nature poetry
An ode to Mother Nature; poems that take their inspiration from the great outdoors.
The Light Between Two Windows
It was the kind of winter in New York City where even the streetlights looked tired. Snow clung to the sidewalks like forgotten promises, and the city pulsed quietly beneath its usual roar. Somewhere in the East Village, in an aging brownstone split into narrow apartments, two strangers lived across from one another, separated by little more than thirty feet of air and glass.
By Shakil Sorkarabout a year ago in Poets
Passer-by.
We walk the roads with dust in our shoes, hearts brimming with hopes we never quite use. Flickers of laughter, whispers of cries, all of us here are mere passer-bys. We plant our names on the sands of time, building high dreams that forget to climb. Chasing the wind, we reach for the sky, but even the stars are just passing by. Old man with stories no one will hear, child with a future blurred but near, lovers who kiss like the world might end, strangers, yet bound like kin or friend. We are the echoes of silent songs, the right we do, the quiet wrongs. The fleeting glance, the held-back sigh, the prayer, the promise, the asking “why?” Birth is a doorway, death is a gate, and all in between is the breath of fate. Moments that shimmer, then softly die, and so it goes, we all pass by. Yet in the passing, we leave behind.. . pieces of soul for others to find. Kindness like candles in endless night, a word, a touch, a spark of light. So walk your road with open eyes, love like the moon in borrowed skies. For though we’re here just to say goodbye, we shape the world, even as we pass by.
By Chris Liberty about a year ago in Poets
The poet who only wrote in the rain
Main Story A small town where even the wind seemed to speak to his ear. At the end of the town, in a secluded corner of an old house, lived Aarav—a strange poet. He had no pen, no diary, no blank sheet of paper. He wrote only when the sky cried.
By Canvas Whispersabout a year ago in Poets
