nature poetry
An ode to Mother Nature; poems that take their inspiration from the great outdoors.
The Earth Walks With Me
have traveled paths, waded through the thick dust of the land, my hands marked by the burdens of labor. The sun spills over my shoulders, its crown breaking in gold. I stop, lean into the wind’s breath, and listen. The open fields—untamed, endless— call out with a deep, constant hunger. I kneel. The earth speaks back, its voice laden with the sweat of those who came before. Elders—long gone— still whisper through the soil, still shaping the air with the rhythm of their breath, as if they never left. I speak as one who works, rising from the ground, returning to it in time. Child of laborers, kin to those who toil, a future father to those yet to be. Beneath me, I feel the heartbeat— the steady thrum of the working soul, the lifeblood of the world no ruler can claim, no law can trap. It beats. It calls. I see the sweep of life— the green fields, brown soil, vast skies, and gray storms. Dirt lines my fingers. Sweat beads my brow. In the trees, in the flowing rivers, in the cries for what is right, in the songs born of love— I see myself. I speak the names of many. I carry wounds deep inside. Hope lives in my bones. I move forward. I fall. I rise. I keep walking. And the earth walks beside me. ---
By Nasir Khanabout a year ago in Poets
Tears of Tears
There used to be a wealthy businessman named Abdul Malik. He was known for his success in several business ventures, several city real estate, and fleets of luxury cars. He dressed in designer clothes, organized competitions, and rubbed his shoulders with influential people. Abdul Malik had everything in the world's eyes.
By MD. zahid prantoabout a year ago in Poets
Beneath the Willow Tree
The first time Noah saw the girl beneath the willow tree, she was sketching the sky like it might disappear any second. It was the middle of July, and the park was hot and green, full of kids screaming and sprinklers spinning in suburban rhythm. But under the oldest willow, a girl sat alone with a pencil, a notebook, and a thousand-yard stare that looked right through time.
By Shakil Sorkarabout a year ago in Poets
The Clockmaker’s Gift
In the heart of a fog-drenched town nestled between the mountains and the sea, stood a little clock shop that defied the passing of time. It was not a place most people noticed, even if they walked by it every day. The wood-paneled sign simply read: Avery's Timepieces, and in the dust-speckled window sat a curious array of ticking machines—some no larger than a coin, others towering like soldiers frozen in brass.
By Shakil Sorkarabout a year ago in Poets
