Long Stamens Poems
Long Stamens Poems. Below are the most popular long Stamens by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Stamens poems by poem length and keyword.
splashing. sunshine.
etched glasses with paint in mind -
water goo.
rose reds and blueberry blues.
as if handling a ginormous flatscreen,
the canvas placed.
splash...splash...splash
like a conductor with an orchestral skill.
the maestro puts on his visor and busies himself,
squeezes the trigger, the water bottle
set to diffuse. his plants flourish in their bath.
he sees them grow before his playful eyes,
stamens wear black mascara.
they soak up the sunshine
like bathing beauties.
twenty hues in ketchup-sized bottles,
arranged like dutch tulips on the dais,
hold still as the gardener plucks
a plastic stem with his hand.
appearing as a mad horticulturist —
this artist’s in demand.
3/23/2020
To Jules Verne
A man feeling drowse at the top of the mountain, fell asleep.
He dreamed dreams
emanating from floods of seas.
In remote droughts,
he gave his fruit of smoke
on a simple altar.
Curd quartz opened
solidifying thousands of stamens,
they glowed
like the warm reflection of the stars on the sand,
the man kept close watch of the r.e.m. hour.
life is the strife of one baptized
in the depths of all his memories,
yet he forgets before awakening.
Founding himself face to face
with another man holding a frozen fish
and a bucket,
they begun the climb down,
What do you fish when you fish,
he asked,
for a bolt of fire, said the man
as he released the fish into the ground
and rubbed his hands,
cryogenics?
no, fisherman.
In a meadow of wildflowers
On a hillside in the spring
I watched a ballet of butterflies
With various colors fluttering
The sun provided the spotlight
On this colorful outdoor stage
Accompanied by an orchestra of songbirds
With a fresh north breeze turning the page
The choreography was stunning
Their movements so precise
Each flower beckoning the butterflies
Using their beauty as a luring device
With butterflies exchanging partners
Kissing stamens and pistols, too
The cycle of Mother Nature
Through this ballet was coming true
I sat in awe of this beauty
Watching the colorful pageantry
Thanking the wonderful performers
For staging this show just for me
by Joe Flach written and posted on 4/3/12 for the Butterfly Kisses contest
vrrroom buzzzzzzzz vrrroom
cars in a circle
touch each other crash
bungled-stuttering engines like
frustrated flying insect?
bungle-stuttering
hits and misses faulty transmissions
Petals and sepals touching
Stramens and Pistils
developer seeds and fruit blossoms
O' hymenopterous succulent
chewing mouth parts
Petals and sepals touching
stamens and pistils
developed seeds and fruit blossoms
Encountering chance obstacle hindrance
In mid-flight voicing working flights
Suckculants flights buzzing
Stigma touches tongue of feathered vertebrate
Buzz-Buzz! Sucks-sucks suckculants
9/12/19
Where Bumbles Bounce Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: craig cornish
I know that people find me strange
I don't alway think the same
I look on life so different
Than others some time do
I look at what's around me ,
In a deep way ,
A flower is not just a flower
If you really look inside
It's creation is such wonder
And full of life and colour,
But when you look deep inside
You can see what makes its wonder
The petals of different colours ,
the stamens for the bees
You see it's not just a flower ,
As it feed the bees
So every thing that has life
We need to survive
Even if it's not perfect
It's important for life
It's made up of tiny things
That only God could do
And it's the same in life
With people to ,
To get to know some body
You have to look deep inside,
As just like the flower
There is beauty you can find,
You have to reach deep in there heart
To really get to know
And understand how it is
For people you don't even know
For some times there goes
The grace of god ,
Looking from the other side ,
And we feel lucky
We haven't got there life,
So when you meet some body
For the first time
No matter what , if there not ,
Perfect as you may like ,
Deep inside there is a heart
That is like the beautiful flower ,
That try so hard to blossom
Even if not perfect
It's nice to find the room
To place with in your heart
And you will then find
That person is in fill bloom
It goes to say that in life
Animals to have a heart
And they to will give you love
Even when your apart
For they to feel like we do
And think deep inside
They understand our feeling
And are always by our side
So next time you look
into your dogs eyes
Your see deep understandings
They understand you and your life
Susan gage ??
“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
Chalice of Darkness
Buried deep inside the blinded eye of midnight
My fugitive heart,
Homeless in winter’s frozen wrath,
Seeks an abyss with rotund borders –
A rounded vault of endorphic sacredness
Overflowing with elixirs of metamorphosis
Born from dark dry crystals of crisis –
Angles of anxiety –
Dark womb no sepulcher for magic of wonder.
Rotunda made with sacred walls of purple heart
Where stamens and pistils entwine,
Ferment to maturity in a lightless vessel,
To press against the wholeness of their birthing cup
In a goblet of a chrysalis catacomb
Ecstasy bidding my weeds of mourning
Flame within the grail of martyrs
To pollinate, despite shades of gloom,
Blooms rising above this cupola of blessings.
1-24-21
Contest: Chalice of Darkness
Sponsor: Chantelle Anne Cooke
Purple heart is a hardwood that when cut reveals a nature purple color.
A chalice is a cup. It is also the interior shape of a flower.
An unpretentious wild flower
Peeped out of the crannied stone ledge
A peach coloured blossom
With bright yellow stamens around her navel
She had an exquisite charm
With a seductive smile
So pretty that she could put to shame
Her garden cousins stationed high
She nodded her head in the breeze
As if to invite the footloose ramblers
Who might chance to pass that way
To feast on her beauty
And taste her fragrance
Ere she falls down dead
Sans parting knell
Sans ceremony
In that wilderness
In another day's time,
Unnoticed,
Untouched
Unsung!
Sep.3. 2022
A Brian Strand Premiere Choice Poetry Contest
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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.
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