nature poetry
An ode to Mother Nature; poems that take their inspiration from the great outdoors.
Environmental Literature Journal Entry #4
I'm not sitting in a spot or walking. I am in a hybrid spot. I am in the passenger side of the car. As much as it is not the best place to reflect, I am compelled to speak about the feeling and deep connection I am experiencing.
By alexandria Urrutia8 years ago in Poets
Night Sky
Sitting in her room, gazing, peering into the candle flame. Wondering, thinking of her life to come. Into the night sky, she goes while dreaming. The stars are bright, so close she can touch them. The earth moves beneath her and rain starts to fall. With new beginnings, comes no doubt. She moved from her past, into the light of her future. The full moon shines above, grasshoppers are chirping. The sound of nature, brings her to peace. Sweet kisses in the moonlight rain. All I feel is warmth and love. A new world awaits.
By Chelsea Ripley8 years ago in Poets
Imbecilic Drizzle
The type of rain I abhor is an imbecilic drizzle that seeps from muddy skies and never really evaporates, forming a soupy layer hovering just high enough above the ground to drown someone, a layer trapping in the smell of warm asphalt burning my eyes and nose, matting jeans to my legs like if I showered in lukewarm water fully clothed, unable to move, constricted, choked. A much better type is a steady rinse moving swiftly through the night forming a blanket over mankind and stops the earth from turning, the same blanket as the one my mom used to tuck me into bed as a child, holding me, and wrapping me in love. A frosty shower leading to morning light waking me accompanied by rubber zipping across wet asphalt outside of my window, the rain not stopping the morning commute. The inside of my house, a still sanctuary, my mom waits for her eight-year-old son, with another blanket of protection, and with the traditional bagel topped with a pinch of salt, which I did not enjoy much then but now seems like a hopeful delicacy. The most perfect picture, no arguments, no alcohol, no anxiety, no frustration, every dissonant chord resolving at once during one harmonious morning.
By Mark Anderson8 years ago in Poets
