An ode to Mother Nature; poems that take their inspiration from the great outdoors.
When I die, Carry me to the brink of a pond And lay my body under a Weeping Willow. Gouge a hole into the earth And wrap English Ivy around my limbs.
By Kristinaabout a year ago in Poets
Amid a busy day, I was struck by beauty! With a strong gust came forth an angelic aura, a luminous glow. A feather, like a swinging pendulum,
To Chukwu Okike, The Great Carver of All Things Before the cock first crowed in the hills of Umunze, Before the first yam split its belly open to feed a child,
By Sebastian Hillsabout a year ago in Poets
Winter sighs and steps away, Melting into brighter day. Gone are clouds that dimmed the skies, Now the sun begins to rise.
By Mansoor ahmadabout a year ago in Poets
I sit in the in-between I am neither here nor there Nor past, present, or future Until I am. . I can see the past and the moment
By Abdullah khanabout a year ago in Poets
The silence held them first, those precious things, Arranged with care on shelves of polished oak, Or velvet-lined within small, satin rings.
By Jacky Kapadiaabout a year ago in Poets
I was born of earth and light, Where soil and sun in secret write The name of all who walk the land, Molded by dust, shaped by hand.
I sat to write of many things— The way the morning sunlight sings, How rivers curl like whispered threads, Or how the stars weave silver beds.
By junaid aliabout a year ago in Poets
A flickering light, a humble candle against the night sky, travels in a pattern all its own, burning bright, carried weightlessly on a soft breeze whispering by.
By Maddy Newtabout a year ago in Poets
I linger in the liminal, belonging neither to here nor there, nor to what was, what is, or what might come to be— not until I simply am.
By Dipnarayan bhagat about a year ago in Poets
I like art and craft, especially when created, using natural materials. It's showing respect for the earth, to make use of what nature gives,
Beneath the soil, where no eyes peer, The roots converse without our ear. No need for speech, no rush, no race, They move with time, with patient grace.
By Poetry Masterabout a year ago in Poets
