nature poetry
An ode to Mother Nature; poems that take their inspiration from the great outdoors.
Snowflakes
Fat snowflakes floated to the ground, blanketing any remanence of life. A thick blanket of white covered the soil, the grass, the trees; and a sense of silence over took the air. It was not the silence of night in a room without a light, nor the silence in a room full of people staring blankly at one individual. It was a soft muffled silence, like being wrapped into wool carpet. The air was crisp yet scentless, nothing like pumpkin bonfire autumns, and the crispness was much sharper. It was sharp enough to bite her nose, causing an angry red color to emerge. Her cheeks easily followed her nose, enough to look like a blushing school girl. The fat snowflakes clung to her hair and thick eye lashes, the white flakes contrasting against the darker colors. She stood still like a doll, her boots sunk deep into the blanket. She wore a jacket, but it was thin, yet her arms stayed at her sides. She felt cold. Her eyes stared blankly out into the white, fascinated and excited for this time. The time where she felt anything. Spring brought new things; new animals, new plants, new life. Yet she felt no ounce of happiness. Summer baked all life, forced cold treats into her hand and dips into the pool. She did not feel relieved by the cold waters. Autumn killed life that spring brought, causing leaves to shed their youth and fall into death. The satisfying crunch of plant corpses did not bring any joy. Winter however, was a clean slate. A pure world of white, and only white. There was nothing, and in that nothingness she found something. Something more then a daily routine of humdrum. She felt cold, she felt inspired: she felt. Her eyes raised to the street lamp, the only thing that casted light in the darkness around her. The light seemed to flow through the snow, and glowed off of her white coat. She felt at peace and once again, as in every year, she thought to herself, "how odd I find something in nothing, yet nothing excites me more."
Mikayla KahlenbeckPublished 7 years ago in PoetsSun and Moon
Light and darkness in a constant battle over man kind, over the earth. Sun and Moon, power over electricity, power over water.
Dragon Matthew Wood - HillmanPublished 7 years ago in PoetsAutumn
Autumn dearest. You are drawing near. You are here in technicality. But I still have yet to fully feel you. I try every year to distinguish why I love you so. Is it the wind and chill in the air? Is it the smell of crisp leaves and brisk mornings? Is it the colors orange and gold and red gleaming in the sun? How do you make me feel what I feel and leave me in the unknown limbo of what to call it?
Emily ValdezPublished 7 years ago in PoetsThe Girl with the Garden Under Her Tongue
Keep the purple lilies under your tongue, girl. The pirates are waiting with their cutlasses and forceps. The pastel red on his lapel grew out of your left ear. You think you have it rough? Your brother's beard is nothing but weeds and dandelion fluff. Mother's been begging him to shave it for the past six months. Father even polished a pair of garden shears and placed them on the bathroom counter. You both know that it won't come off as easy as sheep's wool. Every time the weed whacker is fired up, he hides in the closet as if he's being abused.
Scott WeatherbyPublished 7 years ago in PoetsFall Leaves
In the leaves of fall When I open my eyes What can become Of our great disguise / Our world changes colours As summer moves to fall
Emma KitschPublished 7 years ago in PoetsPerfect Palette Paradise
perfect palette paradise color blending aurora spice the nicer vice of all the thrice called captives the first is mauve and red
Nicholas GoodmanPublished 7 years ago in PoetsWonders of Weather
Wanna rain over a hail of a kingdom, Snow joke, Summer left, late start, cold mourning cloak. It's departure long over dew,
Undefined WritingsPublished 7 years ago in PoetsPeaceful
The sun is shining brightly, refracting off the green-brown waves of the river in a blinding fashion. The wind is blowing softly, causing the halyards to clang loudly against the mast, the flag to flap absentmindedly, and my hair to shift ever so slightly around my relaxed face. The wind carries several strange, yet familiar and comforting scents; the sharp, piercing smell of the gasoline and diesel at the fueling station and the greasy stench coming from the vents behind the kitchen at the clubhouse that make my stomach rumble in anticipation. The wind carries other things too, not just scents and feelings, but comforting sounds as well. Familiar sounds like the elderly couple a few boats down, quietly conversing, their affection for each other easily distinguishable in their tones, and the occasional metallic clang or wooden bang coming from the repair shop a few hundred meters away. The water sloshes gently against the side of the boat, flowing with the current of the harbor and excited by the passing boats. This also causes the boat itself to rock and the rubber bumpers protecting the sides to squeak quietly. Mom is moving around below, humming quietly to herself, the sounds of the old wooden cabinets and drawers occasionally creaking open and closed. I feel relaxed here. But when we take the boat out, gliding gracefully down the river and being pulled along by the wind like an eager dog pulling its owner towards the park; I feel truly at peace. Under sail, I enjoy the feeling of fighting against the wind to rapidly pull the sails into the correct position and listening to the click-clack of the winches, as they’re cranked, the plastic casing on the lever cracked from years of use. Here, for a period of time, I’m not me anymore. I’m not the friendly fitting room attendant at Winner’s or a bubbly grade 12 student. I just am. It’s my favourite place to just… exist, without the categories of everyday life.
Emily PartelloPublished 7 years ago in PoetsI Before Me, Except After Be
I am, though not now, as I was, sat looking over slimed frogs, in their pools of pond, hopping and jumping and living as they see fit. I hear softly birds chime from afar as creaking branches and sodden leaves in squidgy mud remind me peacefully, as I might add, of the gracious satisfaction that life gives to us in its finest decor. Time and myself roll by like the wind, as I toil between picking up irksome litter and avoiding uninvited dangers. When, and to my surprise, a three-legged rodent, scurrying out of the browned waters leaving its tail in tow, pursues life as it is and how it always has. Having noticed that I am there, it darts steadfast out of sight, through nettles and other living leaves, and so I know why he runs. As I have done before from the overwhelming existence of higher power, disbelief and conflict, too tiny to comprehend an eclectic universe full of unknown wonder and splendour. While back in my place, I look out over my beautiful brook and smile contentedly at the glistening drops of moisture hanging to the brook like the hand of a small girl crossing a busy road with her mother, and it knows not why I too am scared of it. Resplendent magnificence ensconces me and my fellow dark oak trees, and form a tranquil getaway for an eye-baller with too much to require. In a sense, like I had expressed to be free, I know my weakness stems from purpose. Which is how I came to know. Just as life knew too, I am here to observe, as well as life of me. Ascending through the exploration of limitless discord uniformity, where sentience derives, past any evolution, as much from action as from word. An infinite loop entangling creation and definition into a singular explanation, that is true for its time and already outdated by an incremental velocity of discovery.
S R GurneyPublished 7 years ago in PoetsAn Iris for Arborvitae
Aloe is for healing, A Pansy for your thoughts, May all unwind and all be caught. I am a Violet, A Willow is currently within my heart, What was said not to happen is currently tearing us all a part.
Kayleigh HarperPublished 7 years ago in PoetsWildflowers
Wildflowers were here favorite Look upon the high rise mountains and speak to such lonely heights Drink in the space, everlasting and expansive, and tell me the freedom is beautiful
Nicholas GoodmanPublished 7 years ago in PoetsIf I Would Be a Little Bird…
If I would be a little bird, I would fly away… I would fly on forests, and waters, I would fly, fly far away… Above the clouds I would see the stars in the sky...
Anna ChristianPublished 7 years ago in Poets