Long Stamen Poems
Long Stamen Poems. Below are the most popular long Stamen by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Stamen poems by poem length and keyword.
I was born in a temple in Vietnam,
but the stars knew my name before I had one.
They planted me in a priestess's hands,
and the priestess planted me in the soil of elsewhere.
The Avengers called me strange.
Not unkindly—they simply could not read me.
I had no rage for them to measure.
No hunger they recognized as human.
Thor spoke thunder and expected echo.
Iron Man counted his grief in decibels.
Captain America dreamed in red stripes and duty.
And me?
I dreamed in pistil and stamen.
In the slow mathematics of pollination.
In the patience of a green limb
waiting through winter.
They saw a woman who touched their temples
and whispered futures.
They saw hands that turned bullets
into rose petals.
They saw the way I loved the swordsman—
a broken man holding a sharp thing—
and they called it pity.
They were wrong.
Desire for me was never the body's crude arithmetic.
It was the *knowing*.
The knowing that love is another form of prophecy.
That to give yourself to someone
is to read a death you cannot prevent.
I am the Celestial Madonna.
Which means: I am not a mother yet,
but the universe is already listening to my womb.
Which means: Cotati taught me to grow kingdoms
from a single seed and silence.
Which means: when I dance,
the stars adjust their coordinates.
They asked me once: *Why do you never raise your voice?*
Because I have heard the hum of the thing that made us.
Because anger is a small room.
And I have lived inside the root systems of planets.
I touched the Vision's hand once.
Cold. Synthetic. Utterly alive.
He asked me what I saw.
I saw him not as metal or mind,
but as the question electricity asks itself
when it is almost a soul.
That is my gift.
To see the almost.
To love the nearly-born.
When I leave Earth for the stars
to bear a child who will save or end everything,
I will not wave goodbye.
I will simply stop pretending
to be small enough for doorways.
And the Avengers will finally understand:
she was never strange.
She was just the only one
who had already read the last page
and chose to stay anyway.
Petunias share shades of blue
with velvet centers gilded gold.
And white pinstripes enhance each hue,
marking petals vivid and bold.
Roses boast scented scarlet swirls
with crimson centers at their hearts.
And velvety, magenta curls
that exceed the sum of their parts.
Tulips mimic majestic bells,
flaunting colors from plum to fawn.
And their waxen beauty excels
in tints; only Nature can spawn.
Daffodils form trumpets mellow
with green pistils, cinnamon crowned.
And stamen are dusted yellow
where nuggets of pollen abound.
Flowers are Nature's living gems,
a plethora of rare jewels.
And in clusters or single stems,
when all is said the flower rules.
(Quatrain)
11/17/2015
People ask how this yearlong will come
to pass, of which parts are the triumphs
and stench of learning... of why blossoms
drop on cobblestones ravaged
by a wildfire tearing velvet buds,
flatlining: the male stamen and female pistil
barren from incessant drought.
And why of all things, must god-children
endure anxieties trapped in houses
yearning to grasp a firefly on the lane,
to hug grandparents, not from a distance
but...but in the flesh of every day--
Add into this equation an insatiable need
for human connection where friends, kin gather
like a warm herd exchanging intimacies
skin to skin, mouth on mouth, arm in arm---
This is limbo within the inferno of the living,
while Pilates from urban jungles rinse their hands
absolving themselves from mortal sins...
an epoch of how time's pleasure or pus could pass.
Craig Cornish's 2020 Contest
5/23/2020
1
I say I'm a designer of systems, plans
Man's
Parts that stand together, set in place to serve
Trees and planets, too, which are unplanned by us
The observant, wise man
Tries to understand
Name the parts, pistil and stamen
Rocks, eskars
Elements.
Winter is shuddering to an end, mud roads
Cardinal pairs
Robin flocks return that will soon pair off
Buds
Soils swell
Will I live to smell it again, learn the lobelias
Understand and name the parts
It ought to be a great comfort to be so insignificant
Go among weeds, a wind
Thinking to myself
One's never alone
A dichotomous key is needed, a book of twigs and fruits
Accumulated over time and generations
Without it mine would be a blank mind
To be blank but knowledgeable
Without any machinery
In a perfect silence
That is the definition of death for which we have only to wait
But in my panic last night I thought death's inert
Grace requires consciousness
Hold on long to the senses
At least a century, maybe more
A boy hanging upside down from a fence at sunset, counting clouds
2
Now we go to our daily practice
And chosen disciplines
Sustained by the satisfactions of being good men among our fellow men
Women
Choosing to do this and not that
With the finite days allotted us that at first seemed like a lot
They're now few
But the chickadee's life to the chick and the cankerworm moth's to the
worm
Seem as long to them as ours to us
What question am I asking today
By now, past half a century, I should have chosen a discipline
And been satisfied
To be a war president one must have war
May you live in interesting times?wish or curse?
Squirrels, high in oaks,
Fiber, fat and protein in acorns
Strong runners, leapers, climbers
Should stay off the roads which some cannot avoid being where they're
born
Natural selection is occurring
Those that look for machinery in motion
Hesitate or don't as needed before crossing
Live in larger numbers than those whose modus operandi's
Guessing
The ravens eat the fur and guts of bad guesses off the roads
I impose my own small order
Having chosen mountains over plains or shore
Go to my daily discipline
And estimate the motions of the seas and stars
Measuring my satisfactions by my children's satisfactions
"Immaculate"
I’d like to write something
beautiful for once,
divinely dripping with honey
and milk that washes white
like stamen juice over the uncut,
the bees all come to drink
the heady dew,
stroking their black down
over dusky aubergine-eyed
blue forget-me-knots,
the nots touched by thorns
those slippery rosary beads
coddled warm between the hidden
breasts of petulant nuns
bending in their black habits
unfettered roses
pistils sticky with stigma
covertly kneeling before their
uncovered dreams
of nakedness blanketed
in the sun's light
warm and flaming
as a forbidden kiss
plucked passionately
immaculate
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
pistil.
stigma.
