Best Pollinated Poems
The wind moves
It moves in many ways
How it moves
Like exotic scents of purple lavender
wafting 'neath a harvest sun
and the rise of sour yeast
inside a fresh baked currant bun
It moves like a vernal tea-rose
pollinated by wild bees
in forging threesome
or wood-trush wings
rustled through leaves
in a symphonic rainfall season
It moves like the early breath
of a newly hatched cygnet
It moves mysteriously
like a spinning moon
orbiting my little world
Like descending mist
veiling pearled dawn's birth
The wind moves
It moves in many ways
Like a half -bare shoulder
slipping through your embrace
Like starlit kisses
upon the melanchonic lines of your face
The wind moves
The wind moves in many ways
How it moves
Just like us
Just like me
Just like you
HEAVENLY JOY
As Spring returns joyfully for all,
A life-giving energy returns,
“ To all creatures great and small,
The Lord God Made them all.”
The prettiest trees with blossoms
Are fruit trees,
“He gave us eyes to see them,
And lips that we might tell,
How great is the Almighty,
Who has made all things well.”
Some trees crave for warmth,
To say goodbye to bitter days,
And welcome golden days of sun
Which have begun
From time immeasurable.
“The cold winds in the winter,
The pleasant summer sun,
The ripe fruits in the garden,
He made them every one.”
Fruit trees are prissy,
Radiant princesses
Who bloom and burst,
Their seeds dispersed
By creatures of every kind,
Becoming blossoms of
Vivacious pinks, crimson delights,
Delectable orange, virgin white,
Breath taking lilacs and purples,
And Lemon spirited yellow.
Their fertile blossoms pollinated
By both birds and bees,
Which every moment do they seize,
To turn these trees into a heavenly sight,
Under our African sun so bright,
Each tree surrounds
It’s fruit with emerald, green leaves,
Protecting them from harm and thieves,
Watered by the heavens,
“The Lord God made them all.”
For humankind to be enthralled.
Words and verses taken from the Hymn “ THINGS BRIGHT AND BEAUTIFUL”
Wautoma
The stillness of a gentle breeze.
The rustling of the fallen leaves.
Sun shines through the naked trees.
Flowers being pollinated by the bees.
Ashes waft up from the fire pit,
Where last night a large fire was lit.
Lunch cooked on an open fire.
Birds in a line perched on a wire.
Surrounded by the clean, frseh air.
The wind swirls and styles my hair.
Water pumped up from the ground.
Food grows in abundance all around.
The smell of smoke mixed with pine.
It's peaceful here, i'm feeling fine.
In love, too callow too young, broken apart by life’s torn and tortured terrain. Hearts beat in unison, will they be together again, fingers crossed—Poet
With fingers crossed,
confessions contorted seep lovely lies
spun timidity of untruth, vapid daunting denials
tussles tossed into love’s requited ring,
an aching hollowness when tender love leaves,
one will feel its brutal sting
Bestial bees swarm sweet honeycomb,
creatures lost in their pollinated pull of habitual humility
Ere serendipitous magic surrenders sparks
bated breath abides a quiet ache,
as shadows descend the psyche predicts,
a hallowed death, silence bends
With both, fingers crossed and with bated breath,
gestures still swollen in mouths of babes profuse
thus far never dies, only forgetful subterfuge
silenced sentimental souls, one departs
the other collapses, awaits with anticipation
against a waning world with holes in hearts
Echoes of past linger, an anxious expectation
a sacred secret within its power, an empirical upshot
pushed and pulled, swayed from an earlier them
The pull wins every time, more than ever they give in
telling of a palm reader
time p a s t
times f u t u r e
summoning, so be it’s
the time
i n b e t w e e n
a still point
of an apex u n s e e n
is the flame still there or
an illusion playing over time again
They say one must be thinking of the other
if a magical moment recurring
sweeps a promising prism, the scent of their skin,
a moments cabaret, never-end, ceases life sojourn
That our travels shall come full circle
two ships amongst fleets of stars
hearts the same find their way once more,
never swimming to another’s shore
destiny’s doom or divine decree,
embraced with open arms should be
what was the purest of love’s charms
Both wished upon the same star
unfeigned heads held high
they set each other apart
beckoning back from start
spirits unwavering in resolve
on this long night of dimming hope,
