nature poetry
An ode to Mother Nature; poems that take their inspiration from the great outdoors.
“Where the Quiet Poems Rise”
Poetry never truly disappears—it waits. It waits in the corners of silence, in forgotten notebooks, and in the soft moments between one breath and the next. At least, that was what Liana used to believe. She had once written poems everywhere—on scraps of paper, in the margins of books, even on the backs of receipts. Her friends called her the girl who saw metaphors in everything. But life, as it sometimes does, had grown loud. Work deadlines. Constant messages. Responsibilities arriving one after another without pause. Slowly, without realizing it, Liana stopped writing. Her once-bright notebook stayed closed on her desk. Days turned into weeks, and the blank pages began to feel like quiet accusations. One Saturday morning, after a long and draining week, Liana finally allowed herself a slow moment. She opened her window and let in the cool dawn air. The world was still half-asleep, and for the first time in a long while, she felt a small ache inside her—the desire to reconnect with something she had lost. Coffee in hand, she sat at her old wooden desk. The notebook lay there, untouched for months. She hesitated, her fingers brushing the cover. She whispered, almost apologetically, “I’m sorry I left you waiting.” When she opened the notebook, the empty page glowed in the morning light, not accusing her but welcoming her back. Still, no words came. Only a gentle pressure in her chest, like something was trying to rise. She looked outside. A small bird hopped along the railing. The sunlight stretched slowly across the floor. The world felt simple, soft, honest. And for a moment, she wondered if poetry had been waiting right here all along. Later that morning, Liana decided to take a walk to clear her thoughts. She wandered through the small park near her home. The trees swayed gently as if whispering secrets to the wind. Children laughed in the distance. A man sat on a bench sketching leaves, and an elderly woman read a book with calm dedication. Everything felt like a poem she had forgotten how to write. She sat on a bench beneath an old banyan tree. Its roots spread deep and wide, grounding the earth beneath it. Liana closed her eyes. She listened. The wind. Footsteps. Birds. Her own heartbeat. And then, softly, like a familiar voice returning after a long journey, a line formed in her mind: “Even in silence, something grows.” She opened her eyes quickly and whispered the words aloud to be sure they were real. Then she repeated them again, letting them settle into her. A small smile touched her lips. Something inside her unlocked. She reached into her bag and took out her notebook. Her pen hovered over the page before she finally wrote the line down. The words looked simple, but to her, they were everything—a beginning, a return, a promise. As she continued writing, her thoughts poured out gently, like water finding its path after being blocked for too long. She wrote about the sunlight resting on her windowsill. About the bird on the railing. About the banyan tree whose roots held the earth together. About herself—quiet, tired, but still capable of beginning again. They were not perfect poems. They were not meant to be. They were honest, soft, human—and that was enough. By the time she closed the notebook, her heart felt lighter. She realized that poetry did not demand perfection; it only asked her to pay attention—to the world, to herself, to the little things that still held beauty. As she walked home, she felt a quiet excitement that she hadn’t felt in months. Her notebook was no longer empty. Her heart was no longer silent. And she knew that even if life grew noisy again, she would keep listening for the quiet places where poems rise. Because poetry was not something she had lost. It was something that had patiently waited for her return.
By Muhammad Saad 10 months ago in Poets
Tree Of Life
Tree Of Life 🌲🌳♎💜♉🌳🌲I Am Your Tree Of LifeMy Roots Run DeepInto The Ancient Earth🌳And TheyKeep Me StrongMy Branches Spread HighWith Leaves Of Green And GoldTo Protect You🌳From Hot SunAnd Cold RainWind and Snow StormsI Will Not Let Them Hurt You🌳Against My TrunkYou Can Hug MeAnd Feel Protected And Safe🌳To Know I Will Always Be Here For YouMy Roots Are Deep And StrongMy Branches And Leaves Spread Wide Overhead🌳You Know That I AmYour Ever LovingAlways CaringEverlastingTree Of Life🌲🌳♎💜♉🌳🌲
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred 10 months ago in Poets
