Best Stamens Poems
Through frayed seams a rosy dream bleeds
needled and re-stitched
with threads of time and love and hope..
and still — a rosy dream bleeds
the miscarriage of a promised rose garden
leaving me bereft but for entwined bands of gold –
contemplative thorns tempt my angst
moony moody barbs bristle twigs of tenderness
sigh— it’s not a laurel wreath worn atop my brow
as I sit alone with a squeamish friend
my blue-sky-to-storm-cloud introspection —
as your distant eyes deserted mine long ago
Winter's beast laid bare a cerebral graveyard
lost you wander amongst laid-to-rest neurons
worn headstones of thoughts and laughter and memories…
you wonder why they hide — why they died
the crackle of cognitive circuitry quiets
branched-lightning fades from unwitting clouds
and aged roots of reality perish
our red rose finished fallen to pieces
you-and-me-petals a messy heap like old potpourri —
yet in dark’s hush love’s scent lingers on our dream pillow
Oh nostalgic sepals embrace me!
my heart yearns to return to the bud
to the fullness of our June bloom —
instead, I bury desires beneath life’s litterfall;
amid pollenless stamens and leaves of one-sided reveries
and cage my fear my despair behind purple thistle facing the light
as I free a smile for you, my love —
you my sun that still parts the rain-bearing nimbus
Stamens and pistils
delicately poised
Shamans and pistols
making too much noise
Soft buzz preferred,
a silencer’s desired
Pollinator’s sense
the triggers just fired
Nectar brings balance
agape open wide
Willing the seeker
to do laps inside
Comes with a snag
also stitch in the side
Fulcrum of a rose
the thorn realised
My soul’s not a flower
just gives and takes
Wants what it craves
accepts all, even fakes
Opens too early,
closes far too late
Can’t tell if I’m full,
yet knows when I’m sate
Possesses a thorn,
and stabs by design
Fulcrum of my soul’s
human not divine
Protects at all costs
only thing that’s mine
Not pain or loss,
just my life to define
Do raindrops know
when dandelions cry
flowing flaxen feelings
like honeysuckle hues
cuddling a marigold morning
Will weeping willows wake
parched parades of poppies
silted by searing seasons
stigmas of seedless seduction
shadowed by stormy sunsets
Can rainbows of renaissance
twist tulip tongues
so stamens of wilted whispers
oscillate osmotic overtures
of pistil pardon
Do thundering trumpets
mourn misty meadows
when dandelions cry
tides of tawny tears
widowed in floating fields of life
On a dew kissed morning,
while walking through the country path,
I chanced upon an unpretentious weed
peeping out of the crannied stone ledge with a flower
a lavender blossom with bright yellow stamens
around her navel announcing the mirth
that breathes itself in bloom.
Though lonely, she was a symbol of resilience
In many eyes an intruder, but she could put to shame,
her garden cousins, stationed high-
a testament to love, showing life’s art.
Away from mortal gaze, she survives,
to cheer hearts and waft a mild fragrance.
She nods her head in breeze
as if to invite the footloose ramblers
who might chance to pass that way
to feast on her beauty and taste her fragrance,
before she falls down dead in that wilderness
in another day’s time,
unnoticed, untouched, unsung!
flaming red petals
a yellow sunshine spreader
bee attacks stamens
with bottom-feeder passion
his honey-business awake
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Midwinter’s blush—not born of frost,
but coaxed from shadows when days shrink
to slivers. A star-shaped constellation
pressed between panes, each scarlet leaf
a silent flare against winter’s gray.
Some call it flor de Nochebuena,
flower of the Holy Night~
as if crimson could hold reverence,
as if a plant remembers angels
or the weight of a child’s breath.
Yet here it stands: unbothered by theology,
a bold geometry of joy.
Watch how its gold-tipped stamens
ignite like votives~
not praying, simply being light.
