nature poetry
An ode to Mother Nature; poems that take their inspiration from the great outdoors.
Night Sky
Sitting in her room, gazing, peering into the candle flame. Wondering, thinking of her life to come. Into the night sky, she goes while dreaming. The stars are bright, so close she can touch them. The earth moves beneath her and rain starts to fall. With new beginnings, comes no doubt. She moved from her past, into the light of her future. The full moon shines above, grasshoppers are chirping. The sound of nature, brings her to peace. Sweet kisses in the moonlight rain. All I feel is warmth and love. A new world awaits.
Chelsea RipleyPublished 6 years ago in PoetsStone Angel
Stone angels guard the gates of a beautiful garden. I walk down the path, past the stone guardian. Does she watch me as I pass?
Chelsea RipleyPublished 6 years ago in PoetsThis Life of Mine
I float through life,on the winds i sail,on pipe smoke and high talk,I lay in my tree,On my high perch, I am safe,and there i can see.
Chit WintonPublished 6 years ago in PoetsTo Autumn
Soft scents of jasmine float through autumn air, crickets fill the night with endless chatter; settles and shrouds the dark with a perfect pair.
Mark AndersonPublished 6 years ago in PoetsImbecilic Drizzle
The type of rain I abhor is an imbecilic drizzle that seeps from muddy skies and never really evaporates, forming a soupy layer hovering just high enough above the ground to drown someone, a layer trapping in the smell of warm asphalt burning my eyes and nose, matting jeans to my legs like if I showered in lukewarm water fully clothed, unable to move, constricted, choked. A much better type is a steady rinse moving swiftly through the night forming a blanket over mankind and stops the earth from turning, the same blanket as the one my mom used to tuck me into bed as a child, holding me, and wrapping me in love. A frosty shower leading to morning light waking me accompanied by rubber zipping across wet asphalt outside of my window, the rain not stopping the morning commute. The inside of my house, a still sanctuary, my mom waits for her eight-year-old son, with another blanket of protection, and with the traditional bagel topped with a pinch of salt, which I did not enjoy much then but now seems like a hopeful delicacy. The most perfect picture, no arguments, no alcohol, no anxiety, no frustration, every dissonant chord resolving at once during one harmonious morning.
Mark AndersonPublished 6 years ago in PoetsThe Moon
Do you see the moon as I do? I could gaze at its divine light forever There are times when I’m lost in all its wonder Sometimes I wish and pray the when you see the moon
America SchrockPublished 6 years ago in PoetsEnvironmental Literature Journal Entry #3
Observations: Obvious physical changes. The ice is starting to melt around the edges of the lake. There is a dusting of white snow. It is very bright, white, and crisp outside today. Haven't had snow in a while. There is a little bit of a breeze. It moves the trees every now and then.
alexandria UrrutiaPublished 6 years ago in PoetsTree
When I was six, I climbed a tree My face became ruddy And my feet began to blister As I ascended my impossible Mount Everest
Abi BriggsPublished 6 years ago in PoetsParadise
A quiet, smallwooden dock,rough with wear,overlooks aneven quieterlake.Dragonflies hover,making loveor offspringmidflight. They landon our backs,our warm and sweatyskin,
Riel RedwolfPublished 6 years ago in PoetsSilken Scars
I stare at the spiderwebs dancing in the wind although they send shivers down my spine. The wings in the silk allow it soar to and fro through the air, gathering the sunlight that shines down upon it. Golden flecks of light catch in the intricate design. Silk goes every which way in confusing lines, catching the water, creating a dewy patchwork of droplets. The spider remains unbothered, differentiating between water and prey. The outstanding work of art differs greatly from the plastic decorations on the cupcakes, but I prefer those over anything nature has to offer, for the stationary spider offers no venom to course through my veins; it rests on my hand over the faded scar of my unfortunate battle with an eight-legged enemy (in which I did not emerge the victor), but with no malice.
Rain
Rain, it falls down from the sky What is its purpose? I don't know why Rain, like bullets from the heavens Count them, two, four, six, and seven
Rachel AlexandraPublished 6 years ago in PoetsLife, Part Two
Everything living vibrant with color accented by sunlight. Low mountains blue in the distance stand steady and firm. Silent song
Nicole OzmentPublished 6 years ago in Poets