nature poetry

An ode to Mother Nature; poems that take their inspiration from the great outdoors.

Autumn's Final Days.
The breeze blows icy fingers, Red, gold, brown, and amber float gently, Symbols of Autumn's final days.
By Carol Ann Townendabout a year ago in Poets
At my feet
They were green before Then they dropped, like tired dreams Brown dust at my feet.
By Joe O’Connorabout a year ago in Poets
Next year
Red, yellow, orange Leaves shivering. Frozen. Tense. Soon they’ll rise again
By Renessa Nortonabout a year ago in Poets
Catching the Wind
Catching the Wind I lift my hands in play, and chase what cannot stay. Catching the wind they call it, a game that never ends.
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk about a year ago in Poets
A New Cycle
A leaf falls away, A dream fades into nothing, The forest's mood shifts.
By Liam Stormabout a year ago in Poets
Natural Tautogram
A whispering wind, Whipped through the winding walkway, Of the Willow Woods.
By Liam Stormabout a year ago in Poets
Nature Connects
A tree sheds its leaves, Like a lizard with its skin, To grow stronger still.
By Liam Stormabout a year ago in Poets
The Circle of Life
One moment passes, The next, around a corner, A new beginning.
By Liam Stormabout a year ago in Poets
The Fall
“When will summer end?” “The trees can communicate, A fallen message.”
By Liam Stormabout a year ago in Poets
Autumn’s Farewell
Frosty limbs outstretched hands of red, gold and saffron float down to stroke earth. * Falling Leaves Challenge Inspired by memories of my Dad excitedly dragging me outside — on a frosty morning — to appreciate the autumn foliage on his Maple tree. In Far North Queensland, deciduous trees and their foliage were rare and quite the treat!
By Angie the Archivist 📚🪶about a year ago in Poets
Caught
The walls close in— granite shoulders hunched, pressing, pressing until breath becomes a stolen thing, a whispered plea between
By Autumn about a year ago in Poets
The Solitary Reaper
🌾 Echoes of Solitude: Reflecting on Wordsworth’s “The Solitary Reaper” In our fast-paced, noisy world, moments of stillness are rare — and perhaps more precious than ever. I recently returned to a poem I hadn’t read since school: William Wordsworth’s The Solitary Reaper. This time, it hit differently.
By Mohsin Shahabout a year ago in Poets