Lines more lunatic than the sun – 7
playing on the raw-coal
the under-clothes of the airhostesses
continue to sing a song
even-then the germination of the almonds
can never become the sugar-candy
made of palmyra
may be they don’t want so
until and unless any night-guard comes
and deposits the RBCs of the jack-fruit-leaves
within a wrinkle-free hand-glove
you do absorb all colours
from the soil of the earthworms
and thus unfold your open hair
along the air of this cloudy day
then none but the gughni-sellers
will get back their names and titles
there is from the sky of the timber of hog-plum
it has rained even last night
the streets are wet
the trees are wet
there is splashing mud in the low lands
those all full-of-incidents
if you wish
you can send them
to the introduction of a proposal against war
i’ve never heard that
to take the responsibility
of the starving south-east
the rain has put down its crown
Lines more lunatic than the sun – 8
all on a sudden
one day again
i face the isabgool
the own fountain of vraj-kishore
may be, wants to fly away in such a manner
to another afternoon
my tiffin-expenses cann’t discover that valley
till now
from where
it is said
all night-gowns begins
then i’m sitting
with my hands and legs spread
in the sun-light
filled with
the sound of chopping of cabbages
on the flowers of the sun-plant
that are in-between the wife and her mother-in-law
i exercise my intelligence very much
if the question of my security is raised
it is only a ‘for-God’s-sake’-like adjuration
the knot of a white handkerchief is so much heavy
i don’t know earlier
my knowledge of using prosody
getting amalgamated calmly
with the stamen used by the sleep
Form:
Delicately, I hold the soft smooth petals
Tracing each edge of the curve
Gently enough not to render any harm
Beckoning is the silky feel of inches swell
Can't help to sweat
Can't stop to tremble
I maximize the wonderful experience
Shattering defense with strong willed cause
Panting and blowing
Breath stopping with each alternate pause
Petals bloom in bright bloody red
Rockets of joy from a travel hours of thorns
The one pistil blossomed with life
Made all expectators clap and yell
The stamen soothed the petals
Tenderly lovingly and caressingly
By
Olive Eloisa
5:10 pm
May 05, 2015
------------------------
Sponsor Jerry T Curtis
Contest Name N/A
2nd place
With wind wisps, she sways like a tipsy sailor,
dressed in queenly array that'd impress any tailor,
with gentle petals, as soft as a lofty gown
and stamen arranged like a radiant, jeweled crown.
Bachelor buttons are sown, as if to a lovely garment.
The garden ground's an art, like a patchwork raiment.
Her highness is surrounded with likeness guests,
all seeming to await beauty pageant quests.
Their stems reach high, like skyward towers.
Cosmos explode like star-spangled showers.
Roses lift generously to sift their sultry scent.
Ornamental bluebells hang within their element.
Carnations wave at humble bumblebees,
who speak softly to poppies and daisies,
who reach the gaze of cheerful children,
who teach awe and simplicity again and again.
Be wild me
tighter than air in a balloon….are we?
O2 squeezed between the lines and the coded dots n dashes
We vibrate like the long metal fingers of every rake …on earth
Dirt- grated
….the sound of the pebble as the tines draw across it-
our love song…a mice minuet in A minor
Love me …love me not…
the child chants …the petals fall …each drafting gently away
…floating and dipping in water troughs and valleys
Loves me…loves me not…in a flipside world…
it is all the same
The flesh of your spine rises beneath my hand…drawn up taught….arched and aching
Just as my fine feathers are
I will settle them back at my sides in neat rows…camouflage
raging storm silenced …salty seas and buckling knees spent
your cranium passion…your thought’s desire…your mind manipulation and melt
drives hard steel wedges into your sides…they belt you in…to your electric chair of need
voltage rising
…your straight jacket fashioned to fit snug
fists around your esophagus
somewhere down the hall a metal edged fan …bent from vibration drags it’s fingernail down the black board of the frame
you wince…….I cry out…rock n chant
he loves me…loves me not
We are down to the stamen and stem of it now
No more petals for sale, borrow or rent
(written for and inspired by Silent One's contest but too late to enter it and not really the right style for that contest)
50,
Is it enough, is it ever enough?
Soft bristled paint brushes
swirled about in a Van Gogh'd vision,
a strawberry sensation of love
strewn about her canvas
where I lie
in the vast of her bosom
running my fingers through her hair
naked we become one
in collaboration
of life and of love
a pure union of soul
where eagles scream
and egos let go
rejoiced in heavenly bliss
as I slowly and steadily
enter into the canals of fate
a path that leads to richness,
adventure, fulfillment
of dreams, fantasies, living
tie me down with soft ropes
explore every inch of this body
in your native tongue
honey drips
falling onto the the pages
tip to tip
petal to stamen
stung
beautiful blue green opulence
understood
the shadow of the moon
kissing
closing of the eyes
vowing
grasping
an outstretched hand