Short Pistils Poems

Showered in tear drops
Their pink leggy drenched pistils
Flirt from lilac skirts...

Read More

Listen to poem:

Their fiery blossoms swayed against the sky
In breezy weather and Mama and I
played games, describing how
the long, gold-tipped pistils wrote,
on air, sweeping pollen poems.
No eye that saw could help but read.
Their blooms were red against the green,
And in the early morning wet we deemed
We saw the blood of homegrown heroes,
Who died for duty, deftly limned ---
Dreams to occupy two minds
That loved the moves, in wind,
Of red hibiscus past their primes....

Read More

Morning Glories dance with ease
trumpet flowers among weeds
twirling petals pirouette 
with a dainty, shy coquette. 

Swirling purples blend to white 
pistils are a bee’s delight 
glory visions, how they rise
from low canyons to grand skies.

Flowers dance to nature’s tune
crickets chirp and songbirds croon
lively leaves rustle, they are fans
critters spy the scene at hand.

Morning Glories dance with ease 
trumpet flowers among weeds. 




6/26/2019...

Read More

Ecstasy shivering in musical keys
Squeezing, compressing melodies
Relaxing., exhaling an ode to the joy
Echoes of delight, pistils and pollen
Breeze succumbs to whispers benevolent

I open my petals...the clouds are angry

Emptiness  fades the dreams of gardens
The Sun? ...just  a Mirage... a prism in the desert
Sculpting naked hopes in indigo of sadness
A requiem or a Never ending story ?
Uprooted  Soul exhales The Miracle of Hanging Gardens...

copyright@iolandascripca2012...

Read More

The moon is a yellow-green tonight like the pistils of a daisy.
I have no interest in sleep.
The wine is gentle on my nerves.
I think about her discreetly.
I imagine her on a couch in pajamas reading a thick novel.
It is wrong of me to think of her without her consent.
I hear the deer down below rustling the leaves.
They have gathered around to listen to John Coltrane.
She has that way about her that makes you want to think about her.
And the silky darkness makes it easy....

Read More

The exorcists were taking him
to pyre,
after eating the pollens,
the pistils,
columns of culture,
rosettes of centuries,
collapsed tropes.

Solid thorns were piercing the eyes
to cleanse the vision
of color-blinds.
It was the morphed sex
of a virgin goddess
humming to cool
the hot caresses.

Arousal of sleeping dragons,
promiscuity,
wood roses,
proactive subjects popping up,
which was it, besides bread and butter,
beds, only beds?
A semi-boiled love?


SATISH VERMA...

Read More