nature poetry
An ode to Mother Nature; poems that take their inspiration from the great outdoors.
Home Is Where
Home. As I grow with time like the nose of Pinocchio grows with his lies, I've surmised, albeit my innate and with no mass stirring of motivation or diligence to pique my intrigue to the point of interest or beyond the confines of limited to the brink or passed the point of what we or just me can see as limitless my impeccable, and if you would please allow me to be bombastic rather than bashful extra-terrestrial inference is not worn out loud with crowds to appease or appear as kings when i'm at home in the soul and the bones that is me. Home Is what it is. Home as what it is represents a multifaceted and dynamic range, a multifaceted and dynamic range of damage and breaks, the kind that align without reasons and whys and for all purposes genuine a good character makes. A multifaceted and dynamic range of rage and havoc can enslave the brain to be spastic achieving feats of reaching clouds 9 to 11 but cant connect the piece it would need to link its cerebellum to heaven. Energy in motion like rockets exploding and the flames enraged engaged with wind twist and bend for a chance to encapsulate forever in them. My ability to infer for instance could lead one to make an inference that my intuition is at home in my intellect seated on the throne of intelligence. To me home is a clone of the mind that spies and seeks to find what may be outside. The grass thats greener on the other side could perhaps shed light if what is shining is shown through the right window of the home you goodnight in on the road to the storefront of woes in the forefront of lobes are closed. Your eyelids like the youth in the warm summer after noon hang low to the Earth. Where the rooster calls and nature concurs. Your eyes with no need for words slips into slumber for a time with no number. Eyes in use with no passion to prove can conclude the absolute truths of youth. Grass is green mom is home dad is too. The sky is free and from what we see of the sky it seems blue. The sky ive seen it weeps and apparently my parents do too. In that I see home is ,we ,I, us ,them, and you.
By Writer anon6164 years ago in Poets
A wild, western heart.
A wild, western heart. Sherbet skies on an autumn dawn, pouring down over a Sierra fog. One look to the east a desolate high desert backdrop; over low hanging abundance of life that does not cease. Often overlooked by human eyes. It knows no grief.
By John Kiraly4 years ago in Poets
