Short Pollens Poems

Gossamer pollens fly, 
Making oft the florist sneeze, 
Beneath a bough too high....

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A chromatically colored specter
in flight, lands upon bluebells
in the garden; a statuesque palette
drinks the nectar from flowers;
collects pollens for crafting
her own gardens nearby.
The delight of a stained glass winged
butterfly, is ever profound;
nature’s sweet gifts of grace.

...

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Kneeling upon a smile to touch the vine
Scentful seeping in blissful sensation
Leering beauty and plucking temptation
Just one piece of nature's heaven divine

Arose to steal a kiss from sunlight's ray
Like morning's dew upon a suffused glow
Facing the zephyr where the blossoms blow
Where pollens aflutter towards the bay...

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O! My love, come lie on my lap;
And tell your besot stories…
Q! Frozen breeze, come tickle us;
And lilt your mellifluent songs.
 
 
We are roses in Venus’s garden;
And our souls are honeyed pollens.
We would seize every moments;
And really see it…live it and inure it.
 
 
Dear! Death may swipe our bodies;
But snarl betwixt souls are perennial.
Remember and lilt the song again;
Love is perennial but life is ephemeral....

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Floral woman daily adorned with flowers of all types
Her hybrid lilies and orchard caused comments and hypes.
She wandered through the bee field, enticing the worker bees
They located her fragrant pollens, which took them to their knees.

You are the real queen bee, one of the worker bees told her.
She smiled, but did not acknowledge it, acting feminine and pure
See, she had run into the queen bee many years ago
Another encounter might fill her full of stinging woe....

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The serenade
of dancing chimes,
echoes in the breeze
of July.
From a distance, 
linger the carols:
of kookaburras 
and gentledrones.

In the meadows paved
of callow blossoms,
bunnies canter 
like summer snowballs.
Flutterbies woo
each crimson leaf,
sneaking pollens in pockets
like naughty imps.

“Ah, this is the life.”
I manage to say,
as my lips experience
earl grey.
With that, I perch
on the wicker chair,
and savor the wedding
of cinnamon and pears....

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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...

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