The Poetry Within Us: Unlocking the Human Mind Through Verse
It started with a whisper. Not from another person, but from within—the kind of whisper that stirs at the edge of sleep, that makes you pause mid-step and wonder if you’ve forgotten something vital. For Maya, a neuroscience student drowning in textbooks and lab reports, that whisper came on a rainy Tuesday afternoon. She had spent the past four years immersed in facts—studying neurons, brain scans, dopamine pathways. Everything had to be measurable, repeatable, explainable. Yet, despite her academic success, she felt detached from herself, like a satellite orbiting her own life. Then came the elective course: The Psychology of Poetry. She enrolled reluctantly, needing the credits, expecting little more than historical analysis and a few stanzas of Shakespeare. What she didn’t expect was to cry in class. The poem was “Having a Coke with You” by Frank O’Hara. The professor read it aloud—gently, deliberately, with reverence. Maya didn’t understand why her chest tightened or why her eyes stung. She had never met the poet, had never experienced his world, but somehow, in those lines, she felt seen. That was the moment everything changed. --- The human brain, Maya would later learn, doesn’t distinguish sharply between real and imagined emotion. When you read a poem that evokes sadness, joy, or awe, your brain often responds as if you’re living the experience. The same neural circuits activate—the limbic system lights up, oxytocin is released, and connections strengthen. Poetry, she realized, was a neurological symphony. And yet, it was more than chemistry. It was a bridge. In class, students shared poems that had shaped them. One read about their father’s death; another about coming out. A quiet classmate, who never spoke during biology lectures, recited a piece they had written about anxiety—each metaphor a map to a place they’d never shown anyone. For the first time, Maya understood the quiet power of shared vulnerability. Poetry didn’t just unlock the mind. It softened it. --- Maya began writing her own verses. At first, they were clumsy and overly structured, like her lab reports. But slowly, the lines loosened. Rhyme gave way to rhythm. She wrote about her mother’s silence, her childhood fear of thunderstorms, the pressure to be “smart” and composed. Each poem was a key, unlocking memories she hadn’t realized were sealed away. More importantly, it made her a better friend, sister, and researcher. She started noticing emotional subtleties in conversations, listening not just for content but for cadence, for pauses, for what went unsaid. Her empathy deepened, and so did her curiosity—not just about how the brain worked, but about how it felt to be alive. --- Scientific studies began to echo what Maya felt intuitively. A 2023 research article revealed that reading and writing poetry could significantly reduce symptoms of anxiety and depression, especially in adolescents. Another found that poetic language activated regions of the brain associated with reward and memory more intensely than ordinary speech. Even patients with dementia, when exposed to familiar poems, displayed improved communication and mood. Poetry, it turned out, could tap into neural pathways long after others had deteriorated. Maya started volunteering at a memory care center, reading poems to elderly residents. One woman, who rarely spoke, began reciting lines of Emily Dickinson, her voice frail but steady. For a moment, her eyes sparkled with recognition, as if time had folded in on itself and brought her home. It was more than therapy. It was resurrection. --- Years later, with a PhD in neuroscience and a poetry collection published, Maya stood at a TEDx stage. Her talk was titled “The Poetry Within Us: Unlocking the Human Mind Through Verse.” She spoke not just of neurons and scans, but of silence broken by verse, of people finding their voices, of science meeting soul. She ended with her favorite line from Mary Oliver: > “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” And then she answered, in a quiet voice: “To listen. To write. To feel. To remind others that within every brain—no matter how scarred or silent—there lives a poem waiting to be heard.” --- In a world obsessed with speed, productivity, and logic, poetry reminds us to slow down, to sit with discomfort, to find beauty in ambiguity. It sharpens cognition, enhances emotional literacy, and deepens connection. The poetry within us is not a luxury. It is a necessity. And when we unlock it, we unlock each other.
