An ode to Mother Nature; poems that take their inspiration from the great outdoors.
I head out into nature, camera in hand, just me and my backpack of supplies, feeling the breeze in my hair, traversing grounds with child-like anticipation,
By LittleWrenWrites 3 years ago in Poets
Its warms the body and calms the soul, cold gets jealous with spotlight stole. Bright and beautiful with plenty of heat, everyone enjoys its company round seat.
By Toby Heward3 years ago in Poets
When the autumn wind and fallen leaves are no longer far away, When youth is past, When the road of life is full of fatigue,
By Nell L Burch3 years ago in Poets
The end of summer is autumn, A year of life is a year less. I know, Being alive is a wonderful thing, I wouldn't give up for the world.
By Mary R Baldwin3 years ago in Poets
the smoke is gone the wind is still here is the sadness of the years burned to the ground empty earth Only the wind is drifting
By Soledad A Kellogg3 years ago in Poets
I once followed the voice of a wooden fish traversing the mountains, traversing the rivers how hopeful on the flowers of time and space
By VeraCristob aslo3 years ago in Poets
In memory, the crack in the wall is deeper than a river rivers are deeper than valleys Of all the crevices, the deepest is the wound
By CarleenMenjiv posl3 years ago in Poets
I don't know the wind Which direction is it blowing—— I was in a dream, In the light waves of dreams. I don't know the wind
By John Wilson3 years ago in Poets
This is an experiment inspired by my wonderful Muse to write a sonnet in which every line contains a different colourful reference. I don’t know if it is a formal construct, but this is my take on the idea.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred 3 years ago in Poets
GRATEFUL I am grateful for the water around me and the rain that comes from above for giving my soul a place to swim
By Melissa Ireland3 years ago in Poets
Wrath of the Honey Bees ... Path to the Bath What did I hear, what do I fear Water on porcelain oh dear oh dear Mama just said time for my bath
By Andrew C McDonald3 years ago in Poets
There is an ant on the wall, Tiny black and probably hungry. It crawled past my feet as I returned from the mailbox, Lucky in its timing so as not to be squashed by the door or by feet.
By Sarah Rhoden3 years ago in Poets
