Long Pollen Poems
Long Pollen Poems. Below are the most popular long Pollen by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pollen poems by poem length and keyword.
The storm of the night was windy
Loud refrains of thunder with lightening
Willow shook with fright hair fell flimsy
Forsaken somehow by electrical power's might
So writing by faint oil lamp light
Thinking of the great who of yore
Read_wrote_under adversity
Strong people our ancestors who our genes bore
Touched in many ways by the storms presence
Oh! The coolness of the air's sweetness
Heavy overcast shading of sun's ray
Great start to delightful day
All plants refreshed ready
Their flowers a host to feed
Casting forth flower and pollen
For the bees, hummers to spread their seed
When did you enter into my life?
Was it when the crying baby in the cradle received a warm hug from her mother?
or was it when the children cheerfully ran home after the school's long bell?
When did you start sharing your creamy thoughts with me?
Was it when the baby nightingale gifted its first tune to the world?
or was it when the cutie caterpillar emerged out of its white house?
When did you take my hand into yours?
Was it when the sun secretly promised to enhance the glory of the earth with its light and warmth?
or was it when the green leaf slipped off its blanket early to get the food ready for its family?
When is that you spoke the words of love to me?
Was it when the love birds passionately kissed under the romantic twilight?
Or was it when the air smoothly carried the anther's pollen to the bed of stigma?
When did you even dare to steal my sorrow bag?
Was it when the mighty mangroves tried to stop the high rising oceanic tides?
Or was it when the fiery tigress generously caressed the lost bear cub?
When did you first kiss my forehead?
Was it when the proud mother rafted through the waters of her daughter's success?
Or was it when the nation proudly turned the pages of its history book?
When did you decide upon being my life mate?
Was it when the word "responsibility" stepped into the world of letters?
or was it when Adam took the onus of Eve in the garden of Eden?
I really don't want to be immersed in ferreting for answers to all these questions.
All I want is to live and be lost in every moment of this togetherness.
We are the saplings of the universe, grown from the dust of long-extinguished stars,
Branches of consciousness blooming in the cosmic garden of ephemeral existence.
The leaves of our thoughts rustle in the wind of time, whispering untold stories,
While the roots of the soul stretch deep into the fertile soil of collective memory.
The photosynthesis of emotions transforms the light of experience into the energy of life,
We grow slowly, eon after eon, adapting to the changing climate of reality.
We are ancient trees with rings of wisdom hidden in the trunk of history,
And at the same time, we are fragile seeds carried by the wind of destiny into the future.
The chlorophyll of our dreams absorbs the essence of the universe, nourishing us with miracles,
We perspire drops of inspiration that water the arid soil of daily routine.
In every cell of our being pulses the ancestral rhythm of nature,
And in every thought lies a whole forest of unexplored possibilities.
Sometimes we are ephemeral flowers, blooming for a moment in the garden of eternity,
Other times, we are ancient sequoias, silent witnesses to the passage of time.
We intertwine like vines around the pillars of existence, seeking support and meaning,
And we open like water lilies towards the infinite sky of knowledge and becoming.
In essence, we are plants of consciousness, rooted in cosmic soil,
Growing towards the light of understanding, nourished by the rain of experiences,
Spreading pollen of ideas in the wind of change, perpetuating the cycle of evolution.
We are the living garden of the universe, ever-growing, ever-transforming.
Fresh air, fresh air you will find
A warm spring breeze
There is some kind of quietness
And God will be there waiting
Gentle portions of missive cool but wholesome breeze
Pollen around the trees
Grasses blowing in the wind
As a fresh new baby bird sings
And I found all of this beautiful
Fresh air
Is an invisible space
Fresh air
held up by the wind
Lord I hope you can
Comfort me again;
And I found all of this beautiful
Fresh air
Is an invisible space
Fresh air
A light gentleness
As the wind balms it caresses
And God will be there waiting on
I gentle passions of memories cool but wholesome love
And I got me and the Lord says
And I got Him I'll keep singing sing
keep bringing on grasses blowing in the wind
A fresh new baby bird now sings
And I found all of this wonderful, so beautiful
An invisible space held up by the wind and grace
Lord, I hope you can comfort me again, again;
A light gentleness as the wind balms blows by it caress, fresh air
And I found all of this beautiful
Fresh air
Is an invisible space
Fresh air
held up by the wind
Lord I hope you can
Comfort me again;
And I found all of this beautiful
Fresh air
07/18/75
Written words & Arranged music by
James Edward Lee Sr.