"WHITE LILY"
When the first
snow-white lily
sprouted from drops of milk
spilled from Hera’s breast
and on her lap sweet Hurcules
rested, baby feather fingers touching
she smiled a surrogate mother’s
fantasy, to make time stop still
reached her hands to
touch the Heavens
creating something of her own
this not from her body torn
her very own Celestial Galaxy
the Milky Way was born
White Lily
lilium
leirion
lilium
leirion
golden ochre anther
Venus rose from
sea of foam
envious with eyes of green
marred it’s beauty
with male pistil
ardent jealousy
White Lily
I am the Rose of Sharon,
Lily of the Valley
Sings the Song of Solomon
Flowers of the Field
White Lily
Springtime Nazareth
blessed Time of Flowers
Our Lady and Our Lord’s
Holy Annunciation
Gabriel fresh from Heaven’s Gate
white petals at his feet
Shining Light Illuminates
Announcement Incarnate
White Lily
Black Night of the Soul
Garden of Gethsemane
not hiding from His enemies
He looks upon their
clean beauty as He prays,
speaking secrets to their stamens
He smiles at their response
3 petals each flower displays.
White Lily
Sacred blood spilt on soil
The water from His side
drink His tears filled with blood
His white robed
Apostles of Hope turn to HIS Light
now they're sanctified
blooming from His Spirit
death denied eternally
WHITE LILIES
(Lovejoy-Burton/2018 Jan)
1.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9JIDoEC2pUU
1 John 5 (NIV)
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.
The drunken pen knows no boundaries, flowing from one page to the next, one idea to the next never stopping too long in one place. It longs to write fluffy, flowery, big descriptive words that require a dictionary and thesaurus to understand but instead it produces only bite size words of reality. Flares of genius arise to be suddenly dashed by memory loss and distraction, leaving behind inferior pieces of work. One day this pen will rise above forced rhymes, poor punctuation and every other criticism that can be bestowed upon writing and a masterpiece will evolve. And what exactly is a masterpiece. What is beautiful to me may seem otherwise to many. Looking at wilted lilies I yearn to grab a brush and paint the white petals and bright orange stamens as well as the deformed ones that have turned brown. My pen can capture the same image only it struggles to describe a reality that seems boring, beauty missed in the imagery. Expressing important aspects of subjects is my main goal but my pen often fails me. Knowing many truths, my pen and paper struggle to hold the facts - is this because many will not wish to hear them. My pen fears judgement. Can a scientific mind scribe poetic or will a drunken pen be blamed for imperfection.
Written October 2, 2012
For Joann Grisetti’s contest
“Drunken Pen Part 2”
Although flowers bloom it’s awkward to say that they are flowers
because they are not flowers, but thorns disguised as yellow pistils
and stamens surrounded by the petals made of pieces of colorless
paper. Moreover, their fragrance bears no meaning at all because
they bloom in the night,
and each time when the scorching sun brands the cactus’ skin
it cries out loud from the pain of the thorns pierced through
it’s burning flesh to form renewed skin,
then, surprised by a heartrending cry,
the birds flap their wings to fly in the air abandoning the cactus.
However the birds may be, they only are lifeless drones
flying over a desert. And since they are lifeless, they
don’t know the meaning of life, and that’s why they only see
the thorny flowers standing open arms in the midst of the desert that is
filled with ashes of death—nuclear wastes, abandoned poisonous chemical
solutions polluted waters that drive lives to the edge of death.
To the saguaro cactus standing in the midst of man-made miseries,
nonetheless, dreamed to have an audience with
the mystic Queen of the Andes,
and in order for him to fulfill his dream,
to have a long journey toward the south moving along with the sun,
and then, after crossing the delicate line marked zero,*
climbing up the Andes for a higher ridge that is higher than the drone.
And as you go higher the wind starts to rise;
when the wind gets stronger to cut through the skin,
then saguaro’s thorns start to prick its own body from
loneliness unbearable,
and that is the time ripe for
the mystic Queen of the Andes to reveal herself
from the clearing fogs, behind the thick and heavy veil of clouds.
She appears in a dress embellished with tens of thousands of
not overly extravagant or pompous but graceful flowers that
bloom centenary.
She is the tree, immaculate and with inviolable dignity,
she bears the blooms in the serenity of the high and deep mountain.
Today too, the saguaro cactus under scorching sun dreams
a dream of seeing the elegant Queen of the Andes someday,
even afar it, stands as ever.
Enveloped in the cloud, though Queen hides her image
she has left her sweet scent behind,
in the sweet scent she left, the thorn flower saguaro stands
willing to wait another one hundred years to see her again.
*Zero: The Equator
Picasso painted me ugly.
Two lips slung over a rusted hanger.
One eyebrow burnt for attention's sake.
Let's tell Grandma how much fun we had today.
Picasso is still at work.
Monet swallowed your stupidity.
