An ode to Mother Nature; poems that take their inspiration from the great outdoors.
The Haunted Public Toilets The haunted public toilets stand in town a place that really should come down for inside waits a ghost so crude
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk about a year ago in Poets
Just as the world tilts forward, Humanity is set to fall. We failed to look behind the smoke, to see the mirror. We failed to hear the prophet’s call.
By Jollyoddbod Poetryabout a year ago in Poets
And when the sun hits the surface of the water- The surface of the stream- And when the light dances on the- why are you haunting me
By Trinity Habout a year ago in Poets
I have come to learn that change Is quiet Not the parts that lead up to change That is loud And messy And full of uncertain chaos
By Obsidian Wordsabout a year ago in Poets
~~🐦🐦⬛🪶 "A man may fish with the worm that hath eat of a king, and eat of the fish that hath fed of that worm.”― William Shakespeare, Hamlet Act IV, scene 3
By Lightning Bolt ⚡about a year ago in Poets
Haiku-sequence poem depicting the mood of autumn and forest animals preparing for winter. --- The Sun disappears, Branches lose their leaves,
By Susan Fourtané about a year ago in Poets
You were the first The first I could trust with my heart Now the world is tearing us apart And I don’t know what to do Because I’m not me without you
By Atomic Historianabout a year ago in Poets
Hope lingers as Icy cold water touches my toes As I remember passionate throes Your loving arms surrounded me In your embrace, I flew free
By Krysha Thorpabout a year ago in Poets
How deep do your currents lie and how many stories can they tell? What have they seen beneath your deep blue surface? So clear as to be ice;
By Amanda Starksabout a year ago in Poets
Your ghostly faces like smiling friends reach out to me, softly glowing, like a foggy morning dappling the surfaces of my memory.
They stand— Tall, unwavering, As if they were the first to rise When the earth learned how to breathe. Trees— Not just wood and leaf,
By Emma about a year ago in Poets
Swish, swish, swishing to an eventual still. Grass beneath bare feet, wind on a damp face, whispers of what’s lost— a distant memory,
By Phoenix Vogelabout a year ago in Poets
