nature poetry
An ode to Mother Nature; poems that take their inspiration from the great outdoors.
Where the Wildflowers Dream
In the cradle of mountains, high and wide, Where clouds like whispers gently glide, A valley blooms with colors free— A living song, a floral sea. Golden daisies laugh in sun, Like tiny stars when day’s begun. They sway like joy with open eyes, Reflecting light from sapphire skies. The tulips wear a royal glow, In shades that make the heartbeats slow— Crimson, amber, blush and flame, Each one a torch that calls your name. Lavender hums a scented tune, Its purple breath so soft, so soon— It dances light on winds that pass Through fields like sheets of colored glass. The poppies rest like drops of fire, Their petals bold, their stems aspire. They burn with grace, not harsh or loud, But calm, like flames that kiss a cloud. Sweet marigolds with golden hair Whisper warmth into the air. Their petals like the mountain sun, Glow brighter when the day is done. A violet, shy near fern and tree, Hides in shade where few can see. But beauty blooms not for applause— It shines for peace, for love, for cause. Forget-me-nots in gentle blue Seem made of dreams and morning dew. They speak of things not said aloud, Of silent hearts and heads unbowed. A butterfly—like art in flight— Drinks from petals kissed by light. Bees hum near the daffodil, While time itself stands soft and still. And far above, the mountains rise Like keepers of the earth and skies. Snow-capped heads in silence stay, Watching flowers bloom and sway. What harmony the valley keeps— Where silence sings and color sleeps, A view no artist’s brush could steal, Where heaven comes to kiss the real. So if you’re lost, and seek to find The balm to heal a weary mind, Climb to where the wildflowers grow— And let their mountain magic flow.
By Ishtiaq Ahmadabout a year ago in Poets
The Last Dream of Earth
They said the world would end with flame, But it ended with a whisper — no one came. No trumpet blast, no marching feet, Just silence sleeping on every street. The moon stopped moving, the stars stood still, Time held its breath on every hill. The oceans paused their mighty sway, As if afraid to start the day. Children stopped their dreaming deep, While kings forgot the wars they keep. Birds forgot to sing their tune, The sun rose shy behind the moon. No bombs were dropped, no fires spread, But everything alive felt dread. Not fear that screamed or clawed the sky, But the kind that asks: "Did we even try?" Cities we built with pride and pain Were covered now in ash and rain. Screens went black, the voices died — And Earth, at last, no longer cried. But in a field where nothing grows, A single child with wide eyes knows: That silence wasn’t fate or doom — It came because we left no room. No room for love, no time for grace, We traded truth for a faster pace. And in that trade, we lost the thread That stitched the living from the dead. He knelt and whispered to the wind: “Forgive the mess we buried in.” And as he spoke, the stars began To hum a hymn for broken man. And maybe — just beyond the screams — That was Earth’s last, gentle dream.
By Hazrat Usman Usmanabout a year ago in Poets
The First Cut
The first cut wasn’t with a blade. It wasn’t even visible. It came one spring morning, in the back of a red pickup truck with rusted doors and a cracked windshield, the kind of vehicle that smelled like gasoline, coffee, and broken promises. I was sixteen. My father was silent.
By Abuzar khanabout a year ago in Poets
Today's Wind
Today's wind blew away everything blue. It was a move worthy of a true dragon, but this time it was a python, almost like a tycoon, roaring with the mighty thunder of a storm. Darkness fell, and the golden and silver lines sang a song to relax and shout out everything wrong, too much and too bad to shout out, so that everything would disappear from the body and mind by evening and morning dew, to dance with the newly born You.
By Antea Lumina Kala Matylda about a year ago in Poets
