Pollen

Pollen from a variety of common plants: sunflo...

Pollen. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The world is filled with pollen–

a bloom of youth cast to wilderness

upon the breeze and berthed

within the roots of older things,

immovable objects time

withered for the show.

No highway through-way,

accumulations whiten the base

without ever touching soil, or soul–

light, oh god, where is the light–

the heady call of drifting lifeless hands,

a lightness in the weighted facets

breathless winds would howl.

Man, they say, the master of his own headwinds,

but each man floating high against the other

leaves no room to breathe.

We’ve choked it out.

Too young for nothing left to give

And Yet…

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23 thoughts on “Pollen

  1. somehow this made me think of a trend i see, not only with young people though..a bit like that pollen, floating through life but afraid to touch soil and grow roots and fruits and everything that is life as well…ha..sorry…the wind just blew me in this direction…smiles

    • I wouldn’t say it’s that we’re afraid…many of us simply cannot match the weight of the world, and are lost and broken upon the winds for trying.

  2. It is difficult to know just who we are sometimes, to feel we can lose our identity amongst all around us. This poem causes me to think in this direction – to ponder creativity. Very good to read.

  3. Man, they say, the master of his own headwinds,

    but each man floating high against the other

    leaves no room to breathe.

    We’ve choked it out.

    Too young for nothing left to give

    And Yet…

    tht is hard man….so thick like pollen choking ourselves out….any way the wind blows…

  4. Very very nicely done, so many things I love about this… Especially like ‘a bloom of youth cast to wilderness’ and ‘too young for nothing left to give’ In fact, I liked it so much I’m going to start following your blog! This reminds me a little of some of the pieces done by Bobbie Ward (http://www.tornadoday.wordpress.com ) you might want to look her up. thanks for sharing!

  5. Your unique voice sings its own song, a lament more than a protest, the tale of a man lost in his time where the air is thick, the ground grown hard, and birds refuse to sing. Haunting and beautiful.

  6. Chris…I think this is just fantastic! For me, it speaks of that spiritual plane of detachment that so many (including myself) strive for…yet overlooking the minute connections we are all tethered to, resulting in a constant battle against what is and what we wish could be. Oh my…I’ve been compelled to pen a book on this one..and all the different paths my mind is determined to venture down!

    • There is always a disconnect between what is and what we wish–it is the nature of youth and writers alike to be taken by their dreams–but I wouldn’t say there’s a reaching *for* detachment here. Rather, a longing to be a part, to achieve some small measure in the reality, rather than just in dreams…only to be dashed by the harshness *of* that reality. That’s where my thoughts were carrying my pen originally, anyhow. 😛

  7. Somehow the pollen usually makes it to where it needs to go, though…and I have the flowers to prove it. great work in this difficult metaphor, Chris–flows very smoothly and naturally line to line, with a full freight of emtion never tipped over.

  8. This speaks to so many levels of the individual rise of community…really expressive and well constructed piece Chris. Really loved this! ~ Rose

  9. what this makes me think of is that there are so many freedoms, and so many entitlements which are really rights, that we no longer have freedom to choose what we will share, what we will give, and things are taken away, including certain privacies, and things like going to a movie without babies crying.

  10. a bloom of youth cast to wilderness – absolutely adore this line Chris. I sometimes worry that we encourage our young to get out there and explore without seeing that they may need to put down some roots of their own for a little while.

    Pollen often finds its way to bring beauty to the most inhospitable of places though 🙂

    Beautiful piece.

  11. Pingback: A Play of Light « Cerulean Moon

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