By Muhammad Saad 10 months ago in Poets
The Ink That Found Its Sunrise
Mira had always believed that morning light carried its own kind of poetry. It slipped into the world quietly, softening everything it touched. But lately, she felt no connection to those first rays of the day. Her pen lay untouched, and the blank pages in her journal seemed to echo her uncertainty. For years, writing had been Mira’s companion—her way of expressing what she couldn’t speak aloud. She wrote about seasons changing, about laughter drifting between doorways, about the invisible threads that link people to one another. But as life became busier, and worries accumulated like unopened letters, her creative spark dimmed. One morning, she sat on her small balcony with a cup of warm tea. The sun was rising, turning the rooftops into softened shapes of gold and pink. The air smelled of dew and quiet beginnings, but the beauty felt distant, as though she were watching her life through a window. “I can’t feel anything to write about anymore,” she whispered. At that moment, her neighbor, Mr. Haleem, stepped onto his balcony. He was an elderly man known for tending to his flowers and humming old songs that carried across the courtyard. “You’re up early, Mira,” he called gently. “Everything alright?” She hesitated, then nodded politely. But something in her expression must have given her away. He smiled kindly. “You look like someone searching for something.” Mira sighed. “I used to write poetry every day. Now I hardly recognize the person who wrote those words.” Mr. Haleem leaned on his railing. “Tell me something,” he said. “When you look at that sunrise, what do you see?” Mira blinked. “I… don’t know anymore.” He chuckled softly. “Then perhaps you’re looking too hard.” She turned toward him, curious. “You know,” he continued, “people think poets need grand inspiration. Lightning moments. Extraordinary stories. But the truth is simpler. Poetry grows from noticing small things—things that most people walk past without seeing.” He gestured toward the potted jasmine plant beside him. “This little flower bloomed today. Just one. The rest are still waiting. But this one decided to open anyway. Isn't that something?” Mira looked at the jasmine. Its single white bloom glowed in the sunlight, gentle but confident. Before she could respond, Mr. Haleem added, “Sometimes we expect ourselves to bloom every day. But even flowers take their time.” The words settled into her like warm rain. After he went back inside, Mira stayed on the balcony, listening to the distant calls of vendors and the sound of early birds darting between rooftops. The world was waking up, soft and unhurried. She opened her journal—not to write a masterpiece, but just to write something true. She wrote: Today, a jasmine bloom reminded me that growth can be slow, and still be beautiful. For the first time in weeks, her hand didn’t tremble. She continued writing small observations—the sound of her neighbor’s humming, the warmth of her tea, the way sunlight softened the edges of her fears. Her words felt simple but sincere, like the first steps of someone learning to walk again. Later that day, she took a walk to the local market. Children were laughing, old women bargaining cheerfully, a young man sketching portraits near a tea stall. Life was unfolding in dozens of tiny stories, each one a poem waiting to be noticed. Mira paused beside a stall selling handmade notebooks. One had a sunrise painted on the cover. She held it in her hands, feeling an unexpected spark of joy. She bought it—not because she needed more pages, but because she wanted to celebrate this small return to herself. That evening, she sat by her window and wrote again, letting her thoughts flow gently, without judgment. Poetry doesn’t disappear, she realized. It simply waits for the heart to slow down enough to hear its voice again. As the sun dipped below the horizon, Mira closed her notebook, feeling steady and hopeful. She knew her creativity would rise and fall, just like the sun—but it would always come back, carrying light with it.
By Muhammad Saad 10 months ago in Poets
Where the Quiet Words Bloom
Where the Quiet Words Bloom A Story of Finding Hope Through Poetry Mira had always believed that poetry lived inside everyone—hidden in the pauses between thoughts, in the soft sighs at the end of long days, and in the small moments that the world rushed past. Yet she herself hadn’t written a single line in months. Her notebook sat untouched on her desk, its pages blank, mirroring the silence she felt within. Life had been too loud lately. Too many responsibilities, too many expectations, too many moments demanding strength when all she wanted was gentleness. She told herself she was simply busy, but deep down she knew the truth—she had forgotten how to listen to her own heart. One quiet Saturday morning, Mira decided to visit the old park near her neighborhood. It was a place she had loved as a child, a place where she had written her very first poem under a tall banyan tree. The air was cool, and the rising sun painted the dew-covered grass with a soft golden glow. As she entered the park, something new caught her eye. A small group of people sat in a loose circle near the central fountain, each one holding a notebook. Some were sharing softly, others simply listening. A handwritten banner taped to the fountain read: “Poets’ Morning Circle – Everyone Welcome.” Curiosity tugged gently at her. Before she could convince herself to walk away, her feet carried her closer. A cheerful woman with silver-streaked hair noticed her. “Here for the poetry circle?” she asked with a warm smile. Mira hesitated, then nodded slowly. “I haven’t written anything in a long time… but I’d like to listen.” “Listening is also poetry,” the woman said kindly, patting the empty space beside her. “I’m Salma. Please, join us.” The circle began with simple introductions. There was an elderly man who loved rhyme, a teenager who wrote to soothe her anxiety, a baker who scribbled lines between customers, and a teacher who wrote about constellations. Some had been writing for years; others had written only a few scattered lines in their lives. But each one carried a story in their notebook—and in their heart. When the sharing began, the poems were gentle, honest, and deeply human. Some spoke of tiny joys. Others carried quiet sadness. But all of them felt real. When it was Mira’s turn, she shook her head shyly. “I didn’t bring anything to share.” “That’s perfectly alright,” Salma said softly. “Let me ask you this—what brought you here today?” Mira looked around the circle. For a moment, she felt something open inside her. “I think… I missed feeling connected. I missed the part of me that writes.” Salma nodded with understanding. “Sometimes our words hide when life feels heavy. They don’t leave us—they wait for us to return.” A soft hum of agreement drifted through the group. Then Salma handed Mira a small slip of paper. “Write one sentence,” she said gently. “Not a poem. Just a feeling.” Mira closed her eyes and let the moment settle. Leaves rustled overhead, a bird sang somewhere in the distance, and slowly the weight inside her eased. On the paper, she wrote: “I am learning to hear myself again.” Salma read it, and her eyes sparkled. “Mira,” she whispered, “that is poetry.” Encouraged by the warmth around her, Mira opened her old notebook—the one she had brought without thinking. Her pen hovered for a moment, then began to move. Not perfect lines. Not polished metaphors. Just honest words flowing freely. As she wrote, the heaviness she had carried for so long began to lift, little by little, like clouds parting after weeks of gray skies. By the time the circle ended, Mira had filled three whole pages. Before she left, the group invited her to return the following week. She smiled—truly smiled—feeling a spark she thought she had lost forever. “I’ll be here,” she promised. Walking home, she realized something profound: poetry had never abandoned her. It had simply waited patiently for her to slow down, breathe, and listen again. And now, with her notebook open and her heart awake, she knew her quiet words would bloom once more.
