiles up at me my Perly so real Gomer LePoet... - From Rhymes or Reasons Vol I

32

Perly Sunflower Everyone likes flowers, I mean why not?, they're pretty to look at, and smell really good, they come in all different colors, sizes, and shapes, I may be wrong, but I think they're even on grapes Red, White, Blue, Yellow and Pink, big leaves, small leaves, thorns, pistils and stamens, bees really love them, Bumble's, sweats and honey, the magnificent butterfly, and sometimes a bunny they're good to chew on and they smell fantastic, at least the bunnies and beetles think so, It's really hard to pick out a really special flower, you can run it through your mind for over an hour but there is one special one, that I've become quite fond of, It's yellow and brown and reaches out to the sun, basking in the brilliance of the morning sunlight, she really stands out, she's such a beautiful sight I had not paid very much attention to her previously, It took me a while to really notice, mixed in like that, then she grabbed my leg one day as I walked by, I looked at her more closely, she caught my eye we had a longer conversation that particular day, we chatted about this and that and everything in between, there was something special about this one with leaves so curly, and I decided to name her my Sunflower Perly we've become much closer over the last few days, not sure why exactly, just seems to be a connection, I make sure I stop by everyday to see how she feels, and she smiles up at me my Perly so real Gomer LePoet...

0

Mar 11, 2010

Mar 11, 2010 at 5:20 PM UTC

david-nelson

Perly Sunflower

Perly Sunflower Everyone likes flowers, I mean why not?, they're pretty to look at, and smell really good, they come in all different colors, sizes, and shapes, I may be wrong, but I think they're even on grapes Red, White, Blue, Yellow and Pink, big leaves, small leaves, thorns, pistils and stamens, bees really love them, Bumble's, sweats and honey, the magnificent butterfly, and sometimes a bunny they're good to chew on and they smell fantastic, at least the bunnies and beetles think so, It's really hard to pick out a really special flower, you can run it through your mind for over an hour but there is one special one, that I've become quite fond of, It's yellow and brown and reaches out to the sun, basking in the brilliance of the morning sunlight, she really stands out, she's such a beautiful sight I had not paid very much attention to her previously, It took me a while to really notice, mixed in like that, then she grabbed my leg one day as I walked by, I looked at her more closely, she caught my eye we had a longer conversation that particular day, we chatted about this and that and everything in between, there was something special about this one with leaves so curly, and I decided to name her my Sunflower Perly we've become much closer over the last few days, not sure why exactly, just seems to be a connection, I make sure I stop by everyday to see how she feels, and she smiles up at me my Perly so real Gomer LePoet...

30

I shall have to let you go Your petals faded pink, barely staining parchment your saturate colour unsummered Those annual visits of birds, bees, the painted butterflies, giddy for our sticky stamens, spread our playfulness across the fields Autumnal colours your pink, my grey, wilted, limp, harbinger of winter and away Remember flower your spring stalk, surging power lifted to air. You shall have to let me go my painting, partner unscrolled, a single flash, illuminating lightning Done and gone

0

Apr 10, 2016

Apr 10, 2016 at 8:17 AM UTC

mike-adam

Chrysanthemum

I shall have to let you go Your petals faded pink, barely staining parchment your saturate colour unsummered Those annual visits of birds, bees, the painted butterflies, giddy for our sticky stamens, spread our playfulness across the fields Autumnal colours your pink, my grey, wilted, limp, harbinger of winter and away Remember flower your spring stalk, surging power lifted to air. You shall have to let me go my painting, partner unscrolled, a single flash, illuminating lightning Done and gone

23

I see her in smiles of the living room fens, When sunlight hits wet on the mire. Between the waves that lick the bights, On the steeps of the fjords as sound. In the vibrations of breezes on stamens, Like a gentle resonance of pollen on pistils. In the currents of a universe as a celestial, Through these fluctuations as mysteries. Deep out like some starry cosmos, Far out like some alien culture. On proverbial outskirts as hypothetical fringes, As like waterfalls after rains have swelled. By the puddles stirred together as unison, In the droplets as ink splatters join paper. Moon sets as like blues jazz records end, On mornings mist full as classical pieces. Like indescribable ideas as beautiful emotions, When pebbles fall as sand by the ocean. As worlds collide like harp concertos, Through chords of movement as cell division. For like den to hare as ribs to hearts, Like mind to matter as sight for hawk. Music of life, How I long to sing with you Into eternity & for perpetuity. What is the song, For but us as one? To stand alone, together. To be separate, nevermore. To sit with ourselves, apart. To be whole, hereinbefore.

0

Feb 25, 2025

Feb 25, 2025 at 1:17 PM UTC

manx-kronos-pragna

Spins Around The Pole

I see her in smiles of the living room fens, When sunlight hits wet on the mire. Between the waves that lick the bights, On the steeps of the fjords as sound. In the vibrations of breezes on stamens, Like a gentle resonance of pollen on pistils. In the currents of a universe as a celestial, Through these fluctuations as mysteries. Deep out like some starry cosmos, Far out like some alien culture. On proverbial outskirts as hypothetical fringes, As like waterfalls after rains have swelled. By the puddles stirred together as unison, In the droplets as ink splatters join paper. Moon sets as like blues jazz records end, On mornings mist full as classical pieces. Like indescribable ideas as beautiful emotions, When pebbles fall as sand by the ocean. As worlds collide like harp concertos, Through chords of movement as cell division. For like den to hare as ribs to hearts, Like mind to matter as sight for hawk. Music of life, How I long to sing with you Into eternity & for perpetuity. What is the song, For but us as one? To stand alone, together. To be separate, nevermore. To sit with ourselves, apart. To be whole, hereinbefore.

31

roses' petals kept him, twirled him inside white throws, blanketed him in relief and then sealed him up. they painted him in pollen, they walked him with stamens, and he never looked up, either, because his roses filled him. they throbbed thorns beneath him that never struck him, and he never snuck down, either, because he had roses to swaddle him. his roses kept him. ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^'

0

Dec 10, 2019

Dec 10, 2019 at 9:46 PM UTC

Hozue

A rose house

roses' petals kept him, twirled him inside white throws, blanketed him in relief and then sealed him up. they painted him in pollen, they walked him with stamens, and he never looked up, either, because his roses filled him. they throbbed thorns beneath him that never struck him, and he never snuck down, either, because he had roses to swaddle him. his roses kept him. ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^'

14