base off of Fresh Aire/Mannheim Steamroller Album
The petal opens with a smile filling the room with its succulent fragrance and absorbing the radiant light with the stillness of the night and the shadows running down the wall really make you look small. The bussing bees with pollen in its wing flies around the light with a joyous hymn and voices resonate from abroad.
I felt a sudden passion radiating from my soul merging with something deep, it’s like a rudder on a ship steering its way above the big waves maneuvering the storm and finding the calm just before dawn. It is the turbulence of the soul that sometimes makes me feel bold, and when the tides are rising high I can connect with the vision in the compassionate sky.
I saw you standing there walking towards me and smiling. I wasn’t sure if I should trust this profound feeling or put on a facade with a greater meaning. I felt the ambiance of desire crawling up the breathless trees with the roots spreading apart and the branches rubbing against each other just before night fall. The leaves rustle and tussle against each other and the moment lit up and we become one and so the forgiving sky kept its promise.
The moment slowly drift away and we cross on the other side with traveling stars as our guide. We held each other hand clearing landscape in the distance with magic and awe spreading in our precious hands and the moment drew near.
Lilies of assorted colors arranged in distant rows following us wherever we go and the morning glory with purple and pink petals arranged in the center of the road gave us permission to trespass through the town and when the evening was done we made our way on the sentimental stage.
They came from different direction from every country and creed with loads of gifts and sentiments that could clear America’s debt and balance the budget. It could buy ten countries in a row and left trillions to run the promiscuous show. Good deeds are hard to find and when I hold on to something I know that it’s mine.
I can hardly believe that it’s true when they hand me something in a tiny bag for me and you, it send rays of light through the trees and a sudden warmth filled my stomach. The stage began to move and the crowds filled the open space around us breathing excitement and fun and we drift in a sentimental bliss.
Shower bathe the dust.
A soft cool breeze
Flows through crust
Of brown shed leaves,
Others gently fall
Like feathers
Beneath the shade
Of my old dad.
He's a giant
Among his kind;
As I lie beneath his roots,
His lad, the last acorn.
Years, has passed
With seasons changing;
It seems like an eternity
Mom was gone
So, there are no flowers
To pollinate
Make more like me.
Hungry squirrels
Poke around,
Fail, then tire,
Their desire to get me,
Drives them wild.
With a fuss
They flip their tails
And go away,
To come back
Try again.
Maybe I'll take root
Make more fruit.
4/20/2020
The Last Acorn Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: John lawless
Oak trees are monoecious, meaning that they have male and female flowers on the same plant. Unlike many other flowering plants, however, they have separate male and female flowers. The male flowers produce pollen, while the female flowers produce eggs that will be fertilized once the flowers are pollinated.
Butterflies, with their superb colors,
are the most amazing
in the insects's kingdom:
our recompense for boredom!
One can ever wonder
how they vitalize
the ungleaming air,
and without them
spring or summer
wouldn't be that thrilling!
Bees are the other laborious kind,
not quite beautiful and docile...
and they don't divagate a single mile,
bringing whatever food they can find
to their deep-dug hive by a shady oak,
not too distant from the hyssop!
They enter and exit
with incomparabe ability: protecting
their hard-earned harvest...
from others with an insidious intent!
Watching them swirling over
the dandelions' and clover's filelds,
which they befriend with their finesse;
while the sparrows seem clement,
letting them have a minimal share,
but the solicitious ravens
attack them and exile them
from that unwelcomed territory...
so unsympathetically
and unpardonably!