venture towards aurora dawning bright
warm and welcoming~
A little bee flew across the sea, to see what he could be
He herd a giraffe with a throaty laugh : still continued on his weigh
This pour we bee had too pee so he stopped on a Specific Ocean Eyelid
It took him severed ours to pollinated Pollynesian flours and than he flue away
If Yew can reed this rite yore a better POET then Eye
"Bag o’ sweets"
like fantales chewed slowly
the concept of what’s left
sucks on the sweet marrow of it
sticky caramel pages
stuck in between flowers pressing
the parallax pollen view of it
never hallowed
the wrappers flimsy, quaint
short stories unwrapped
violet crumbles
pollinated footprints
left like scorched fingerprints
melting moments
spooning the soothing
of deep thinking honeytraps
candy years
worn like necklaces
loved and worshipped like crucifixes
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
The snow before honey hued sun flees
The rivers begin to unfreeze
The fragrance of field flowers and bonfire is carried by spring breeze
Catkin begins to grow soon flowers will be pollinated by bees
Transverseing the linen blue visage of heavens is the flock of returning geese
The stillness of the meadow gives you false impression that everything is at peace
But wonders of both natural and supernatural never cease
And at spring time their output will increase
The amber colored leaves of ramifying willow stretch to the sky
They look like mosaic made from oceanic depths to anything that above them will fly
Its soul is like someone would make its cells transmogrify
Into bizarre form that in strange sideline of the mind will lie
The abyss of those forms to such immeasurable depths leads
That absolute counterbalance to make it real it needs
But neural flame those boundaries exceeds
And neural flame fueled none linearity is what this ability feeds
After gardening the inside of my house and home
In the morn I come out for more difficult gardening.
The flowers node their sleepy heads shaking the dew
And the aurora peeps up to climb a sky of blue.
The flowers tell me to look up, not to look down.
Once I plucked a beautiful rose to give it to my sweetie
It said, “Hey, you won’t gather my beauty by plucking”.
I was taken a little bit aback, it spoke again merrily
“Even if you crush me, my fragrance will radiate”.
As I start working, I hear chirping and little songs of birds
Rejoicing to see flying flowers, the butterflies
And the flowers looking like the trapped butterflies
Flirting around happily, not settling down for long
But longing to enjoy full happiness and not longevity.
The sunrise and the sunset are the times
For me to visit the garden where the God lives
It’s the best place to seek and feel him there.
It’s the place to bury troubles digging dirt
To rule a garden is as hard as ruling the world
It has made me a bit of artist, a scientist and a philosopher
As we come from the earth
And return to the earth
In between, is gardening we do.
But beware of wearing perfumes in the garden
Lest you be pollinated by the bees.
+++++++
May 3, 2014
Form : Free Verse
Dr. Ram Mehta
Seventh place win
Contest: My Garden by Linda
Time ticks on
and I am its minutes
crafting the hour
of poetic germination.
No longer will I write words
reminiscent of willow-like catkins.
But shall bloom true poetic flowers
whose petals shall be whorled
scented words pollinated with truths.
And whose essence shall be colored
in peace, love, unity—all cupped
together—housed in a sepal of liberty.
And my Edenic poetic garden
will be an ebony vase
overflowing with bouquets of beauty’s
clever creations—cultivated
in the fertile black soil of my watered soul.
Fertilizing rhymes,
Buzzing couplets in the Spring:
Pollinated verse.
The seed of war is planted, it is furrowed deep into the brow
beneath the cunning share of the patriotic plow.
It germinates a passion that sends out abberated roots,
nourished with propaganda, and weeded of the truth.
It’s fertilized with rhetoric and watered with lies that brag
of bumper crops of victory in the shadow of the flag.
The crop is cultivated out on battlefields to bloom
where it’s pollinated with shrapnel beneath a harvest moon.
The cycle’s now completed and as when growing season ends,
beliefs begin to wither, commitments begin to bend
and the fruit of life, so lush and ripe now begin to sag,
then drops down to caress the ground in the shadow of the flag.
