nature poetry
An ode to Mother Nature; poems that take their inspiration from the great outdoors.
How Shall Man/Woman be Paraphrased?
Its leafage is all of red gold, grove of giving, dealing gentle flame, grown in freely-giving friendship beware, there are false laurels
Rob AngeliPublished 11 months ago in PoetsPapa Pasteur
LOUIS PASTEUR (type scientifique) Hermes may have brought Robbery, but also the Scientific Method. Introduce us O Camenae
Rob AngeliPublished 11 months ago in PoetsPASIPHAE: and the Birth of the Minotaur
O PASIPHAE A Queenly Interlude o unhappy maid, what madness seized your captured heart and pounded your yearning womb to such unnatural lusts! Fortunate she indeed if there had never been flocks—Pasiphae love-slave to the wild white bull stud
Rob AngeliPublished 11 months ago in PoetsTrees and Kennings
sheepnotes and goatnotes CUDDIE TRIES TO REVIEW TREES AND KENNINGS he forgot long ago Glasir being named the tree whose leaves are of red gold
Rob AngeliPublished 11 months ago in PoetsIDYLL
IDYLL while I weary myself with reading aloud there you are weaving a basket of fluvial wicker still moist and pliant and the must fomenting with the bubbly hiss of a hoarsest whisper drones midday from the wine vats with the cicada locustals’ bass continuo underlining; while the roots of the sylvan beech hold in the ebullient waters from eroding the humus of soil-cake underneath and the branches above ramify into a kind of textual shelter-place for weary wanderers in word land. There are shadows inter-insinuated in segments,
Rob AngeliPublished 11 months ago in PoetsCornucopia: The Fairy Goat and the Horn of Plenty
AMALATHEIA the FAIRY GOAT In with the mythos and mystical stewing ensues whereby what do we see of this in the indeterminate morass-muddle of constellation soup,
Rob AngeliPublished 11 months ago in PoetsFaunus/Girls Gone Wild
Foreshadowed by the ancient gloom FAUNUS was said by some primordially to be a “Wolf-God,” the Strangler horny goat by the Hermes anecdote: PsychoPomp of the little death: one-handed: material mercurial trickster: he brought the fire: he was the messenger: as Prometheus was the forethought and Epimetheus the afterthought in the hornygoatweed :
Rob AngeliPublished 11 months ago in PoetsWhispers of the Moon
In the twilight's gentle embrace, When the sun bids adieu to the day, The moon emerges with radiant grace, Casting its spell in a celestial ballet.
Incipit
ET IN ARCADIA EGO Extraordinary Discourses of Unnecessary Matter [in PASTORAL MODE] Sketch [EX URBE, the urban exodus, in the sense of to or from the city. The Industrial Revolution sends out its siren call and the rustic masses flock to its beating buzz centers: the urban exodus. Conversely a reverse movement of countryside inversion in solace-seekers sprung from urban stock find countryside perversions, some of them vacationers, others rugged mountaineers, all newly scientific in their evolving farming techniques, or revolving waves of posh burghers searching extended stretches of villa space on the campus intending to come enjoy the sweet morning dew and the fresh country air. Can you blame them even one little bit?
Rob AngeliPublished 11 months ago in PoetsShrouded City
I wake up with a nosebleed. I can smell the smoke inside. I can smell it in my hair, on his skin. In the park, a man eats.
Snowflake
I am a snowflake. I was born from the shivers of the wind and the tears of a spongy cloud. I parachute to the sky with my other sisters, a ballet in the middle of a blue stage. We dance and turn, all the while maintaining graceful poise. I fall peacefully through the sky like a gentle feather, taking my time and enjoying the view from above the world. The ground below looks ominous, but accepting. There are plenty of my brothers and sisters, in a tight hug sweeping the floor. I brace myself for the impact, but a sharp gust of wind nudges me elsewhere. I find myself face to face with a girl. Others of my kind litter her grey hat, and she giggles as she notices them on the tip of her nose and the ends of her eyelashes. She looks around for someone to giggle with, but her only reply was a strong gust of wind. Her smile suddenly vanished into a thin, hard line. She looks lonely. I stare into her deep brown eyes, and can't help but wonder. I want to shout to her. "I am here!
Carly ButtonPublished 11 months ago in PoetsNo Distractions Required
Driving on dirt roads at sunset with high school friends instead of alone on a busy westbound interstate, swimming with my brothers on my days off of work,