Five teeth missing and nary a barbed retort to bend.
One un-photographed smile was left behind.
Let's tell Grandpa his prized lilacs are in mourning.
Monet is still at work.
Seurat poked your larynx.
The roses in your hands may be the thorns in your side.
Ivy and Sumac spice the teas I serve the unfortunates.
Let's tell Auntie June her parasol spikes are dull and snapped.
Seurat is still at work.
O'Keefe smears one simply.
Stamens and pistils shoot the misanthropes dead.
A spare will be guarded for the one's I've missed.
Let's tell Uncle Ed the lessons you've learned today.
O'Keefe is still at work.
DaVinci played baccarat with Stalin.
Swelled hands made it difficult to paint distinctly.
Dirty tongues are as useful as frayed dishrags.
Let's tell no one anything.
Let's tell no one nothing.
(naughty, bastard boy -
using double negatives in one sentence).
Pay one tuppence to the tillerman
and remind the collected town criers -
I'm at work.
We're all
at Work.
In this time , this town, you'd grow
In this town, this time, you'll feel at home
your poor plenty more than rich enough
to crack the faultline,
your cup half full, half overflowing.
You stretch your legs and wings and mind and laugh
Find friends too easily,
and hand frayed throw cushions
to basement strangers.
But is it your life?
Tomorrow you'll return to the terraced houseboat,
to the gulls and the buoys
and there's a fresh breeze blowing
through fused stamens along the towpath,
coaxing brilliant notes
from your empty letter box
and spinning ancient coins
under a tear-shaped moon.
The chimes are natural now
not flat, not sharp, not late,
not ringing through your dreams like an ice-cream hearse.
He'll phone you at the weekend
She'll pop by with that book, that child, that unfinished thought.
And you'll drink methode champenoise
straight from the bottle
Like winning at Monaco
or from your shoe,
and chase your other lover
upstairs.
Now write a letter to yourself
and copy it to the moon.
Take the ferry to the island
and drive back across
the broad causeway.
In this time , this town, you grow
In this town, this time, you feel at home
“Morning Star”
There, a Morning Star rose in the East
and reclined in the left side of my brain.
I called them Morning.
They called me Butterfly,
pinned me to the wall like I was an example
of what they thought love was like.
Prisoners are us, in this state of undress.
There is some pleasure in the pain
of a heart in full thrust, bursting open
like a dark, dark red rose.
The perfume piercing all senses,
intoxicating in full bloom, soft, full of dew,
inviting a kiss at close quarters
in their hard velvet time.
Face turned upwards
towards the wide smile of a burning sun,
arching Morning Stars and the immolation of fiery whispers
against the neck of a Van Gogh mind, the eyes fragile green stems, Monet irises swaying,
flecks of ultra-violet scryed within the treasure-pools of a twin flame reflected.
Gold stamens leave their trails like honeyed addictions, deliciously wicked;
Ochre-yellow ribbons tied around the tall stories of a whispering Oak forest,
the boundaries breaching the fire-shot hares and their blue-grey ghostgum sighs.
The ancient laws of desire -
distinguishing lust from love -
swallow us undigested, swept under the rugs of their Gideon pages.
Preying upon us, strange cardinals in their cloistered nests
in such complex states of red unrest, shake the boughs, to move leaves like fingers
that trace noughts and crosses over our naked hearts, sowing seeds in our breasts,
sliding their weathered veins all over our minds, shattering the blanched crystalised,
making the limbs of our stories flesh-borne, come alive.
We kiss under fresh, poisonous holly like it’s a new year.
The risks that we take for love,
the road to hell is paved with good intentions –
wearing fleece o’er wolf’s skin –
as below, so above;
The course of a full day never lets up.
The Sun rises in the east,
The Sun sets in the west.
We burn in between.
The embers of fire glow within the Moon’s luminescence,
ignis et aqua arriving like a tide hushing the prescient ocean
rocking the slick undertow - lux noctis aeterna sub silentio -
like a clam to be opened, a pearl to be plucked
from the fathomless depths of another dimension.
Over and over again, small victories are given up.
The shell discarded.
ex tenebris lux
Candide Diderot. ‘26
The petals open perfumed
the stamens offer pollen
fruit grows to full round ripeness
petals dry fruit falls
©GG 27/08/2013
flowers, soft petals
the provocation of bees -
stamens, quivering
© Gail Foster 22nd May 2018