An ode to Mother Nature; poems that take their inspiration from the great outdoors.
How foolish of man to believe their injustice to the world would go unpaid. Foolish of them to scorn nature's bounty for their so-called "civilized society. "
By Sonia Lopez6 years ago in Poets
... My old Maltese drags along his weak back limbs his tail follows at her doorstep, the overweight lady tries to reach for her toes
By Miranda Xhilaga6 years ago in Poets
Dear Mother Earth, I want to apologize for what we’ve done to you; for the way humanity has used your wealth and beauty for their own gain and left you with nothing but poisoned air and dying life.
By Katherine J. Zumpano6 years ago in Poets
the tulips are out again in the valley, drawing swarms of people like bees with vibrant petals, whole fields turned
I learned compassion for animals at an early age. Saving baby birds who fell out of their nest near my bedroom window and were lucky enough to land on a pile of leaves in the driveway.
By Amanda Zylstra6 years ago in Poets
Spring The seeds of the tree I’m about to become planted Anxiously waiting for the first sprout For the roots to come about
By Illyanna Perryman6 years ago in Poets
The leaves are soaked by the sun. We are open. I forgot what words tasted like. What are rainbows? Are they our imagination
By Olivia Rose6 years ago in Poets
We wish upon stars we know wont work. We believe in things we know aren't there, just to believe in something. And we make something out of nothing, like constellations in the sky.
By Theo Sherman6 years ago in Poets
Often he is seen as the harbinger of fear in the eyes of the people who see him - a solemn cloud, stalking the heavens above,
By D.A. Baldwin6 years ago in Poets
Umbratic visage, how she basks in her aerial throne with a queen’s vainglory - yet her pride is well-earned, for she is an artist among the unjudging clouds,
snowcapped majesty, how he cleaves through the wind with an icelike demeanor—stoic and proud, fearless - it isn’t hard to see why the eagle is the symbol of
The trees are bare this time of year On the porch, having a cigarette I could be drunk, the drink plays tricks The Earth is fake with its plastic grass
By Michael DeNicola6 years ago in Poets