Now comes a time of gleaning of the bounty of the yield;
that residue of victory that is lying in the field,
to the delight of maggots that ballet through the flesh
of a body riddled battlefield freshly blessed in death,
to the hum of ecstasy from the flies that zig and zag
above the bounty of the harvest in the shadow of the flag.
Valley’s of sleep that hold on to virtue through the years,
Distant from the arms of cities where vice and lust rule governments,
Where social values preach chastity to innocent hearts,
Where the earths depressions shelter Mr. and Mrs. Purity,
A v-shaped river valley of the virgins who roam there,
With rivers streaming from cities to valley’s that bleed desire,
Trapped they are by steep gradients with steep walls and narrow bottoms,
The cherubim keep shame societies there like puppets until the cherries blossom
and ripen,
Valley’s of cherries tucked away by pseudo morality, un-pollinated and stamen
locked up like relics,
Botanical gardens of exotic fruits and sacred flowers,
Kept there by valleys of locked up atriums where keys are closely watched by
bishops,
Vestal virgins with holy books as bosoms and nothing else,
In river valleys where streams of life’s juices are currents that flow in all directions,
Where church robes run from river baptismal’s of full immersion,
A sexual awaking blocked by dams that reach the heavens,
celestial ornaments of purity hung on swinging trees like botanical gardens to be
picked,
with winds that push and push until they are broken from branches falling below to
rivers that carry them away from brother and sister virtue,
sexual appetites subdued by chastity belt covered mouths that kill truth searching,
Sexual liberation, and the separation of the spirit hold separate experiences like the
sun and the moon,
finding the secrets that make the soul the soul requires a boat to carry souls
through rites of passage,
Horns are blown in glacial valleys to shake melting ice that flows leaving sediments
of intimacy behind to germinate in spring,
Human nature is the flower pollinated by romanticizsim that breaks away from
stems of adolescence and dogmatic aged tree branches,
Floating away in winds and water’s to cities where guilt is thrown off bridges,
rocks tied to feet where it sits at river bottoms like the Ganges,
only to resurface at the end of life’s death with purity and wisdom.
Wisping winds whisk whispered whimsies willows’ way.
By the pond, we ponder potent possibilities posed by pollinated passions.
As we divine dallying delights depicting developing days,
Moonbeams mobilize to mob us on the mossy mound.
A lap dancing molecule is dressed in a monocle. Such dainty prowess but naked no dress. No suit could taste an acrylic sheet as sheer fabric is often moving unseen across oceans,beams, and many window ledges. Who would then argue that a tempered sword could beckon in this era as most people have taken off wool and now the flock stands bare. A show of a shower. An increased discolouration of tyranny and a mounting view of hue. Mist not a moat. And take no orphaned lonely goat to a show. An AK47 is looking at a tent. And although rusted is trusted and thrown around in the air with great gusts of emblematic soul thrusts. Dupe not a diamond headed cobra. For ancestral wisdoms flourish if harm is perceived. Placing of the cloth should be attempted only when the stream is full. And the stench from a rhododendron printed garden is abominable yet can it be abolished? "yes" cried the 893 serpents, 500 belligerent buffalo, an earwig, and a giant sea turtle. Carve that then. Ha ha. It is to be the dutiful honour of the maiden of the eleventh ocean to place chorographical lines on necklaces. It is neither a weave nor a wand. And placing ones hands behind ones back is a sign not of cohesion it is detrimental to a bloodline. Once sold. A soldier fed is a soldier dead. And a field of archaically driven radio beams is a quagmire of hidden ancestry. Gone. But not gone. It is not the place for a nine foot leopard print jacket to state wisdoms at a ball or a garden party. It is the place of the feet. The dust. The trust. The formation of the ground. The true leaders denied but not denied. And all chaotically clam style ship faces and all Jacobean worshipping masonry brick heads placed the many many peas in a boiling pan then laughed. Sold manuscripts for money. Then drank blood in oceanic temples. Worldy wholly wantons. And a sack of germinating potatoes pollinated. Discuss not a wonder. Pulling pleasing playing partying patties pastries pasteurised. Slip slap slop then. Great. Fantastic isn't it? Feel not akin to a tired dilapidated drinks fountain? Xxxxx passing Paddington people xxxxx adjudicator adhere. Xxxxx vaporisations p y q Zr