nature poetry

An ode to Mother Nature; poems that take their inspiration from the great outdoors.

Don’t kill the weeds
Don’t kill the weeds They are the first food for the bees. What you see as weeds Is food for rabbits and bees. The poison you spread
By Susan Fourtané about a year ago in Poets
On the Origins of Winged Storms
Before the first kings forged their crowns, before the first swords knew their names, the earth still soft as new-made clay
By The Lost Books - "Libri Perditi"about a year ago in Poets
Life Lesson
The difficulties are written in a dusty notebook in the lines of some messy poems. Irrelevant the longings and the shrieks of quivering tunes on the strings of the violin! Staring through the open window into the stillness of the northern sky. In the final silence, the final mystery of the salt water is rolling!
By Jr. Majahabout a year ago in Poets
A Love Story
A Love Story Raindrops are falling, Spreading drops of water. The scent of love is spreading throughout the city, Is that the scent that has the whole city intoxicated!
By Jr. Majahabout a year ago in Poets
Marcella’s Short Adventure
Marcella the lion cub was bored with life It was adventure that he wanted to find He crossed the raging river so deep and wide
By Calvin Londonabout a year ago in Poets
When Silence Becomes My Language
I’ve learned to speak without a sound, To scream where no one is around. My silence isn’t empty — it’s full of weight, Of truths I chose not to translate.
By The Content Crafterabout a year ago in Poets
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By Ekta Kumariabout a year ago in Poets
Raven
A raven black as charcoal, no color in its plumage. Its voice is rough, forages from trash bins, eats stinky carrion. No one thinks
By Seema Patelabout a year ago in Poets
She is a Storm
She is a Storm. The kind the sky warns you about in silence just before it splits open. There’s no mercy in her winds. She doesn’t whisper- she howls.
By Annie Edwards about a year ago in Poets
What My Poetry Means To Me
What My Poetry Means To Me I tried it once, then tried it twice, seeing it was oh so nice. Before I knew, it grew and grew,
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk about a year ago in Poets
A Room That Forgot How to Echo
The clock in the hallway hadn’t ticked in three years. But Mia still wound it every Sunday morning, like muscle memory that refused to forget. The same way she left the porch light on at night. The same way she kept his shoes by the door.
By Shakil Sorkarabout a year ago in Poets
"The Last Cup of Coffee"
The bell above the door chimed as Elena stepped into the tiny café on 7th Avenue, brushing snow from her coat and pulling the scarf tighter around her neck. The place was warm, humming with quiet conversations and the soft hiss of the espresso machine. She ordered her usual — one black coffee, one oat milk latte — and took a seat by the window.
By Shakil Sorkarabout a year ago in Poets