nature poetry
An ode to Mother Nature; poems that take their inspiration from the great outdoors.
Long Deep Love Message for Her
Long Deep Love Message for Her Expressing your love through words can make your relationship even more special and meaningful. When you send a long deep love message for her, it shows how much you truly care and how deeply you feel about her. These heartfelt messages help you communicate emotions that sometimes are hard to say in person. Whether it’s for a special occasion or just to remind her how much she means to you, a sincere and touching message can brighten her day and strengthen your bond.
By Ali Hassanabout a year ago in Poets
"Skin Made of Stars"
I have always believed that I am made of constellations. Not in the romantic way people say when they’re trying to be poetic, but in the truest, most ancient sense. There is stardust in my bones, the remnants of suns that burned before this planet had a name. My skin glimmers—not with any physical light, but with the quiet shimmer of memory, of time, of the things that came before me. On nights when the moon is thin and silver, I feel it most. I lie beneath the sky, and the darkness doesn’t feel empty. It feels like home. The constellations whisper to me, speaking in a language older than speech. They remind me that beauty is not the shine you wear for others—it is the light that survives even after collapse. Once, I hated my skin. It was too marked, too imperfect, too much a map of my history. I would trace the little scars and think, Here is where I broke. Here is where I fell. I didn’t know then that stars are born in violence—that their light is forged in the crushing grip of gravity and heat. I didn’t understand that beauty is not the absence of flaw, but the presence of story. My grandmother used to tell me that every freckle was a planet. That each one had mountains, oceans, and skies of its own. “You are a galaxy,” she’d say, brushing my hair with hands that smelled faintly of cinnamon and rose water. I never believed her, but now I wonder if she was right. Perhaps she saw more than I could then—how my skin held the echo of universes, how each mark was its own small sun. There is a moment just before dawn when the stars fade, but the sky has not yet turned blue. In that in-between, I think about the people who have tried to dim me. The voices that told me my beauty had rules. The mirrors that reflected not my light, but their shadows. They tried to shrink my sky into a single star—manageable, ordinary. But you can’t trap a galaxy in a jar. I carry the Milky Way on my shoulders. The Orion Nebula curls in the small of my back. My hands hold fragments of the Andromeda’s spiral. Every time I move, the universe moves with me. When I smile, it is a supernova. When I cry, it is a meteor shower—beautiful even in falling. When I love, it is a comet’s path across the darkness, impossible to ignore. I have learned that identity is not a fixed point in space—it is a shifting orbit, pulled by forces we can’t always see. And beauty? Beauty is not the perfect photograph of the night sky—it is the way the stars keep shining even when no one is watching. People will tell you that you are too much, or not enough. That you are too bright, or not bright enough. That your colors do not match the constellations they’ve memorized. But they have only charted a fraction of the universe. You are uncharted space. You are the black hole and the spiral galaxy, the dying star and the new world forming in its dust. I think of the first astronomers—how they looked up and gave names to the lights. How they drew lines between stars to tell stories about gods and monsters. I wonder what story they would draw if they could see me now. Would they map my scars into the shape of a warrior? Would they call my birthmark the Shadow Moon? Would they see the faint, pulsing light beneath my ribs and call it the Heart Star? If I am made of stars, then I am also made of their deaths. That is the price of light—it is always born from something ending. But endings are not erasures. They are transformations. So I walk through the world with my head tilted back, letting the galaxies in my skin speak for themselves. I don’t cover them anymore. I don’t dim them for the comfort of others. My freckles are planets, my scars are meteor trails, my eyes are twin moons caught in orbit. When people look at me now, some still only see the surface. They see the patterns they’ve been taught to recognize. But others—those who have looked into the night sky long enough—see the vastness. They see the distance, the depth, the quiet fire. And when they ask me who I am, I no longer hesitate. I tell them: I am not made of glass. I am not made of porcelain. I am not made to be held still. I am made of stars.
By Itz stories about a year ago in Poets
August, Lions and Leos
The day of the lion, World Lion Day annually arrives on the tenth day of August, its purpose to raise awareness of the plight of the golden big cat of Africa, and threats to their existence: disappearing habitat, trophy hunters, and poachers.
By Andrea Corwin about a year ago in Poets
When the Sky Whispered My Name. AI-Generated.
I. The Night That Would Not Sleep That night, the moon bent low. It hung like an old companion leaning closer, as if to hear the weight of my sighs. I had been awake for hours, but it was not coffee or noise that kept me from sleep — it was my own heart, tugging at me like a child too restless to rest. I sat by the window, the world outside still and breathless, the stars scattered like a thousand unanswered questions. There was a time I believed that every prayer would be answered quickly, that my whispers would rise to the heavens and come back dressed as blessings. But now… I was not sure if I still deserved to be heard. --- II. The Ache Beneath the Words My laughter, once bright, was buried under layers of unspoken thoughts. I had carried burdens I never confessed, for fear that speaking them aloud would make them more real. The silence between my words grew heavy — so heavy that I mistook it for abandonment. I thought perhaps the world had turned its face from me. Or worse, maybe I had turned mine first, slowly, without even noticing, until my prayers became more routine than longing. --- III. The Whisper It was then that I whispered, almost afraid of the sound of my own voice: "Ya Allah… are You still listening?" There was no thunder, no sudden opening of the clouds, no vision of angels descending. Only the wind. A soft breath against my cheek, carrying the scent of rain — not the harsh kind that beats against the earth in anger, but the kind that falls like an embrace, gentle enough to be missed if you are too busy looking elsewhere. The wind said nothing. And yet, it said everything. --- IV. The Language of the Sky I remembered something I had once read: "The Friend never leaves — it is you who forgets to visit." Perhaps the silence was not absence, but an invitation. I began to notice the details — how the clouds moved with patience, how the stars held their place in quiet obedience, how the moon poured its light without ever asking for thanks. The sky, in its vastness, was a mirror of the mercy I had doubted. It was as if each star was a verse, each breeze a reminder, each shadow a place for me to kneel. --- V. Returning I closed my eyes, not to shut the world out, but to let the words in. And from somewhere deeper than thought, the prayer came: "Rabbi ishrah li sadri, wa yassir li amri…" (My Lord, expand my chest, and make my task easy for me…) I let the words roll in my mouth like water after thirst. No demand. No deadline. Just surrender. In that moment, I understood that even the unanswered prayer is not unanswered — it is simply answered in a language my impatience cannot yet translate. --- VI. The Lesson the Moon Taught Me The moon did not speak in my language, yet I knew its meaning: Stay. Wait. Trust. Faith is not built in the moments when the answer is clear, but in the nights when it is not. Love is not proven by the gift received, but by the patience of the one who waits. The mercy I sought had never been far; I had only been looking with eyes that measured blessings by their immediacy instead of their depth. And when the wind brushed my face again, I no longer asked if He was listening. I knew. --- VII. Moral Reflection We often treat prayer as a transaction — I ask, and You give. But the deeper truth, the one the sky whispered to me, is that prayer is a relationship. The delay is not denial; the silence is not absence. It is in the waiting that hearts are softened, and in the stillness that faith is purified. That night, the moon did not just shine — it spoke. The wind did not just blow — it answered. And my heart, once restless and heavy, found the kind of peace that needs no proof to be real.
By Kaleem Ullahabout a year ago in Poets
