nature poetry
An ode to Mother Nature; poems that take their inspiration from the great outdoors.
Layers
Stanza 1 This is the fruit borne from heat, the sun, the sea, the tropics meet. Superficially, aesthetically pleasing Beautiful, vibrant, buxom, teasing. A delight to four. The urge for more. Peel away a layer, going deep, Saliva secretes, readying the teeth. It becomes bitter, visceral, sharp, Though it can nourish the skin to the heart. For it has the potential to restore and revive, so easily it can turn your four into five. Though it can turn against you, a sting in your eye; or intoxicate you. Peel away a layer going deep, The white resistance you will meet. Underneath the beauty of the sun, comes bitter truth - the war has begun. This is the skin it comes in two parts, one seen, one hidden in the heart. Peel away the layer, going deep, the forbidden gem, the jewel greets. Some say protected, others say stole, the branches you came from, centuries old. Stanza 2 What joy. This is the prized trophy, A bedazzled egg, to see you closely. Segregated but joined in segments to share, Government officials seem to care. It has the ability to bring people together, the sun, the seas, the tropics, the weather. Having you is like an everlasting party: four wheelers, sand, poles and limbos. Coconuts, pineapples, oranges and mangoes. Roller-coasters, cinemas, attractions of fun, cocktails blended together with rum. Making me feel the community is whole. Until I bite the sun and come across the soul. Peel away a layer, going deep, The truth is bitter, it is no longer sweet. You are the source of the pain and the present, yet you are deep within vain imaginations. Without knowledge, the world will never know; that simply put - a lie was told. It is covered, like an innocent body 6 feet under. The truth is bitter and so is the seed. To remind you of the pain, the wants and the needs. It has spoiled the taste, awoken you from your sleep. Reminds you of the death, the chain, those who weep. It can be death, but also be life, it gives you wisdom to remember life. If you have bit one, you know the rest, the bitter truth, the vanity flesh. Your experience is ruined, but do not discard it, Plant it, Nurture it, Grow it, Share it, Eat it. So that generations can consume it too. Peel away the layers, going deep, keep it, decompose into the heap.
By M. Olayinka6 years ago in Poets
Storm
Clouds of murky black with undertones of deep purple and blue, that twist and spiral over echoing valleys where no morning sunlight of the day shines down upon the mountain tops or costal views, as the winter storm tightens it's grip confusing daylight with night.
By Alixzandra Wiseman6 years ago in Poets
the bird
You have not left the cage of my mind. A bluebird figurine come alive now restless, perhaps a bundle of canary yellow plumage (bright bold as a sunflower), boney wings and feather displays. Circling airborne, round and round, a fury of color, weightlessly ferociously pacing. Constrained yet soaring: the space given. I am amazed at how you soar in a space so small. Soar soar soar! Incessant shifting perspective, your movement, my eyes struggle to keep pace - hear sight taste smell touch cage freedom cage freedom cage - and I wonder if there is any difference at all: (is being caged unknowing of freedom’s burden?) Sometimes, briefly, the cage in my mind is cloaked in an all-too-thin yellowing veil of distracted thought, the shadow of wings and the ferocious trail of fascia muscle air bone blood emerge through shadow from below. Air occupied by swarming, twisting, tumultuous essence. Air within and without. Here and there, air air air. Tornadoes of just-been, not-leaving, and trapping (you’re ceaselessly banging/brandishing/bullying the metal entrapments against my inner cranium, how it rings!) -- dogged dogged trappings. This cage in my mind.
By MINDSOCKET6 years ago in Poets
The Storm Brews
The sun rolled behind the clouds in the late afternoon. Darkness enveloped the sky. A storm was brewing. Clouds smashed together as if a dark omen was presenting itself. A new day would be about soon enough. Gone was the sunshine and happiness of a summer's day, and in came the darkness and eeriness of a summer's night.
By Katelyn Doner 6 years ago in Poets
Elemental Magic - Fire
Fire introduced himself as the fuel for survival and a slow killer. I thought thinking of his slow burns made my teeth chatter not realizing the cold surrounding was the chill of fear. I admired his trickster ways and wanted to learn from him, while I hid in the cold without knowing why.
By Aliciel Alone6 years ago in Poets
Beyond Here
As the tree hugs itself, with branches intertwined. It reminds me of how lonely it is to stay inside. Each limb has a purpose to hold on to the other, they all keep the tree grounded. No they dont smother. Each limb hugs another like sister or brother. Looking out my window reminds me of Mother, Earth. She gave birth to creatures and plants, welcomed us on her turf... reminds me of how I used to play with ants. I used to catch fireflies inside jars, but now I know how it feels... to be stuck inside bars.
By Tiara Young6 years ago in Poets
Head in the clouds
I lift my head and escape from the salvaged round table by the courtyard, a majestic thing in itself. Found it on one of our Boris walks. We weren’t even a minute or two out of the house and we were in love with it. A person can almost find that kind of a situation a ridiculous inconvenience to their plans. Forsaking the good and the lovely with a comedic demand for reason and ‘why now?’ Why this beauty now that I’m unable to contribute to it? Perhaps that’s the case – we ought not contribute to beauty, as if plucking the flower is better than planting it. I saw the bamboo coming together in a holy pillar, to enthrone this marbled top, and it did it for me in a moment. We managed to fit it through our tiny hallway out back, which it just shouldn’t have been able to - a miracle table, no less. Of course we are well accustomed to finding and squeezing all manner of antiquities that hobble out front of some unforgiving strangers house. Helping old furniture become somewhat familiar with the implacable and inimitable odour of those big old council bins. The ones that act like your worst idea of a microwave in the heat of summer, with their big black plastic absorbing the suns rays and coaxing every fatally foul sack of stench out into the air, alleviating us of the mystery of what they contain. With that said, I do tend to find my misplaced treasures before they get too well acquainted with the aroma arabella party. It’s a skill I suppose, or so I’m told. I don’t particularly feel all that skilful when I'm at it. Can you say that luck is a skill? My kin would call it 'jammy'. You know the sort. The kind of person who puts all their eggs into one basket and happens to not need any others, while the rest of us come up short or hard done by. That’s jammy. Well, that table was nice and it didn’t have a stench. Just believe me. I reckon it might have even been copped within the golden hour of replacement, sitting on gravel and tarmac long enough to forget it had a home, so by the time I’m picking it up and givin’ it all that it can see it for favour.
By Joel Nicholas6 years ago in Poets