Be an observer of the laborious insects:
they don't work for wages or worry about money,
but they gather seeds to feed the unborn ones
and pollen to make sweet honey;
their existence is brief and full of usefulness!
Being small is not a deterrent to achieving less,
even the glowing fireflies have a purpose
in exuding bravado and mystery...
trasforming a darkenig sky above flowers and trees,
as light flees from the shadowy orchards!
Where are you staying these days? Are you doing fine? Send me letters.
One twilight hue rejoiced with the whimsical hand fan, bought from fair
How is that doing at your hand so late at night, like this? Send me letters.
Which page on the calendar is grieving with me, absorbed
Bright eyes, chanting gazes, yearn there as they adore you. Send me letters.
Which word muses along as hours pass, they play around as the day progresses?
Which memory plays it safe , whispering to be soaked in floodgate of the lovers’ lane?
Send me letters . Send me letters, Send me letters,
Or else, not any more words to forbid, cuddle time with oblivion to chime
The loser was this, me, who is relevant , there to be?
Even though I loved thee to find only mistakes with me. Mistake, mistake.
The gone astray dandelion, and the pollen, sprinkler delight within
My killer noises of the solitude, noon hours, through my five, What else , anyway?
In one life , wastage , how much of that will there be, anymore, anyhow?
One Beatrice , to inflict heartache, how much pain of that will there be, anymore, anyhow?
THE NEBULA IN THE MIRROR OF SLEEP
From the blue nebula I fell through bells of haze,
a stranger to the world's hour, through the river that dreams its own face.
Blind planets drifted in the milk of a living silence,
and the blood of light was growing inside ash-gray trees.
I dissolved into shadows with the scent of a shattered moon,
like liquid stained glass on a cathedral never begun.
Through the boundless void swam fish made of memory,
with scales from melted recollections and pollen of no category.
Your soul, a comet with eyelids of green velvet,
stirred its own echo through gardens no one ever loses.
And then I heard time blooming underneath the snow,
like a transparent lily teaching darkness how to see.
I undressed my being of its chimera bones,
and my heart drifted like a white and severe jellyfish.
In temples of melancholy, inverted springs were singing,
and clouds were sewing wings from abandoned glances.
Beneath the mantle of sadness, embroidered with salt galaxies,
our destiny was carrying a bell filled with distance.
I searched for you through the mineral sleep of blue stars,
where forests of angels grow on the skeletons of hermits.
But your face kept becoming smoke in mirrors without contour,
a god of black glass inside an uncertain empire.
Then forgetting — a flower with roots in the infinite —
slowly closed my gaze over everything I had crucified.
And I wandered through centuries like a flute without a song,
with the universe pressed against my chest, like an incantation.
The stars kept deep silence, in funereal levitations,
and shadows were giving birth to ships from sliding light.
I still carry in my blood that perfume of beginning,
when I lost myself in you and made myself lost inside myself.
And the nebula keeps growing in every thought that dies,
like a psychedelic garden of bells and distances.
Empty of life yet full of dream, I flow through cosmic echoes,
toward your unfathomable abyss, from one dusk into another.
There is a bumble rumble
off in the bramble ramble jumble
with bees hovering as the sedum flowers crumble,
flowers perched in fading colors reds and browns
as summer welcomes winter to town
and autumn begins to shut life down;
the buzz feed hums in less quiet gatherings
upon the petals of seedling jabberings
where moth and butterfly are now scattering;
the filibuster clusters in hive jive
store combs of honey to survive
and keep the queen protected and alive;
the working drones tightly huddle
their demanding queen to cuddle
pressed around to warm and snuggle;
and every flutter and wing shiver
promises more warmth to deliver
against the snow and cold of winter bitter;
this is the humble bumble's inner blossom
securing honey of flower nectar and pollen
their worker drone waggle dance most solemn,
preparing their bumble rumble quiet ensemble of autumn.