By Muhammad Saad 10 months ago in Poets
Whispers Under the Silver Sky
In every poet’s life, there comes a moment when the familiar rhythm of words suddenly quiets. What once flowed like spring water begins to hesitate, and silence grows where imagination used to bloom. Ayaan knew this feeling too well. For weeks, his pen rested still, and every blank page felt heavier than the last. Poetry had always been Ayaan’s way of understanding the world. He wrote to celebrate moments, to heal invisible wounds, and to reveal beauty hidden in ordinary days. But lately, even beauty felt out of reach. No matter how long he waited or how deeply he searched inside himself, inspiration refused to appear. One evening, when the sky softened into a shade between lavender and dusk, Ayaan walked to the lakeside near his home. It was a place he trusted—a quiet corner where the world felt calm enough to listen. The soft ripples of the water usually stirred his thoughts, but tonight the lake remained silent, matching the silence inside him. He sat on a smooth stone and opened his notebook, hoping the surroundings might help. “Just one line,” he whispered to the empty page. “Just one.” But nothing came. Ayaan sighed, closing his eyes. “What if I’ve lost my voice?” he wondered aloud. As the breeze brushed past him, a warm glow approached from the path behind. An elderly woman holding a lantern walked slowly toward the lake. Her presence felt peaceful, as if she belonged to the evening itself. “You look troubled,” she said gently, sitting a few steps away from him. “I used to write poetry every day,” Ayaan admitted. “But now the words won’t come. I don’t know why.” The woman studied the shimmering water. “Ah,” she said softly. “You’re chasing your words. No wonder they’re hiding.” Ayaan blinked. “Chasing them?” She nodded with a quiet smile. “Poetry isn’t something to capture. It’s something to welcome. When you try too hard, words become shy. But when you breathe, listen, and let the world speak first, they find their way back.” Her voice held a calm certainty that eased something in his chest. “Look up,” she said. Ayaan lifted his eyes. The sky above him glittered with countless stars, each one steady, patient, unhurried. The reflection in the lake doubled the view, making it feel as though he was surrounded by a universe of tiny lights. “Every star,” the woman continued, “is a story waiting for someone who’s willing to notice. Poets are not meant to force stories—they are meant to feel them.” Ayaan let the words sink in. The night air smelled faintly of jasmine, and crickets sang a soft, rhythmic song. Slowly, the heaviness he had carried for weeks began to fade. “When was the last time you wrote something only for yourself?” she asked. “Not for approval. Not for an audience. Just for your own heart.” He thought about it and realized he could not remember. “Then start there,” she said warmly. “Begin with something small. Something true.” She stood, her lantern casting circles of warm light across the path. “Your voice isn’t gone,” she added. “It’s simply resting.” With that, she slowly walked away, leaving Ayaan alone with the sky and the water. He opened his notebook again. This time, he didn’t beg for a perfect line. He didn’t demand inspiration. He simply looked at the world around him—the lake, the stars, the gentle night—and let himself feel grateful for the moment. His hand moved. The night holds quiet miracles, And I am learning to listen again. Even silence has a heartbeat, If the heart is patient enough to hear it. More words followed—soft, honest, imperfect, but alive. They flowed without pressure, each sentence lifting a bit of weight from his spirit. When he finally closed the notebook, Ayaan felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time: lightness. He walked home beneath the silver sky, knowing the truth every poet eventually discovers— Inspiration never leaves us. It waits calmly until we return to ourselves.
By Muhammad Saad 10 months ago in Poets
