nature poetry
An ode to Mother Nature; poems that take their inspiration from the great outdoors.
The Bird That Couldn't Fly
Upon a beam of old, dry oak, A silent bird no longer spoke. 🐦 Her wings once kissed the morning sun, Now folded back — no longer run. ☀️ A rope was wound around her chest, Not made by hands — by thoughts suppressed. 🪢 Not hunters’ snare, nor net of thread, But fears and doubts her mind had bred. 💭 She used to glide through dawn's first gleam, Chasing light and chasing dream. ✨ She'd race the clouds, she'd laugh with rain, But now she sings a song of pain. 🌧️ “Oh skies,” she chirps, “do you recall, The days I dared, the times I’d fall? But I would rise, oh how I’d fly, With stars beneath and moon up high.” 🌙🌌 Her claws still gripped the weathered wood, Her heart still beat — it understood. ❤️ Though rope may bind and days grow dim, The will to soar still burned within. 🔥 Each feather held a tale untold, Each tear a drop of courage bold. 😢🪶 The cage she wore, she made herself, And hung it gently on a shelf. 🪟 A single breeze, so soft, so kind, Whispered truth into her mind: “You’re not too small, you’re not too late— The skies still hold your open gate.” 🕊️✨ With trembling breath, she closed her eyes, And dreamt of blue and endless skies. 💙 The rope, though tight, began to fray— A sign her fears would fade away. 🧵 And when the sun began to rise, She stretched her wings with no disguise. 🌄 One leap of faith, one final cry— The bird at last began to fly. 🕊️💫 ---
By The Pen of Farooq about a year ago in Poets
This Poem is an Apology to Myself
I don’t know exactly when I stopped being kind to myself. Maybe it was the first time I looked in the mirror and believed someone else’s definition of beauty instead of my own. Or maybe it was the quiet moment I didn’t speak up in my defense—thinking silence was strength, or that pleasing others was more important than preserving myself.
By Jawad Khanabout a year ago in Poets
Be Loyal to Your Future, Not Your Past
“The Bag I Carried” For years, I carried a bag I didn’t realize was heavy. It wasn’t leather or canvas or anything physical. It was invisible, but I felt it every day—a weight on my shoulders, a shadow over my decisions. It was full of memories, mistakes, regrets, what-ifs, and a voice that always whispered, “But that’s who you’ve always been.”
By lony banzaabout a year ago in Poets
